MUSIC IN POSTSOCIALISM: THREE DECADES IN RETROSPECT, Biljana Milanović, Melita Milin and Danka Lajić Mihajlović (eds.), Belgrade: Institute of Musicology SASA, 2020. - PDFCOFFEE.COM (2024)

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MUSIC IN POSTSOCIALISM: THREE DECADES IN RETROSPECT

MUSIC IN POSTSOCIALISM: THREE DECADES IN RETROSPECT Editors Biljana Milanović, Melita Milin and Danka Lajić Mihajlović Publisher Institute of Musicology of the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts For the Publisher Katarina Tomašević, Director Peer-reviewers of the book Dejan Despić, Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts Ranka Gašić, Institute of Contemporary History, Belgrade Jelena Jovanović, Institute of Musicology SASA Translation from Serbian to English Zorica Simović English-language editing Dave Calcutt Zorica Simović Ivan Moody Esther Helajzen Cover design and prepress Aleksandra Kapor Printed by GIR MS štampa, Mladenovac Circulation 250 ISBN: 978-86-80639-60-4

© Institute of Musicology SASA, 2020 The Publication was financially supported by the Ministry of Education, Science and Technological Development of the Republic of Serbia.

MUSIC IN POSTSOCIALISM: THREE DECADES IN RETROSPECT Editors Biljana Milanović, Melita Milin and Danka Lajić Mihajlović

МУЗИКА У ПОСТСОЦИЈАЛИЗМУ: ТРИ ДЕЦЕНИЈЕ КАСНИЈЕ Уреднице Биљана Милановић, Мелита Милин и Данка Лајић Михајловић

Institute of Musicology of the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts Музиколошки институт Српске академије наука и уметности Belgrade/Београд 2020

Contents A Note on Transliteration ................................................................................... VII Acknowledgements................................................................................................ VII List of Figures and Tables ....................................................................................VIII Notes on Contributors ...........................................................................................IX Introduction............................................................................................................. 1 1. Music in Postsocialism – Looking Back at the First Three Decades Melita Milin, Biljana Milanović, and Danka Lajić Mihajlović ............................................. 1 Part I: Rethinking the Past, Shaping the Present: Tradition, Memory and New Music ......................................................................................................19 2. Postsocialism and Other -isms in Slovene Music Since 1991: Post/Modernity, Post-Histori/ci/sm (Post-Classicism), Post-Nationalism, and Glocalism Leon Stefanija .....................................................................................................21 3. Reflections on Lithuanian Postsocialist Music in the Framework of the Genotype Institution Gražina Daunoravičienė.................................................................................................. 37 4. Rethinking the Soviet-Era Georgian Music Rusudan Tsurtsumia....................................................................................................... 67 5. National and General Signs of the Ukrainian Church Music of the Present Lyubov Kyyanovska ..............................................................................................87 6. Serbian Orthodox Choral Music: Its Revival Over the Three Last Decades Bogdan Đaković .................................................................................................109 7. After the End of the World. On Music in Hans Jürgen Syberberg’s Café Zilm Dalibor Davidović ...............................................................................................121

V

Part II: Festivals and Institutions: Strategies of Existence and Survival .........................................................................................................137 8. On Missed Opportunities: The International Review of Composers in Belgrade and the “Postsocialist Condition” Jelena Janković-Beguš and Ivana Medić ..................................................................139 9. Festival/isation of Art Music – The Collapse or Recreation of Sarajevo Concert Life Fatima Hadžić....................................................................................................169 10. Socialist and Postsocialist Histories Reflected in the Recent Past of the Bucharest Philharmonic Valentina Sandu-Dediu .......................................................................................185 11. Critical Years: Debates in the Field of Hungarian Music (1988–1992) Anna Dalos .......................................................................................................209 12. Music and Business in Postsocialist Russia Lidia Ader and Konstantin Belousov .......................................................................221 Part III: Changing Landscapes of Traditional and Popular Musics ....................................................................................................243 13. Folklore in the Communist Period and its Later Extensions: The Romanian Case Speranţa Rădulescu ............................................................................................245 14. Postsocialism and the Culture of Kazakhstan: National Music in the Era of Global Changes Gulzada N. Omarova ...........................................................................................273 15. Euphoria and Creativity: Bulgarian Music in the Time of Transition Claire Levy ........................................................................................................295 16. The Phenomenon of Slavic Metal. The Case of Poland Anna G. Piotrowska ............................................................................................309 Index .......................................................................................................................337

VI

A Note on Transliteration The names and titles originally written in Cyrillic scripts – Bulgarian, Russian and Ukrainian – are transliterated into Roman script by following the system used by the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, which is a reference edition for many instances of language standards in ethno/musicology. However, certain exceptions are made in those cases when a different usage has since been long established and accepted, as with Prokofiev or Tchaikovsky. For Serbian, we have used the standard Romanised version of the Cyrillic script. In the Georgian chapter, the Georgian national system of Romanisation, adopted in 2002, is employed, whereas the Kazakh chapter uses a combination of different standards accepted by local scholars.

Acknowledgements The editors wish to express their gratitude to the friends and colleagues whose advice and comments were always most welcome and appreciated. We would like to thank Jim Samson, a distinguished scholar and great person, for sharing his thoughts on the concept and scope of the volume and for his suggestions regarding possible contributors. Firstly, we wish to thank most warmly the authors from thirteen countries who believed in this project and sent us their texts without inquiring about the other contributors. The reviewers of the texts deserve our heartfelt gratitude for their dedicated and thorough work. Their names will be given here in alphabetical order, since the chapters were reviewed double-blindly: Ventsislav Dimov, Sanda Dodik, Christoph Flamm, Ivan Moody, Nadežda Mosusova, Jelena Novak, Jan Herbst, Florinela Popa, †Katy Romanou, Rūta Stanevičiūtė, and Danijela Špirić Beard. We are especially indebted to two of them, Ivan Moody and Danijela Špirić Beard, for their additional generous help with numerous translation dilemmas. Mary McRobert was a most reliable adviser regarding the transliteration of Church Slavonic titles, for which we are most obliged to her. We also owe our gratitude to the reviewers of the volume as a whole – Dejan Despić, Ranka Gašić and Jelena Jovanović. Last, but not least, we cordially thank the publisher, the Institute of Musicology SASA in Belgrade and its Director Katarina Tomašević, for their support and encouragement during these difficult and challenging times.

VII

List of Figures and Tables Figures 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 3.11 13.1 13.2 13.3 13.4 13.5 13.6

Six-dimensional management of the layers of structural elements in Rita Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-opera Dress Code A fragment of Rita Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-opera Dress Code (2012), bars 44–52 Algirdas Martinaitis, Spleen Symphony (2019), beginning of Part 2, structure PC set 4–21 Algirdas Martinaitis, Spleen Symphony (2019), end of Part 1, bars 267–278 Ričardas Kabelis, Cell for piano, violin, and viola (1992), a fragment of the score (bars 1–21) Ričardas Kabelis, Cell (1992); a scheme of change in PC Set 3–11 in bars 1–3, from the viewpoint of parsimonious voice leading Ričardas Kabelis, Cell for piano, violin, and viola (1992); the fractal primary cell generativity and the total LRP loop relationships Rytis Mažulis, the score of the Talita cumi installation for 3 tapes and 6 female voices (1997) Rytis Mažulis, Talita cumi, series of 29 microintervals Rytis Mažulis, Talita cumi, series of microdurations of 30 elements Marius Čivilis, Installation on LED Glasses (2013) in the Music Innovations Studies Centre in Vilnius Map of Romania Musicians from the village of Zece Prajini, Moldavia (Photo: Speranța Rădulescu, 1993) Vasile Năsturică from Bucharest and his band, playing muzică lăutărească (Photo: Marius Caraman, 2007) Sunday dancing party in the village of Hoteni, Maramureș (Photo: Ioan Pop, 2001) Musicians playing for sâmbra oilor in the village of Bixad, Oash county (Photo: Florin Iordan, 2014) Urban musicians from Gherla town preparing a studio recording session (Photo: Florin Iordan, 2018)

Tables 2.1 8.1

VIII

Radio broadcasting – statistical overview Thematic concepts of the International Review of Composers during the period of Ivan Brkljačić’s artistic direction

Notes on Contributors LIDIA ADER (Russia), PhD in Musicology, a senior researcher at the Rimsky-Korsakov Museum (Saint Petersburg), Artistic Director of the Center for New Technology in the Arts “Art-parkING”, curator of international projects – festivals, conferences, and multimedia exposition. She is the author of more than 40 articles, in five languages, a member of the editorial board and Editor-in-Chief of 10 books on Russian and Western music, written in both Russian and English. Her major is interdisciplinary studies in art, microtonal music, Russian and Soviet music and contemporary music. KONSTANTIN BELOUSOV (Russia), PhD in Economics, an assistant at the Department of Economic Theory and Social Policy at the Saint Petersburg State University, and a member of the Young Scientists Council. He is the author of more than 60 articles in Russian and English, and an organiser of academic conferences. His research interests include corporate finance, sustainable development of business organisations, and corporate and social responsibility. ANNA DALOS (Hungary) studied musicology in Budapest, finishing her doctoral thesis in 2005. A winner of the “Lendület” grant of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, she is head of the Archives and Research Group for Twentieth and Twenty-First Century Hungarian Music of the Institute of Musicology. Her book on Zoltán Kodály’s poetics was published in 2007, and a collection of her essays on Kodály in 2013. Her recent publication is a monograph on the history of Hungarian composition between 1956 and 1989. GRAŽINA DAUNORAVIČIENĖ (Lithuania), PhD, Dr Habil, and full time Professor, teaches at the Lithuanian Academy of Music and Theatre. She received scientific scholarships for the Moscow State P. Tchaikovsky Conservatory, Salzburg Mozarteum, and Oxford University. She was also awarded a scholarship from Saxon Lands and a DAAD grant. She is the founder, Editor-in-Chief, and compiler of the scientific journal Lithuanian Musicology. She has also been a member of the Research Council of Lithuania. In addition, she was awarded the Prof. Vytautas Landsbergis Foundation Prize and is a Knight of the National Order of Merit. DALIBOR DAVIDOVIĆ (Croatia), b. in 1972, completed his musicology studies in Zagreb and Hamburg. His recent research has been focused on the notion of anarchy in the work of John Cage, on the music ontology of the Jewish philosopher Ivan Focht and on the work of the German artist Hans Jürgen Syberberg. He teaches at the Music Academy in Zagreb. From 2016 to 2018 he was a visiting researcher at Berlin University of the Arts. BOGDAN ĐAKOVIĆ (Serbia) is a Full Professor of Musicology at the Academy of Arts in Novi Sad and the Artistic Leader of the St. George’s Cathedral Choir (1987) and the University Choir (2016) in the same city. He is a member of the Department of Stage Arts and Music of the Matica Srpska, Novi Sad, a member of the Serbian Musicological Society, and a member of the ISOCM Association (The International Society of OrIX

thodox Church Music) at the University of Joensuu, Finland. Additionally, he has been a member of various national and international choral festivals and competitions. He has published around 50 musicological studies and over 30 music critiques and has produced four audio editions/compact discs and one DVD edition with St. George’s Cathedral Choir as well as the monograph Liturgical and Artistic elements in Serbian Sacred Choral Music between the two World Wars (1918–1941), 2015.

FATIMA HADŽIĆ (Bosnia and Herzegovina) is an Associate Professor in the field of musicology at the Academy of Music of the University of Sarajevo, where she graduated in piano (2003) and musicology (2005). At the same institution, she earned a Master’s (2009) and a doctoral degree (2012). She was engaged as President of the Musicological Society of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (2014–2018), a contributor to research projects of the Institute of Musicology and Ethnomusicology, and the Editor-in-Chief of the journal for musical culture Muzika. She has presented her papers at meetings and symposiums organised by the Musicological Society of FB&H, IMS, ICTM, etc. and at symposiums in B&H, Croatia, Slovenia, the Czech Republic and Italy. ЈELENA JANKOVIĆ-BEGUŠ (Serbia), b. 1975, is a PhD candidate at the Faculty of Music in Belgrade, in the Department of Musicology. Having graduated from the same department in 1999, she obtained an MPhil degree from the University of Arts in Belgrade (UNESCO Chair, co-operated with the Université Lumière Lyon 2, France) in 2006. She obtained an MA degree from the Université Paris Dauphine – PSL in 2010. Her research interests range from musicology to cultural policy and she has published around 20 original scientific studies in Serbia and abroad, as well as co-edited one book. She is employed by the Belgrade Festivals Centre – CEBEF. LYUBOV KYYANOVSKA (Ukraine) PhD, Dr Habil, born in Lviv. Musicologist, Professor, and the head of the Department of the History of Music at the National Lysenko Music Academy, in Lviv. She studied the theory and history of music at the Lysenko State Conservatory of Music, graduating with an Honours Degree in 1979. She attended the Chaikovsky State Conservatory of Music (the National Music Academy of Ukraine today) in Kyiv, where she completed her postgraduate studies. She obtained a PhD in 1985 in Leningrad, her thesis being mainly on the study of music perception. Since 1987, she has taught at the National Lysenko Music Academy, and, since 1991, has been the head of the Department of the History of Music. In 2000, at the National Music Academy of Ukraine in Kiev, she defended her habilitation thesis on the topic of: “The evolution of the Galician musical culture of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries”. Since 1995, she has been a member of the international research project Musikgeschichte in Mittel-und Osteuropa (Leipzig University). Her research interests include music psychology and sociology. DANKA LAJIĆ MIHAJLOVIĆ (Serbia) is a Senior Research Associate at the Institute of Musicology, SASA. She obtained her PhD in ethnomusicology related to Serbian epic tradition from the Faculty of Music, University of Arts, in Belgrade. Her research interests include traditional music of Serbia, the relationships between traditional music X

and the music industry and cultural policy. She has been engaged in the safeguarding of music heritage in Serbia, based on the UNESCO ICH Convention as a domain of applied ethnomusicology. In addition to a number of articles, she has published four monographs and four edited books. She is a member of the Board of the Serbian Ethnomusicological Society, the Vice-President of the Association of Folklorists of Serbia, and Chair of the National Committee of Serbia at the ICTM (International Council for Traditional Music).

CLAIRE LEVY (Bulgaria) is a Professor of musicology at the Institute of Art Studies (Sofia). She received a post-doctoral Fulbright scholarship for the Department of African American Studies, Indiana University, USA (1994–1995), and completed a short term specialisation at the Institute of Popular Music, in Liverpool, UK (1994). Her scholarly interests lie in the fields of Bulgarian musical culture, popular music studies and the cultural theory of music. She is the author of the books Dialogic Music: Blues, Popular Culture and the Myths of Modernity (2005), Ethnojazz: Local Prospects in the Global Village (2007), Musical Parody (2012), a variety of entries in the Continuum Encyclopaedia of Popular Music of the World, as well as of numerous articles and book chapters. She has been active in the IASPM (The International Association for the Study of Popular Music), where she served as General Secretary and Chair during the period of 1999‒2005. IVANA MEDIĆ (Serbia) is a Senior Research Associate of the Institute of Musicology, SASA (The Serbian Acadamy of Sciences and Arts). She obtained her PhD from the University of Manchester (UK) in 2010. Whilst in the UK (2006–2013), she worked at the Martin Harris Centre for Music and Drama, the University of Manchester, and the Open University in the North-West. She is a Visiting Research Fellow at the Centre for Russian Music at Goldsmiths, University of London, a convenor of the Study Group for Russian and East-European Music within the British Association for Slavonic and Eastern European Studies (REEM-BASEES) and Vice-President of the Serbian Musicological Society. She is also head of the international project Beyond Quantum Music, co-financed by the Creative Europe programme of the European Union. She has published five monographs and over 70 articles and book chapters, and edited four books. BILJANA MILANOVIĆ (Serbia), musicologist, obtained a MPhil in musicology from the Faculty of Music, University of Arts, in Belgrade, and a PhD at the Department for History of the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade. She works as a Research Associate at the Institute of Musicology, SASA. Her scholarly interests include music of the nineteenth and twentieth century, which she tends to integrate into critical studies of culture and history. She has prepared and edited several scholarly publications, authored one book, and written more than 80 studies in Serbian, English, French, German and Greek, which were published in scholarly journals, and edited books. She was Vice-President of the Serbian Musicological Society (2012–2018). She is one of the founders and members of the editorial board of the journal Muzikologija/Musicology (since 2001) and a member of the board of the Department of Stage Arts and Music of the Matica Srpska, in Novi Sad. XI

MELITA MILIN (Serbia) is a Senior Researcher at the Institute of Musicology, in Belgrade, retired since 2020. She studied at the Faculty of Music in Belgrade and obtained her PhD at the University of Ljubljana. Her main research area is twentieth-century Serbian music in a European context, with an emphasis on musical nationalism, relationships of music and politics and the output of Ljubica Marić, a female Serbian composer. She was a member of three international musicological projects; leader of the Institute’s main project (2011–2017); Director of the Institute (2013–2017); co-founder and Editor-in-Chief of the first five annual issues of the international journal Muzikologija/Musicology (2001–2005). She is the author of a book on Serbian music after 1945, and a monograph on Ljubica Marić as well as the editor of a book on the correspondence between J. Slavenski and his Schott publisher, the author of numerous articles published in Serbia and abroad, and the editor of several collected papers. GULZADA NURPEISSOVNA OMAROVA (Kazakhstan), Doctor of Arts, Professor, and supervisor of the grant project (2018–2020) of the Ministry of Education and Science of the Republic of Kazakhstan, with approximately 40 years experience in the field of music education and science (Almaty State Conservatory named after Kurmangazy, Kazakh National Academy of Arts named after T. Zhurgenov). Author of two monographs (The Kobyz Tradition. Issues of Studying Kazakh Traditional Music, 2009; Kazakh Kyu: Cultural-Historical Aspect and Regional Styles, 2018), a number of textbooks, manuals and programmes, and approximately 100 scientific articles. ANNA G. PIOTROWSKA (Poland) studied musicology in Durham University (UK) and at the Jagiellonian University, Krakow (Poland), where she is currently Professor of musicology. She specialises in researching sociological and cultural aspects of musical life, with a special focus on the intersection of music and concepts of race and ethnicity as well as the role of music in the shaping of, impact on and mirroring of cultural and political contexts. She is a prolific author of several books, articles and chapters in edited volumes, and she has actively taken part in several international research projects. SPERANŢA RĂDULESCU (Romania) is a senior researcher of ethnomusicology at the Peasant Museum and Associate Professor at the National University of Music, Bucharest. Her research interests include oral music of Romania and ethnic minorities in Romania: Romani, Jews, Hungarians, Ukrainians, and Aromanians. Her published works, including a significant number of books, articles and audio recordings, have appeared in Romania and abroad. Among them: À Tue Tête. Chant et Violon au Pays de L’Oach (with Jacques Bouët and Bernard Lortat-Jacob, France, 2002) and Manele in Romania (with Margaret H. Beissinger and Anca Giurchescu, USA, 2016). VALENTINA SANDU-DEDIU (Romania), musicologist and pianist, presently a Professor at the Department of Musicology and Education at the National University of Music, Bucharest, and Rector of the New Europe College, Bucharest (since 2014). Since founding it in 2010, she has been the Director of the online magazine Musicology Today. She has published a number of books, including Stylistic and Symbolic Hypostases of Mannerism in Music (Bucharest, Editura Muzicala, 1997, for which she won The Prize of the Romanian Academy), New Music between Modern and Postmodern (BuXII

charest, Editura Muzicala, 2004), Rumänische Musik nach 1944 (Saarbrücken, Pfau, 2006), Choice, Affect, Attitude. Style and Rhetoric in Music (Bucharest, Editura Didactică şi Pedagogică, 2010, for which she won The Prize of the Romanian Union of Composers and Musicologists), Parallel Octaves (Bucharest, Humanitas, 2014) and Searching for Consonances (Bucharest, Humanitas, 2017).

LEON STEFANIJA (Slovenia), b. 1970, is a Professor of musicology at the Faculty of Arts, in Ljubljana. He serves as the Chair of systematic musicology, and, between 2008 and 2012, was the Chair of the Department of Musicology. His main research interests and teaching areas are the epistemology of music research, sociology of music, and history of contemporary, primarily Slovenian, music since 1918. He cooperates regularly with the Music Academy in Zagreb, the Faculty of Music in Belgrade, Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz, the Music Academy in Sarajevo, and the Ballet College in Ljubljana. He has been awarded the Prešern’s Prize of the Faculty of Arts, in Ljubljana (1995), Acknowledgment for Teaching and/or Research Work 2012, and Excellence in Science 2018, for the book Porträt des Komponisten Uroš Rojko (Wien: Hollitzer Verlag, 2018). RUSUDAN TSURTSUMIA (Georgia), Doctor of Art, Emeritus Professor at Tbilisi State Conservatoire, and Director of the International Research Center for Traditional Polyphony. Her areas of interest are musicology and ethnomusicology. She has participated at various international scientific forums in Georgia and abroad (Italy, Germany, Russia, USA, China, etc.). She has published a number of scientific works in Georgian and other languages, including the monographs 20th Century Georgian Music (2005) and History of Georgian Music from Old Times to the 20th Century (2020). She is a member of ESEM and ICTM.

XIII

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

Music in Postsocialism – Looking Back at the First Three Decades Melita Milin, Biljana Milanović and Danka Lajić Mihajlović In November of 2019, the world celebrated thirty years since the fall of the Berlin Wall, an event that marked the symbolic beginning of the fall of state socialism in the Soviet Union (USSR) and its European satellite states, as well as Yugoslavia. Maybe unexpectedly, that epochal event did not provoke major armed conflict, with the tragic exception of Yugoslavia, which had also been a special case throughout the socialist period, and to a lesser degree the regional wars and conflicts in USSR, the one in Chechnya having been the most deadly. A number of new countries emerged as a consequence of demands over sovereignty or independence within collapsing multinational socialist states. The processes from the first attempts to dismantle the state socialist regimes in the spring of 1989 to the final establishment of new democratic states had different dynamics but could be considered accomplished by the end of 1991. In that respect Yugoslavia was again an exception, as its process of dissolution lasted until 2006. Observed in retrospect, 1989 did not come as a complete surprise, since, in the preceding decades, in all of the concerned countries, there had been many self-organised pro-democracy movements and activities of well-known dissidents, as well as popular unrest of different intensities. The thirtieth anniversary of the annus mirabilis is an occasion to revisit not only all those complex and shifting processes, but also those that have taken place since then, and to reconsider them through the lens of the present (Falk 2019: 1). So, as might have been foreseen, besides obvious economic and social successes, “there has been a populist backlash to the neoliberal reform programs of privatisation and marketisation that were accompanied with no small amount of corruption and enrichment on the part of the previous nomenklatura and the creation of a class of crass nouveaux riches – in societies attuned to both egalitarian val1

Music in Postsocialism

ues (four decades of communist ideology had some effect) and social apathy” (ibid.). Of course, the challenges posed by neoliberalism are not restricted to former socialist countries, as, since the 1970s, that ideology has been triumphantly marching across the world, being imposed by most developed Western countries whose artists and musicians had also to adjust to the assumption that their place in society is defined by their political and/or economic usefulness (León 2014: 133). Since the terms “postsocialism” and “postcommunism” are often used interchangeably, it is necessary to note that it is widely accepted that the former term relates more to culture, subjectivities and everyday life, whereas the latter focuses mainly on political and economic processes of adaptation to new circumstances, as well as on formal changes in general (Müller 2019: 7). It is for that reason that we have decided to privilege the term “postsocialism” in this publication, though we have let our authors use the other term if they found it more suitable for a specific context. While having decided so, we are, however, aware of the plausibility of the arguments that postcommunism should be differentiated from postsocialism on the grounds that communism was based on the promise of a classless society that would be realised in an unspecified future, whereas socialism was a lived experience for many decades in a number of countries (Jelača and Lugarić 2018: 2). On the other hand, there are authors such as Maria Todorova and Zsuzsa Gille who have opted for the term “postcommunism” (Todorova and Gille 2010), so that the use of both terms seems rather unstable for now. Although mainly referring to chronology, the term “[post]socialism” always connotes the dictatorial anti-democratic political system that collapsed as a failed alternative to capitalism. But the term postsocialism has been increasingly questioned from different and multidisciplinary angles. We could draw attention here to the critique of postsocialism as a concept, undertaken recently by Martin Müller, who sees it as referring to a “vanishing object; emphasising rupture over continuity; falling into a territorial trap; issuing from orientalising knowledge construction; and constraining political futures” (Müller 2019: 1). Together with some other authors (Humphrey 2001: 13; Boyer and Yurchak 2008: 9; Ost 2009; Platt 2009), Müller claims that the term postsocialism will soon prove to be unfit for investigating societies that are the heirs to those that existed under state socialism. One could, however, try to research comparatively certain segments of life before and after the collapse of socialism in those countries and this volume on music could, hopefully, contribute to some more systematic work in the future. Various factors will have to be included into such analyses, such as national cultural traditions before the socialists’ coming to power, how they were transformed during state socialism (this was not the same everywhere) and the varied and specific differences in developments after the Wall. Undoubtedly, a reasonable decision will have to be made as to how long those countries will be designated as postsocialist. By comparison, the term “post-transition” has already been conceptualised in relation to “transition”, as a period of social stabilisation in which there should 2

Melita Milin, Biljana Milanović & Danka Lajić Mihajlović

not be divides between, for instance, Western and Eastern Europe, referring not only to politics and economy, but also to culture and arts (Šuvaković 2017). Former socialist countries are most often analysed from the aspect of transition processes from socialism to capitalism, which can be rather abrupt, but are usually gradual and characterised by the creation of hybrid forms and a pronounced plurality of strategies and achievements. According to some authors, the transition period is officially over at present because the privatisation process and the legitimation of the new property class were already achieved by the end of the millennium (Todorova 2018: 642). On the other hand, there are also well-founded views that transition was finalised in practically all postsocialist countries somewhat later – in the course of the first two decades of the twenty-first century, with the exception of Serbia and some other countries of the former Yugoslavia, where, according to some authors, it is not yet finished (Jakopin 2018). In the case of Serbia, the main causes for such a situation include the disintegration of Yugoslavia, the wars of the 1990s, sanctions by the Western countries, the NATO bombing, hyperinflation and an almost continuous macro-economic instability, all of which hindered the process (Gligorić 2013: 9). It is also difficult to fix the date of the beginning of the transition in Serbia because it had already been anticipated at the end of the 1980s but then came the turbulent 1990s that followed the dramatic break-up of the country and the fall of socialism, so it is possible to view the deposition of Slobodan Milošević in 2000 as the end of a great disorder with combined postsocialism and wars, and, at the same time, the real beginning of the transition (Göler and Lehmeier 2012: 38). It should be added that the many varieties of transitional schemes could be observed not only in the spheres of politics and economics but also in those of culture and, more specifically, in the spheres of the arts and music. However, the latter areas seem to have received insufficient scholarly attention, probably because it required both a thorough knowledge of pre-Berlin-Wall developments and theoretical tools for analysing the later transitional period of dynamic changes. As co-editors of this volume, we expect that the field of transitional/postsocialist studies of music, with the results presented here, could enrich postsocialist studies in general. The issue of the rupture between socialism and postsocialism, which is still open to debate, could get some new tones from the contributions to this volume. There seems to be no doubt about the revolutionary effects of the 1989– 91 collapse of socialism, although most of the involved countries did not experience much violence. The lived experiences are, however, so varied that in some countries continuity with the past regimes in some spheres of life often stayed present to a greater or lesser degree, for more than just a few years. The chapters of this volume are also a demonstration of how difficult it is to apply generalised claims about developments in all postsocialist countries, and that countries of, for instance, the “Vyšegrad group” cannot represent all of them. Therefore, it is important to escape the territorial trap, by which is meant the application of the term postsocialism almost exclusively to countries of Central and Eastern Europe that are already in the European Union, thereby ex3

Music in Postsocialism

cluding the countries that existed within the Soviet Union (Pickles 2010: 131). In that way, only the former socialist countries geographically close to Western Europe and politically and economically integrated into the Western capitalist world are considered to be models of more or less successful paths towards modernity, whereas the others are often out of focus because of their harder struggle to move forward. That is one of the aspects that makes it difficult to speak about postsocialism as an umbrella term applied to all those countries. We are happy that for this volume we have managed to obtain several contributions from countries outside the European Union, providing, thus, a certain balance and a more complex demonstration of the area of research. As in many other fields, a dominance over postsocialist studies is held by Western, mainly Anglophone, academia, resulting at times in problematic constructions. Müller is right to view such works as bringing an orientalising tendency mirroring the classic colonial attitude towards the non-West (Müller 2019: 1). Volumes like ours could contribute to gaining a larger picture of the period observed (with one exception) from an insider’s position. More dialogues and debates between researchers holding multiple perspectives and methodologies would certainly be fruitful. Among the themes that could be debated are the capabilities of postsocialist societies to fight against the radical neoliberalism that is too often offered or imposed as a path without alternatives, and their attempts to reappropriate some of the ideas from the “real-socialist” times. Connected to all the mentioned issues is that of the impact of radically changed political and social structural bases on national and other collective identifications in all the postsocialist countries. Again, it is impossible to find a common denominator of these processes. Numerous sociological researches have been conducted that have analysed the ways in which the populations reacted and adapted to political and social measures that had been implemented from the very start of the democratic restructuring of postsocialist states. Of course, for some social groups transition worked to their advantage, whereas more numerous were those who had difficulties to adapt to the new circumstances, at least for some time. In the cases of states that had been mostly ethnically homogeneous in socialist times (Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria and Romania), the national identifications of their peoples were easily confirmed in the post-Wall times, and links with pre-socialist times were easily re-established, whereas it had to be transformed and re-questioned for the heirs of multinational countries with supranational identity constructions, like the USSR and Yugoslavia (also, to a certain degree, Czechoslovakia), between whom – it should be reminded – no easy parallels can be drawn. However, both in the USSR and Yugoslavia the ever increasing weakening of the socialist states during the 1980s, caused basically by huge economic troubles, brought to the surface inter-ethnic conflicts that had previously been kept under control for a long time. The fragmentation of those three complex countries into smaller states with more ethnically homogeneous populations began immediately after the first democratic elections had been organised in 1990. New nations in the newly founded states needed some time to be defined and gain a more cer4

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tain profile, although seen in retrospect, the foundations for that process had been laid decades earlier, during the existence of those socialist federal states. There is also the particular case of the German Democratic Republic (GDR), for which the fall of the Berlin Wall marked not only the end of socialism but also its reuniting with the rest of the former country that had remained capitalistic after the defeat of Germany in World War II. There is much evidence that the process of reunification of the German nation was not easy on all levels, but its economic power and cultural wealth helped the process significantly. Although the effects of pro-democracy revolutions in the former “Eastern bloc” have inspired a vast amount of scholarly writings that have analysed those processes and developments, the field of culture has stayed mostly in the shadows, as has been already pointed out. Also, when compared to the space of the visual arts in postsocialist countries, that of music was much less in the focus of researchers, although they both shared a feverish search for a new position in the international art/music market, and a wish to understand the new logic of privatisation and consumerism, but at the same time to save their artistic peculiarities. Bearing in mind such disproportions, we have tended to prepare a volume that would include chapters on art and traditional music, as well as popular music. After three decades of life in postsocialist countries, a sufficiently long historical distance has been reached that could enable us to take a fairly balanced view on the continuities and discontinuities in all those fields; to consider the sustainability of earlier modes of production and performance, the effects of growing mediatisation, the crisis of state support for music productions and performances, and the transformation of institutions such as unions of composers, conservatories, schools, orchestras, operas, radio, and television. We should also not forget the small corner occupied by us musicologists and ethnomusicologists, whose research has been directly affected by political change. New topics have been introduced, such as the rethinking the music production and institutions of the socialist past, there have been new interpretations and positioning of known events, and the research of archival material that has become available has meant that whole new territories of research have been opened. If only one volume were to be mentioned in that context, it would be the recently published book Russian Music Since 1917 (Zuk and Frolova-Walker 2017), in which valuable contributions have been made to the evaluation of the achievements of post-Soviet musicology (as well as of music production, musical life and other important issues) in Russia. The starting point for the development of postsocialist music was different for each state, and it is of interest to explore the different strategies used in adapting to the transition from socialism to capitalism. It is also relevant to put the question if this specific transition has already been completed in some of those states, while it is still in progress in others; also, in the case of ex-Yugoslav states, to consider the implications of the break-up of the country and the wars that were waged following the fall of socialism. Discussions regarding postsocialist music should also include the so-called ‘brain drain’, common to all postsocialist states. Although the loss of 5

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composers and performers was less drastic than that of medical staff or maintenance and repair workers, for instance, it was, nevertheless, damaging and has had unforeseen consequences for the home countries. In the present publication, contributions from Slovenia in the west of the former socialist world to Russia and Kazakhstan in the east have been included, meaning that we have overcome the territorial trap and the narrowing of the geographical vision of postsocialist countries to those belonging to Central and Eastern Europe. A voice is given to native scholars, with one exception (a contribution regarding the GDR). According to our knowledge, this type of publication that unites detailed musical studies given from the perspective of different postsocialist contexts, presents a pioneering endeavour in global scholarly frames. Giving voice to “emic” scholars – we borrow in this context the term used in anthropology and other ethnographic disciplines to reflect different cultural experiences – has allowed us to obtain “insights from within”, since most of the contributors of the volume have gained life experience, education, and academic engagement in the socialist and postsocialist societies they write about. The authors were invited to choose subjects according to their own specialist fields (although there were negotiations in some cases, too), which they, as competent and well informed insiders, found relevant for a publication of an international character that was imagined to offer diverse aspects of the effects that the epochal historical break has had on the space of music in their countries. The main idea was to gain a nuanced scholarly insight into specific developments in different countries – former members of the Warsaw pact (again with one exception, Yugoslavia) – and, in that way, to create a wide enough context for observing the selected phenomena. The contributions demonstrate different scholarly approaches, including some in which recent directions in research are combined with those inherited from the socialist times. The very subjects of these works explain the need almost all the authors felt to put objects of their research into political, historical and social contexts. During the 1980s, in some cases even earlier, art music behind the “Iron Curtain” advanced technically and stylistically to such a degree that it was basically comparable to its counterpart in capitalist countries. Political pressures on composers in socialist countries to adapt to the demands of socialist realism did not last equally and were not similarly strict in all those countries but the overall consequences of isolation from contemporary trends in the West had damaging consequences on their free development. For different reasons, both political in essence, the situation was much more favourable in Poland and Yugoslavia, as is well known. The artistic freedom that came with the beginning of postsocialism was, however, accompanied by a progressive dependence on the market, which brought massive competition, often financial insecurity, and, in most cases, a loss of audiences. Musical institutions were obliged to implement energetic reforms because state subsidies diminished, and the repertoires of performing bodies changed more or less, in search of more attractive programmes and presentations in concerts and the media. There were, however, no general rules be6

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cause the conditions in postsocialist countries differed sometimes conspicuously, depending on their pre-socialist traditions and certain local particularities. The selected contributions published in this book testify to the great diversity in that context. The volume is structured in broadly designed thematic frameworks that are organised within three sections. The first of them, under the title Rethinking the Past, Shaping the Present: Tradition, Memory and New Music, is the most heterogeneous in topics and methodological approaches, and refers mainly to the field of art music. The reader is, thus, firstly offered a critical and contextual examination of mutually connected terms/concepts of contemporaneity through the local, pluralised landscapes of Slovenian musical culture. After a detailed analysis of genres in new Lithuanian music, the focus shifts to different narratives on tradition, whether there are re-examinations of Georgian musical past under the Soviet rule or reflections on creative contributions to the “revival” of church/sacred music in postsocialist Ukraine and Serbia. This section of the book closes with a sophisticated consideration of a contemporary German artist’s obsession with the Nazi period of the country’s history and its effects on the lives of his countrymen on both sides of the Berlin Wall and after its fall. Leon Stefanija’s contribution “Postsocialism and Other -isms in Slovene Music Since 1991: Post/Modernity, Post-Histori/ci/sm (Post-Classicism), Post-Nationalism, and Glocalism” is devoted to defining the characteristic features of the postsocialist/post-Yugoslav music production in Slovenia. Taking as a starting point five mutually related concepts – post/modernity, post/ histori/ci/sm (post-classicism), post-nationalism, glocalism and postsocialism – the author examines the manifestations of the pluralisation of different musical practices in Slovene music of the last three decades. Since exposure to heteronomous musical influences and fusions of styles and genres can be a burden, especially to composers of older generations, there have been attempts to put a little order in that state of affairs. The author cites the academician Lojze Lebič, who pleaded in an essay (2010) for “the establishment of a ‘musical-cultural parliament’”, a “musical tribunal”, and a “musical museum” in order to preserve the Slovene musical culture. One of the measures to protect national music culture is the imposed quota for programming of 40% of Slovene music on public radio and television. As a participant in a research project on music and ethnic minorities in Slovenia since 1991, Stefanija has found that nationalism in the Slovene music world is ambivalent, meaning that officially it does not exist in the dominant musical practices, yet is present in certain segments of music production, distribution and reception. He has also noticed interesting intersections between, on one side, national/foreign music, and classical/popular on the other. In comparison to Stefanija, Gražina Daunoravičienė takes a different scholarly approach to the object of her study in her chapter “Reflections on Lithuanian Postsocialist Music in the Framework of the Genotype Institution”. Being mainly interested in the musical analysis of contemporary music, she 7

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meticulously examines a number of representative compositions created in her country in the last thirty years, providing only the most necessary information about the social and cultural context of the times. Having as her principle objective to explore the phenomenon of genre in the postsocialist works of Lithuanian composers, she searches for a new concept of typologies. Continuing her previous investigations (she introduced a concept of music genotype as a synonym for music genre), she proposes a system of four typological statuses: the mono-genre of the old tradition, the poly-genre, the free genre (“libro-genre”) and the mono-genre of the new tradition. In the sub-chapters of her article, the author inspects the cases of all those categories found in contemporary Lithuanian music, especially their “genetic identity”. So she introduces the term taxon, referring to the genotype of music, which she treats as an analytical category. Rusudan Tsurtsumia offers a revised version of the music of the whole socialist period in Georgia, when the country was a republic within the USSR. Her contribution “Rethinking the Soviet-Era Georgian Music” is given from the perspective of a musicologist in Georgia of the postsocialist time who outlines the twentieth-century art music of the country primarily as an integral part of the national culture that had kept the link with the traditional music. The epoch of socialist realism brought the necessity for Georgian composers to contribute to that “identification of ideology with art” that brought a “disastrous state of all musical genres”. The author considers the period from the 1930s to the 1950s as the most difficult for music and art (and not just them!) in the history of the Soviet Union, calling it the epoch of “radical socialist realism”. However, like in other countries that were victims of such oppressive reality, there were a number of Georgian composers who were able to produce valuable music with individual features. The appearance of the generation of young talented composers in the 1960s is to be seen in the context of a certain liberalisation caused by Khrushchev’s ideological thaw. The author also addresses the postsocialist period, which she observes as freighted with political and socio-economic difficulties that affected musical life, so that important musical institutions had to endure years of severe crisis. Despite all the challenges, a new generation of composers has appeared that is displaying a pronounced creative fantasy and experimental spirit. The next two chapters are devoted to the research of church/sacred music, the field of importance for this volume due to the banning or marginalisation of the genre during the decades of state socialism. The years preceding the collapse of two complex multinational federal states, the USSR and Yugoslavia, witnessed the trends of liberalisation as pre-signs of the decisive events of the 1990s on many levels, including that of the religious one. In the words of Lyubov Kyyanovska, author of the chapter “National and General Signs of the Ukrainian Church Music of the Present”, the period of “[t]he late 1980s to the early 1990s marked a decisive turning point, not only in the history of Ukraine, but also in its spiritual life. This was characterised by the completion of the totalitarian stage and the beginning of the next one, by the complex vicissi8

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tudes of the revival of the national idea at all levels, and by radical changes in outlook.” As in Serbia, composing and performing church music in those years was an expression of the need for the revitalisation of national and cultural identities after the long decades of proscription and temporary alleviations of suppression (Milin 2015; Vesić and Peno 2018; Milanović and Maglov 2019). In Ukraine, that phenomenon has been particularly well-represented since it gained independence. Kyyanovska discusses a large amount of material, providing both data little-known outside the country and classifying them into two main categories: “religious music” and “sacred music”, both with several subgroups. The author manages to weave, in a very balanced way, between the complexities of the religious situation in her country. Very soon after the end of the socialist regime, national identification became a crucial question in Serbia too, all the more so as the inter-ethnic wars began in 1991. Religious peculiarities were used as cultural symbols by all the involved sides of the conflicts, and a general return to tradition and religiosity was seen everywhere (Milin 2011). However, contrary to expectations, as Bogdan Đaković writes in his chapter “Serbian Orthodox Choral Music: Its Revival Over the Last Three Decades”, the total number of Serbian composers of Orthodox choral music during the last three decades was, nevertheless, rather small. Đaković is also very critical of their works, maintaining that, with few exceptions, the procedures they used are too eclectic. The focus of that contribution is on the works of four composers especially active in the field of sacred music since the early 1990s. A combined research methodology has been applied by complementing the results of an analytical research with verbal texts from interviews the author had conducted with those composers. The questions raised in those interviews dealt with theological, musical-technical and aesthetical aspects of compositions for the church, including their own, and the responses collected are extremely useful in understanding their vantage points. The concluding chapter of the first part of the book, “After the End of the World. On Music in Hans Jürgen Syberberg’s Café Zilm”, displays three particular features that make a difference in the context of this entire publication: (1) its author, Dalibor Davidović, comes from a different country (Croatia) than that which is discussed (Germany), (2) the author’s impressions and meditations while visiting the place where the artist’s “installation” Café Zilm is being shown are integrated into the scholarly text, and (3) the artist whose work is examined is neither a composer nor a musician, but a film director. The work of that internationally known artist, Hans Jürgen Syberberg (b. 1935), has been strongly marked by an event that happened on the night of 1 May 1945 in Nossendorf, his village in north-east Germany (later in GDR), when thousands of people died as a result of an explosion of ammunition in a forest, which was followed by a lot of violence and suffering. For him, that was “the end of the world” but, at the same time, peace was beginning for the whole world. The trauma left such an imprint on the boy that all his film and literary work produced after he had left GDR for FRG (1953) display his obsessions 9

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with the Nazi politics that had led to the war. Besides children’s songs, the music of Bach and Mozart, which he learnt at school, became his “artificial homeland”, playing an important role in his works. As soon as the Berlin Wall was demolished he visited the village where he was born and the nearby little town where he went to school, deciding to dedicate the rest of his life to “The Nossendorf Project” consisting of film projections, installations and happenings, Café Zilm (2017) being a part of them. One of the foci of Davidović’s chapter is an examination of the meanings the pieces of music from the great German musical tradition acquire in Syberberg’s works. The second part of the book, entitled Festivals and Institutions: Strategies of Existence and Survival, encompasses themes that are highly relevant for the discussion of specific aspects of music in postsocialism, providing necessary problematisations of institutional and/or festival practices in political, financial and social contexts that can be remarkably variable and often insecure in postsocialist countries. Although mutually different in the scope and depth of the research approach, the five chapters written by scholars from Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Romania, Hungary and Russia are comparable in both similar issues and research findings, offering conclusions that can serve for further, more comparatively based investigations. The first two contributions of this section of the volume are focused on festivals in the capitals of two neighbouring, ex-Yugoslav states – Serbia and Bosnia and Herzegovina. A very comprehensive and detailed research was undertaken by Jelena Janković-Beguš and Ivana Medić, which resulted in their chapter “On Missed Opportunities: The International Review of Composers in Belgrade and the ‘Postsocialist Condition’”. Through a critical assessment of the entire history of the International Review of Composers, the oldest contemporary art music festival in Belgrade that “came to life and began to develop at the most difficult and turbulent period in the recent history of Serbia” (1992), the authors confirm their starting hypotheses that the Review has neither changed its general “hybrid” programme profile nor “become a national festival of contemporary music […] in the sense of being recognised as a priority for funding by the Ministry of Culture (and other funding bodies) in Serbia, which would have enabled it to grow in size and reputation, both domestically and internationally”. Their analysis takes into consideration the impact of political, economic, social and cultural factors over the festival’s almost three-decades existence, the history of which is segmented into three periods: (1) “‘the war years’ (1992–2000)”, (2) the “‘transitional’ phase (2001–2006)” that coincides with the onset of the economic transition in the post-Milošević Serbia (Yugoslavia), and (3) the “‘stagnant’ phase (from 2007 to the present)”, when the Review witnessed some relatively unsuccessful attempts of change and rejuvenation of its programme conception. There were various “missed opportunities” in all these periods to establish the Review either as a national or as a relevant international festival, which is stressed by the authors, who conclude that the Review has never taken the opportunity “to establish itself as anything but the festival of the profession of academic composers”. 10

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As one of the key global trends in the cultural and, more specifically, musical life in the past decades, the festivalisation of events has also spread to postsocialist countries. Fatima Hadžić undertook an investigation of such a very visible trend in Sarajevo. In the chapter “Festival/isation of Art Music – The Collapse or Recreation of Sarajevo Concert Life” the author observes the phenomenon of festivalisation from three perspectives: festivals as (1) an instrument of economic power (creating jobs, a catalyst of city revitalisation); (2) a tool of political power (governing structures instrumentalising festivals, while underfunding the activities of cultural institutions; (3) a means of developing culture and arts (positive effects on the domestic cultural scene). Although the cultural benefit of festivalisation in Sarajevan musical life is quite obvious (for instance, a rise in exclusively art music festivals has been recorded), especially in comparison with only two yearly art music festivals in the socialist period, the author warns that in the distribution of various resources, particularly those of public funds, one should be careful in directing them to a greater extent to fundamental institutions of culture that have continuously serious financial problems, in order that a balance be achieved between the two ways in organising musical/cultural life. The last three chapters of the section focus on the problems of the work and the functioning of musical institutions. One of them is concerned with the Bucharest Philharmonic, another on the regrouping of power in the main musical institutions in Hungary during the transitional years from the socialist regime to the democratic one, while the third presents a precise investigation into the financial support Russian musical institutions received from different businesses and foundations at the times of the state’s retreat from helping all but the most outstanding ones. The contribution of Valentina Sandu-Dediu presents an examination of an important Romanian national institution whose fate was very much dependent on the changes of official state politics. In her “Socialist and Postsocialist Histories Reflected in the Recent Past of the Bucharest Philharmonic” she analyses the activities of that renowned orchestra (founded in 1868) during the last three decades, which were preceded by more or less prosperous periods and an especially successful one called “the George Georgescu period” (1920–45), remembered mostly for its much upgraded professional skills and intensive contact with the European musical world. With the establishment of the socialist regime, the Philharmonic was transformed into a state orchestra that had no financial difficulties as compensation for its strict control. As in all other socialist countries, the new ideology was reflected in the Philharmonic’s repertoires, international tours, selection of guest performers, and comments in concert programmes. The author provides a wealth of relevant facts about those decades, with special attention given to the last years of Nicolae Ceaușescu’s presidency, when the economic situation in the country degenerated sharply imposing strict austerity on the orchestra’s activities, so that only individual musicians from the Warsaw-pact countries were invited and guest performances of orchestras only from Romania were organised. For concert-goers the postsocialist epoch began in splendour with the guest performances of the 11

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Munich Philharmonic conducted by Sergiu Celibidache in February 1990, as a symbolic gesture of the wish to reintegrate the numerous Romanian musical diaspora in the country’s new life. The last part of the article is devoted to the “realities of transition and of the new democracy”, specifically the lack of adequate funding, the too small number of premiere performances (mainly in festivals), and the dominance of canonical repertoires neglecting twentieth- and twenty-first-century works and, among them, those of Romanian composers. Anna Dalos was also interested in the main musical institutions of her country, Hungary, but she focused her investigation to just four years because of their crucial importance for the transmission of political power from the socialist regime to the democratic one. In the chapter “Critical Years: Debates in the Field of Hungarian Music (1988–1992)” she brings to light a number of key problems that institutions such as the Hungarian Composers’ Association, the National Philharmonic and the Hungarian Music Society had to face in those years. Open letters sent to opponents, accusations of members of older generations for all the problems inherited from the socialist period, and protest withdrawals from high positions – they all bordered on scandals. A need was felt for the complete re-examination and renewal of the country’s music institutional system, the promotion of contemporary music and of composers hitherto neglected for political reasons. Among the events that are closely investigated is the writing of an open letter on 21 March 1992 in which four composers born after 1945 attacked four elder colleagues, former avant-gardists who were still holding senior positions in Hungarian music life, blaming them for privileges, corruption and other benefits. Included into the examination is the Hungaroton affair, in which there is a reflection on the problems of the conflict between the high expectations of promoting national music abroad and the realities of doing business in the international market for a company that used to be successful in the last decade of the socialist regime. As in the other postsocialist countries, the establishment of capitalism in Russia following the collapse of the Soviet Union brought significant changes in the sphere of financial support to musical institutions, festivals and other events. In the chapter “Music and Business in Postsocialist Russia” Lidia Ader and Konstantin Belousov have investigated sponsorship of programmes performed by the most important opera and ballet houses and philharmonic orchestras in Russia, as well as of many art music festivals across the country. They provide extensive data that confirms that, having diminished its participation in those costs, the state encourages so called indirect support such as private and corporate charity, sponsorship funds, a developed system of tax preferences, an introduction of special (marked) taxes, and the creation of endowment funds. Therefore, numerous musical programmes are being funded by businesses, banks, and industrial enterprises, both domestic and foreign. It is not surprising that the interest in supporting major events, famous performers and festivals that have the status of a brand is usually high, whereas it is often insufficient for operas, orchestras and concerts in cities other than Moscow and St. Petersburg. Sponsorship is less present in philharmonic orchestras than operas and ballets as a result of them 12

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being less “spectacular”. The authors have also noticed that more often company support is occasional/unsystematic, rather than regular. The final section of the volume, Changing Landscapes of Traditional and Popular Musics, involves the research of musicologists and ethnomusicologists from Romania, Kazakhstan, Bulgaria and Poland. They deal with complex cultural and musical phenomena that illuminate some local specificities, relating them to global contexts. Two of the authors analyse traditional music, with a special interest in the postsocialist period, which opens the possibility for comparing similarities and differences in the repositioning and reshaping of traditional music in Romania and Kazakhstan. In her article “Folklore in the Communist Period and its Later Extensions: The Romanian Case”, Speranţa Rădulescu offers a synthesising view of the traditional rural and urban music in Romania from the end of World War II to the present day, including research of that music. She takes into consideration the processes of urbanisation, industrialisation, market relations in culture, and the roles of the music industry and the media. Following different genres, the author demonstrates the process of the gradual transformation and decline of traditional music during the socialist period, caused primarily by the depopulation of rural regions, and the growing role of radio and television. However, the same process of peasants (primarily young) leaving villages in search of better-paid jobs happened again after 1990, meaning that rural music lost some of the important base it had had until then, and experienced changes, however, to a greater degree with funeral music than with wedding music, for example. In parallel, the author considers music in cities, from repertoire and its stylistic characteristics, to functional and performative aspects. Recognising the first decade after the collapse of the communist regime as “chaotic” and the next two as “calmer and more constructive”, especially after Romania’s accession to the European Union, she singles out modernisation, folklorisation and technologies as major challenges for the music that “not long ago we used to call traditional”. The author adds to her article valuable comments on some terms that are important for a better understanding of her narrative. Concerned with the fate of traditional music in her country, Gulzada N. Omarova, in her chapter “Postsocialism and the Culture of Kazakhstan: National Music in the Era of Global Changes”, looks with a critical eye at both the seventy-year period of her country’s existence as a republic within USSR, and the post-Soviet times of state independence. The Soviet model of musical culture that aimed at imposing Western art music to all the many constitutive nations, including the Kazakhs, who had led a mainly nomadic lifestyle until the early twentieth century, is seen as having been unsuccessful and even damaging because traditional music was subject to “improvements” and transformations imagined to lead to its integration into art music of the European type. During the socialist period, the Kazakhs were increasingly exposed not only to Western art music, quite foreign to them, but also to popular music of various genres, while the preservation of traditional music was not funded 13

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enough. According to Omarova, the rather peaceful and smooth transition to sovereignty caused the national culture to continue to develop in the direction that had been set by the socialist state. The state programmes, in order to work on the better preservation and revaluation of the Kazakh traditional heritage, were launched in 2004 and 2017, so that, among other things, sound anthologies of instrumental and song traditions were released. However, the results have not been convincing enough. Therefore, the author offers some practical steps for enabling the full functioning and development of national musical traditions in the era of globalisation, especially focusing on the problems of the education of traditional musicians, with special attention to skills in traditional music based on improvisation, along with the development of modern types of creativity. The two last chapters are focused on the strategies applied by domestic musicians of different genres (ethno, rock, metal) to become part of contemporary international trends, incorporating into them elements that would mark them as distinct from the others. Such trends had begun even before the fall of socialist regimes, especially during the 1980s, but the beginning of their life in capitalism brought many more opportunities to connect with the Western world and to be exposed to strong influences of the ever expanding scene of popular music. By way of blending Western pop music styles with local musical traditions, some interesting hybrid styles were generated. In her chapter “Euphoria and Creativity: Bulgarian Music in the Time of Transition”, Claire Levy draws a vivid picture of the complex development in the space of popular music in her country during the last decades of the socialist regime and in postsocialism, mainly focusing on the 1980s and 1990s. As typical features of the local rock music of the 1990s, the author points to lyrics that consistently applied irony and parody and spread socially/politically engaged messages. A similar affinity to informal and uncensored vocabulary was displayed by hip-hop groups in the later years of the century. At the same time, Bulgarian new ethno music, known in the West since the early 1980s, continued to develop, becoming a part of the global phenomenon of world music. According to the author, the new, different cultural climate of potsocialist times “liberalised Bulgarian culture in terms of a more apparent legitimisation of minority ethnic groups”. In order to follow the public debates that were held about the nature of cultural heritage in Bulgaria and the contributions to it of minorities like Gipsy or Turkish, it is necessary to be aware of the complicated socio-psychological connotations of the musical traditions of different local ethnic communities that were strongly represented in the new ethno music productions. The question of cultural identity was often discussed in the context of rethinking the nation’s orientation either to the “Orient”, which has long been linked to backwardness, or to Europe, seen as a “promised land”. The author is critical of the exclusion or marginalising of the “local other”, while privileging the “distant other” (Western pop-music canon) in national discourses. However, it seems that attitudes towards the “others” are progressively being changed and more inclusive views being adopted. 14

Melita Milin, Biljana Milanović & Danka Lajić Mihajlović

The subject of the new positioning of the domestic popular music scene in relation to the omnipresent and dominant Western (globalising) one after the fall of socialist regimes is also addressed in Anna G. Piotrowska’s article “The Phenomenon of Slavic Metal. The Case of Poland”. Announced already in the last decade of the totalitarian state, the Polish version of metal music became radicalised in the early period of transition, gaining more specific traits when some bands decided to include Slavic references in their lyrics. Paradoxically or not, that sub-genre of pagan metal music developed in parallel and most probably under the influence of Scandinavian metal bands that exploited Nordic mythology. As the author observes, “it is necessary to realise the irony of the fact that relying on Slavic pagan mythology connected Polish metal to the Western heavy metal scene”. The author investigates the ways in which Polish bands promoted Slavic metal’s objective to redefine Polish cultural identity in the post-Wall times. Due attention is paid to the question of the religious implications of celebrating Slavic pagan mythology in a country with a strong Catholic tradition, as well as to the glorification of “Slavicness” that was not rooted in the ideology of PanSlavism and Slavic brotherhood. It is suggested that the heroic mythology served as a source of references to the thematisation of the fight for freedom of Slavic nations during the socialist times, so that pagan gods and warriors could be observed as symbols of anti-communist dissidents. Analyses of the influences of extremist ideologies and the transgression and appropriation of Western cultural codes are included in the text. As we have already mentioned, the texts in this collection could encourage wider comparative musical studies on different variants of more or less similar phenomena in postsocialist countries. On the other hand, diversity, as an important feature of this volume, testifies to the very wide scope of the term “postsocialism” in music, and leads to a further critical examination of its explanatory value. A variety of local contexts goes together with a very wide range of scholar approaches, which we had expected when preparing the volume. Specific features that are displayed in these scholarly contributions can certainly be connected with a number of aspects related to geocultural and historical factors, but also to the different “socialisms” and later socio-political circumstances of “postsocialisms” in those countries, as well as the different local traditions of research and academic positions of individual scholars. Although one part of these contributions indicate integration into contemporary scientific trends dictated by the dominant positions of Anglo-American ethno/musicology, while the other stays almost closed in local research traditions, our attempt to gather various and sometimes almost divergent experiences and viewpoints of emic scholars can be understood as an investment in the decolonialisation of power that determines and controls the production of knowledge about music in global frames. We believe, as the co-editors of this volume, that the chapters contained in it will contribute in an essential way to an understanding of the processes of transformation according to the ideology of neoliberalism in all spaces of music which have been witnessed in the past three decades and beyond. Until now, much has been written about the music of the socialist period, as a ne15

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BOYER, Dominic and Alexei Yurchak (2008) “Postsocialist Studies, Cultures of Parody and American Stiob”, Anthropology News 49: 8. FALK, Barbara J. (2019) “Legacies of 1989 for Dissent Today”, Eurozine online, 31 October 2019, GLIGORIĆ, Lidija (2013) Uzroci neočekivano dugog trajanja procesa tranzicije u Srbiji [The Reasons for the unexpectedly long duration of the process of transition in Serbia], unpublished M.A. thesis, Belgrade: Ekonomski fakultet Univerziteta u Beogradu. GÖLER, Daniel and Holger Lehmeier (2012) “From Post-Socialist Transition to Globalisation and Europeanisation? Metropolitan Developments in Belgrade, Bucharest and Sofia”, Zbornik radova – Geografski fakultet Univerziteta u Beogradu 60: 33–48. HUMPHREY, Caroline (2001) “Does the Category of Postsocialism Still Make Sense?”, in Chris Hann (ed.) Postsocialism: Ideals, Ideologies and Practices in Eurasia, London: Routledge, 12–15. JAKOPIN, Edvard (2018) “Privredni rast i institucionalna tranzicija Republike Srbije” [Economic growth and institutional transition of the Republic of Serbia], Ekonomski horizonti 20 (2): 95–108. JELAČA, Dijana and Danijela Lugarić (2018) “Introduction: The ‘Radiant Future’ of Spatial and Temporal Dis/Orientations”, in John Frederick Bailyn, Dijana Jelača, and Danijela Lugarić (eds.) The Future of (Post)Socialism. Eastern European Perspectives, Albany: SUNY Press. LEÓN, Javier F. (2014) “Introduction: Music, Music Making and Neoliberalism”, Culture, Theory and Critique 55 (2): 129–137. MILANOVIĆ, Biljana and Marija Maglov (2019) “Mokranjac on Repeat: Reaffirming Musical CanonThroughSoundRecordings(PGP-RTB/RTSDiscography)”,Muzikologija/Musicology 27 (2): 221–252. 16

Melita Milin, Biljana Milanović & Danka Lajić Mihajlović

MILIN, Melita (2011) “Art Music in Serbia as a Political Tool and/or Refuge During the 1990s”, Muzikološki zbornik 47 (1): 209–217. MILIN, Melita (2015) “Orthodox Sacred Music as an Undesirable Segment of Tradition in Communist Yugoslavia”, in Stefan Keym und Stephan Wünsche (eds.) Musikgeschichte zwischen Ost und West: von der ‘musica sacra’ bis zur Kunstreligion. Festschrift für Helmut Loos zum 65. Geburtstag, Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 225–234. MÜLLER, Martin (2019) “Goodbye, Postsocialism!”, Europe-Asia Studies 71 (4): 533–550. OST, David (2009) “The Consequences of Postcommunism: Trade Unions in Eastern Europe’s Future”, East European Politics & Societies 23 (1): 13–33. PICKLES, John (2010) “The Spirit of Post-Socialism: Common Spaces and the Production of Diversity”, European Urban and Regional Studies, 17 (2): 127–140. PLATT, Kevin M. F. (2009) “The Post-Soviet is Over: On Reading the Ruins”, Republics of Letters: A Journal for the Study of Knowledge, Politics, and the Arts 1 (1): 1–26. ŠUVAKOVIĆ, Miodrag (2017) “Strateške i taktičke tranzicije” [Strategic and tactical transitions], Blog of the Faculty for Media and Communication in Belgrade, 28 November 2017, TODOROVA, Maria and Zsuzsa Gille (eds.) (2010) Post-Communist Nostalgia, New York and Oxford: Berghahn. TODOROVA, Maria (2018) Scaling the Balkans. Essays in Eastern European Entanglements, Leiden and Boston: Brill. VESIĆ, Ivana and Vesna Peno (2018) “The Structural Transformation of the Sphere of Musical Amateurism in Socialist Yugoslavia: a Case Study of the Beogradski Madrigalisti Choir”, New Sound 51 (1): 43–63. ZUK, Patrick and Marina Frolova-Walker (eds.) (2017) Russian Music Since 1917. Reappraisal and Rediscovery, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

17

PART ONE

Rethinking the Past, Shaping the Present: Tradition, Memory and New Music

CHAPTER 2

Postsocialism and Other -isms in Slovene Music Since 1991: Post/Modernity, Post-Histori/ci/sm (Post-Classicism), Post-Nationalism, and Glocalism Leon Stefanija (Ljubljana)

Post/Modernity If there is a common thread in the discourses regarding musical modernity and postmodernity, it is their compound, complex, multi-layered nature. They are considered here as complementary concepts. The antinomies pointed out by Hermann Danuser in his entry “Neue Musik” in Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart regarding New music, among other things, indicate what Wolfgang Welsch apostrophised as “our post-modern modernity”: modernity is there a “metaphoric representation of selfhood” (Ilić 2010: 2), in which different layers of modernity emerge, intertwine, cohabit or compete to create sets of frictions between aesthetic and cultural variables (see for instance Heile and Wilson 2018). The history of historiography itself points to the quandaries regarding both concepts, modernity and post-modernity. If Paul Griffiths pointed to a ‘really modern music’ discussing Debussy’s fragmentary structured theme of the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (Griffiths 1994) – and there are tendencies to point to the ‘grundsätzlich Neue der Neuen Musik’ in the ‘Atonalität’ (Eggebrecht 1995, see also Blumröder 1995) – it seems also reasonable to emphasise the futurists’ ‘noise’ as the foundational perspective of a new music (Sutherland 1994). Griffiths speaks of a certain ‘detachment’ from the tradition since 1900, Eggebrecht of ‘creating of another, a new, order’ and Sutherland of ‘removing the borders between different orders’, and they all speak of an expansion of the aesthetical means, of “[...]bewußtes Streben nach einer Erneuerung unseres melodischen Empfindens, eines melodischen Empfindens freilich, das nicht nur nach anderen Tonkombinationsmöglichkeiten innerhalb der gegebenen Nor21

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men strebt, sondern das eine grundlegende psychische Erneuerung und Erweiterung unseres Musikempfindens überhaupt zur Voraussetzung hat. Dies mag jetzt vielleicht noch als gewagte Behauptung erscheinen” (Bekker 1923: 95).

Yet, it would be difficult to deny another projection of the modernism, not the aesthetical or poetic one, as indicated above, but a certain social modernism skipping backwards or into ‘other’ genres. Just as Schoenberg claimed “The only revolutionary in our time was [Richard] Strauss!” (Schoenberg 1975: 11) (from his Rosenkavalier onwards, of course), Richard Taruskin advocates this “social avant-gardism” – the “revolution” of neoclassicism “closes the border” with chameleonic aestheticism so specific of postmodernity – with the following words: “[T]he true break with tradition came in the 1920s with the movement, often identified as ‘neoclassicism,’ which the conventional narrative represents as a return, or regression, to traditional ways” (Taruskin, 2010, xx).

It would actually be fairly interesting to proceed with a more precise differentiation of the modernist phenomena and to speak of “forerunners” and “outsiders” as well as of the “subversive” elements thereof, after World War II (Stephan 1971) as well as before. Might historiography add another important shift towards the ‘emphatic new’ with Satie, who broke with the whole romantic tradition of ‘elevated’ art in the 1880s – is not Satie a crucial ideological lighthouse for what became the American avant-garde of the 1960s? Or maybe Liszt, who, during the 1880s, with his Bagatelle sans tonalité and his late piano oeuvre in which atonicality and atonality may be found long before the appearance of expressionists and neo-classicists, could be seen as a composer of the ‘new age’ music culture in which delicate reflexive musical styles were being devised and taken as a hallmark of the ‘age of individualism’? The levels of modernity may be differentiated into different “sounding utopias” (Johnson 2015, 70–81). The idea of modernity is an idea about “commonalities and continuities”, even “extrusion of tensions latent in the Classical”, as suggested by Julian Johnson in his “sensible history of musical modernity” (ibid: 4, 7, 10). The events from the last century in Slovenia indicate fairly strong “commonalities and continuities” within what seemed an urging need for a certain musica viva: a contemporary music that has practically no other options than to grow out of a different ‘extrusion of tensions’ inherited from the past. It is the search for the classical that modernists as well as postmodernists are after, also in Slovenia. Without expanding the focus into the earlier epochs, the complexity of the “extrusion of tensions latent in the Classical” inevitably also nourishes the “Unübersichtlichkeit” topos for the Slovene musical landscape today. The voices, such as the one coming from the IFPI (representing the recording industry Worldwide) – “traditionelle Unternehmen befinden sich in einem tiefgreifenden Wandel” (Drücke 2012: 5) – are as specific for the postsocialist period as they are becoming evident for the period since the early 1970s in Slovene music. Thus, it is not surprising to see that once competitive ‘partisans’ of dif22

Leon Stefanija

ferent musical styles – even the ‘natural enemies’, such are the advocates of modern classical music and pop or alternative music – are indicating a common concern regarding our compound world. The popular Slovene rapper N’toko claimed in 2010: “Styles, trends and artists appear at light speed and disappear even faster. Their social status also changes. What one listens to and why has become a mysterious question, because garage rock bands from the underground emerge in commercials for mobile phones, pop artists with growingly daring productions in many ways overtake colleagues from the underground, all genres were already invented a hundred times, while the original representatives of the 60s or 70s are still performing, but it is all the same in the hands of multinationals and is aimed at marketing something or something else” (N’toko 2010).

Similarly, the prominent composer, choral conductor and academician Lojze Lebič noted in the mid-1990s that since the 1970s the “borders between art and non-art music” have become unclear. For the same period, he points to “features of stylistic pluralism and polystylism” (Lebič 1994: 2, 62–3; Lebič 1996: v) in music, emphasising that by the 1990s “only the personal truth exists, the social one has lost its credibility” (Lebič 1994: 2). In short, there is no unified “Slovene music consciousness” (Barbo 1993). Both concepts, modernity as well as post-modernity, seem to have merged and lost their exclusive explanatory power. The different musical practices have shifted the attention to other, equally appealing, as well as similarly evasive, concepts discussed below. And yet, the issues regarding post/modernity resemble so much the social issues connected with what Robert N. Butler coined as ageism in the late 1960s for the Old Continent, not only in music. Moreover, “the aging of new music”, Das Altern der Neuen Musik, as Adorno titled his talk that addressed the Darmstadt modernists in 1954 (Adorno 2003), remains crucial for almost every aspect of our technologically ramified existence.

Post-histori/ci/sm or Post-Classicism? In 2001, I offered two complementary views on tradition of Slovene music for the last quarter of the twentieth century (Stefanija 2001): the histori/ci/st1 musical poetics on one side and, on the other, a ‘transhistorical’ or ‘universalistic’ view of music. The distinction may be illustrated with the neoclassicism of Igor Stravinsky and the sound art of Edgar Varèse as (besides futurism and dadaism) the most conspicuous opposition between the World Wars. The opposition between the ‘advanced’ sound art and the ‘retrogressive’ histori/ci/ sms is long superfluous because of different stylistic and genre fusions. Similar processes of merging different styles are one of the hallmarks of all historical and contemporary classics. Today, of course, also with the prefix post. For 1 The difference between historism and historicism is but an expansion of Hermann Danuser’s distinction between “substantialist” and “formalist” neoclassicism. 23

Music in Postsocialism

instance, in a review of Jóhann Jóhannsson’s Orphée, from 2016, or in the description of the concept by Freya Parr (2019; see also Kampoš 2019), post-classicism is a synonym of ‘classical-electro-ambient music’, ‘alternative classical’, or ‘neoclassical’. It is hardly necessary to mention that such labels cause a big musicological dilemma. The analytical quandaries regarding the growing number of genres is so sympathetically illustrated by the growing database of the Spotify genre-list (Every Noise at Once n.d.) with marginally less than 4,000 genres at the end of 2019! Spotify’s musical genres do not only clearly indicate the complexity of modern stylistic analysis, but also point to the user-defined tagging practices. At the moment, I know of no serious attempt to analyse the plethora of constellations between different musical practices circulating in Slovenia. However, besides some notable definitions of modernity, postmodernity and sound art in Slovene music (for instance, Barbo 2001; Pompe 2011; Trdan 2019), the booklet Listen to Slovenia–A Pocket Music Guide offers 13 main music practices.2 In it, not only styles or genres (classical music, jazz, hip-hop) are important, but also the poetic approach (experimental), the performing group (choral, wind band, singer-songwriter), social positioning (alternative, folk-pop), ethnic affiliation (ethnic, world music) as well as the function (dance). The conceptual pêle-mêle of defining musical styles is but a surprise for a music historiographer used to evasive concepts. Yet, this kind of tagging indicates kinds of ‘privatised’ listening habits that are so specific for the YouTube culture: musical poetics, aesthetics and functions fluidly reshape one another and allow the number of styles to grow rapidly. However, does the number of styles grow or does only the ‘incompetence’ of music-related discourses to communicate between the known and the unknown rise? The era of “stylistic pluralism”, as Lojze Lebič epitomised Slovene music since the 1980s, is not essential for this period only. It is fundamental for classical throughout history. It is exactly the integrative nature of neoclassicism that seems to embody post-classical or postmodern music. Integration seems to be the word of our era. The ‘Unübersichtlichkeit’ of today’s musical practices, accompanied by the growth of different social groups or ‘interested parties’, as reads the popular diction in Slovenia, rests exactly on what Zygmunt Baumann elegantly formulated as “liquid modernity”: “There are no solid structures around us all on which we can rely, in which we can invest our hopes and expectations” – we live in the culture of “uncertainty” (emergence), “redundancy”, “migration”, “transfer”, “multiple” and “shared identities”, “exchangeability” etc. (Bauman 2016). The question as to whether one should speak of post-histori/ci/sm in music or post-classical music is a false one. In the music of prominent composers today in Slovenia, the academicians Lojze Lebič (1934), Uroš Rojko (1954), or Nina Šenk (1982), one may speak only of heterogeneous and heteronomous musical influences. Their music is anything but post-classical or post-historic: 2 Classical Music, Choirs / Choral Societies, Jazz, Experimental and Alternative Music, Ethno/World Music, Folk-pop, Wind Bands, Rock, Heavy Metal, Singer-songwriters, Pop, Hip-hop, Electronic Dance Music (Škedelj Renčelj and Pušnik Kramar 2013). 24

Leon Stefanija

they stand on the shoulders of different giants from the past and, just as any Western composer did before, aspire to reach the future, just as the concept of classical indicates that it is the right thing to be done.

Post-National Music The law regarding the national interest in culture, from 2002, includes only information about professional musicians (Zakon o uresničevanju javnega interesa za kulturo 2002). No other forms of practicing music seem important, de iure. Reiterations about the cultural “wellbeing” and “prosperity” have abounded in the public discourse since 1991. There is economic reason for this. The growing interest in cultural tourism has been changing the ethnocentric view on national musical practices. The main professional, governmentally subsidised music corpora, such as the Slovene Philharmonics, Slovene RTV Orchestra or both national Opera Theatres, do not reveal any particular interest in performing music by Slovene composers. The growth of internationally oriented ‘urban culture music’, as practiced, for instance, in the Metelkova City Autonomous Cultural Centre (AKC Metelkova n.d.), the Bunker Old Power Station (Bunker n.d.), or the Kino Šiška Centre for Urban Culture (Kino Šiška n.d.) – to mention only the main venues in Ljubljana, gains more and more attention: the most frequently played music in Slovenia comprises international hits from the Anglo-American pop repertoire.3 And in spite of this (or only because of this?), there is a strong culture of so-called narodnozabavna – Oberkreiner – music or contemporary folk music that has overshadowed the local folk musical practices. There is an ethnically founded reason for this. The constitution of Slovenia as an independent state, in 1991, encouraged new national feelings to grow. The growth of patriotism once again stirred up issues of national identity. The national ideals, politically brought to the absurd in the concept of a never clearly defined mantra regarding our “national interest”, led the prominent and culturally influential composer and academician Lojze Lebič to warn in 2010 that Slovenia might become ‘a land full of musical waste’ because of the omnipresence of different musical genres. Therefore, he proposed, in an essay, the establishment of a “musical-cultural parliament”, a “musical tribunal”, and a “musical museum” – all fairly clear political institutions – to preserve our musical culture (Lebič 2010). Lebič’s ideas of a ‘clean’ musical culture with ‘healthy’ national roots, is a modern version of the anti-German ideas of Anton Lajovic. In turn, Lajovic’s anti-German attitude, most clearly defined in his pamphlet About the Eternal Beauties and Poison of Beethoven’s and Wagner’s Works, published in the rightist daily newspaper Slovenec on 6 April 1924 (p. 5) was but a belated echo of the nineteenth-century Pan-Slavism. Although hardly anyone protests today the growth of cultural tourism, the popularity of world music, or a variety of regional ethno-music practices, the legalised quota 3 Information is taken from the Portal Slotop50 (2013–2020). 25

Music in Postsocialism

for compulsory programming of 40% of Slovene music still holds valid for the public RTV.4 Thus, it does not surprise that the national question is fairly pragmatic and, above all, ambivalent. As a study that Katarina Habe and I have done among professional musicians in 2018 indicates, today there is great ambivalence regarding nationality related experiences among professional musicians living permanently in Slovenia.5 Here are examples of opinions of two interviewees: “I would say that the Slovenes are more oppressive towards each other than towards other nationalities. In my opinion, this is more a matter of personal character than nationality. Many times, I feel rivalries among Slovenes that have nothing to do with foreigners. It seems to me that I felt more positive attitudes of Slovenes towards me as a foreigner. I never had a sense of marginalisation because of my ethnicity. Being a foreigner is accepted, by the majority, as a plus. Your personality is very important: no one would complain of coexistence with a good person. Of course, there are also those foreigners who arrive in Slovenia without an education and are looking for money or some sort of welfare only out of pity, not to be willing to pick up the slack for any work, not learning the language, do not accept the habits of the new country.” “And when we have auditions, I see that Slovenes are always first. Although someone else is better, they prefer to employ Slovenes – they prefer a Slovene orchestra rather than a good orchestra. This is not articulated in such a way, but you can see it. Even if someone does not have a degree or does not fulfil all the conditions, they prefer to hire the Slovene person rather than a foreigner that meets the requirements.”

If, in the nineteenth century, the national musical cultures were recognised – and the end of the Cold War offered a fertile ground for them to overtake the power in Slovenia – the late twentieth century managed to toss the binding national ideals onto a tray of free trade of individuals’ preferences. Nationalism in the Slovene music world is ambivalent. It exists and it does not, at the same time. It does not exist formally in the musical practices that are considered fundamental for Slovenia, yet it is omnipresent in certain segments of music production, distribution and reception.

Glocalism Although the word glocalism means nothing in music, it is by far the most indicative word for the period under discussion. Moreover, the period started 4 See article 86 of the Zakon o medijih [Media law] (2001). The national quota regarding music programming was 20% for private broadcasting corporations until late 2019, when this demand was repealed. 5 The research is a part of the research project Music and Ethnic Minorities: (Trans)Cultural Dynamics in Slovenia Since 1991, funded by the Slovenian Research Agency under number J6-8261. Our task is to acquire information about the ethnic minorities among professional musicians active in Slovenia. More on gem.ff.uni-lj.si. 26

Leon Stefanija

already in the (late) 1960s. Alex Ross described them neatly (Ross 2008: 343) as the “carnivalesque, topsy-turvy, through-the-looking-glass period” of music history. I would add that, with other accidentals, of course, the carnivalesque nature of the Slovene music culture since 1991 may be recognised through a series of processes that fit “glocalisation” in music as described by Mikołaj Rykowski: “the glocalisation concept enables recognition of how local values function within what has rapidly become a global process of data exchange that encompasses contemporary human life” (Rykowski, 2018: xx).

If seen from the perspective of “data exchange”, “our modern post-modernity” (Welsch 2008) and post-national as well as post-classical era continues to cultivate the culture of emancipation that has been so specific, especially for the entire twentieth century. If the eighteenth century emancipated music from language (Neubauer 1986) and the nineteenth century glorified music as the paragon of all the arts, the twentieth century emancipated the composer as well as the listener. The internet’s streaming services and the cultural industry of capitalist ideology offer not only a bounty of various music, but also ‘Unübersichtlichkeit’ and alienation of and an ignorance of different musical practices: we have a plethora of intersubjective Alfred-Schütz-co-worlds (Schütz 1971: 115, 203) or Max-Bense-co-realities (Bense 1954, 1965) with the branching of different music-related media throughout the twentieth century and especially in the www era. The Billboard culture of a restless search for “the best of ” novelties has its counterpart in the “culture of forgetting” (ŠvobĐokić, Primorac, Jurlin 2008) – a certain “cult of ignorance”, or simply a selective necessity to survive amidst the era of intensive “data exchange”. There are interesting intersections between national/foreign and classical/ popular music. If in the orchestral musical practice: “Professional orchestras and choirs in Slovenia performed 2,123 works in 2014; 746 of them were by Slovene authors, which is just over 35%. In their headquarters they organised 120 concerts, which were attended by more than 83,600 people. In addition to these concerts, in 2014 they organised 236 concerts on tours. Most of these concerts (208 or 88%) were held in Slovenia; 20 concerts were on tours in other EU member states, 4 in other countries, and 4 were performed especially for Slovenes outside Slovenia (three of them in the neighbouring countries)” (ibid.).

However, not entering into the stylistic issues, the professional orchestras and choirs and the statistics above are literally vanishing from the cultural horizon: “Among the top 20 most played songs in 2018, not a single one is Slovenian, despite the mandatory quotas of Slovenian music set by law, revealed the data presented by IPF, the Institute for the Exercise of the Rights of Performers and Producers of Phonograms of Slovenia. Statistics show that last year the quotas of Slovenian music were fulfilled only by RTV Slove-

27

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nia, local and regional programmes met them by 79%, commercial radio stations only by 53%” (Košir 2019).

If the ratio between Slovene/foreign music in the public sphere of using and broadcasting “has reduced from 43:57 in 2015 to 32:68 in 2018, by about 11%” (ibid.), radio broadcasting statistics – the share of music in the broadcasting industry is at least 62% – indicate that classical music has occupied less than 0.5% of the total programme since 2005: 0.3% in 2006, 0.5% in 2007, and 0.4% in 2008 and 2009 (“Type of radio programme without a special status” 2011):6 TABLE 2.1 Radio broadcasting – statistical overview TYPE OF PROGRAMME Transmitted programs from the headquarter studio – TOTAL HOURS Transmitted programs – TOTAL HOURS Transmitted programs for children and youth Music – TOTAL Serious music Light and popular music Other music

2005

2006

2007

2008

2009

180.544

174.168

287.181

349.153

344.533

169.830

162.410

260.970

323.276

316.226

1099

1144

2218

1963

2230

123.728

122.569

177.845

242.335

222.173

6.087

342

962

1019

972

105.133

112.715

167.996

224.315

196.387

12.508

9.512

8.887

17.001

24.814

24.226

23.467

38.917

40.060

40.501

Daily informative programs

9.953

8.830

15.166

16.822

19.610

Informative programs

6.266

5.619

10.722

10.141

10.233

97

166

134

942

763

Speech programs - TOTAL

Acted programs / radio dramas Educational programs

1.599

2.439

2.804

2.260

2.049

Art and culture

2.005

2.745

3.036

3.114

3.690

97

92

319

279

306

Science Other speech programs Entertainment Sports Religious programs Program for Slovenians outside Slovenia

4.209

3.576

6.736

6.502

3.850

15.263

13.511

32.714

34.262

47.558

2.509

1.881

6.436

2.227

2.403

228

390

959

515

461

27

3

175

Other programs (excl. ads and other paid notices)

3.849

589

3.924

3.877

3.130

Advertising

6.908

5.509

23.699

22.416

23.337

Promotion

1.048

1.795

1.580

1.659

2.892

Other programs from headquarter studio

2.758

4.454

932

1.802

2.078

Although the statistics above are far from comprehensive and the studies of listening habits through the internet are still missing, the data above suggests that there are several parallel music cultures. For popular music, national art6 Unfortunately, I was unable to find data for the years following 2009. 28

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ists seem to be fairly poorly rated, but for classical music they are obviously somewhat well recognised. Just as the in/visibility of certain styles shapes the borders of presence among musical genres, the stylistic features of our musical “postmodern-modernity” are integrative: they deconstruct the past as well as the foreign inevitably leading toward polystylism, eclecticism, crossover, etc. If society tends toward a state of music omnivorousness (Elvers, Fuhrmann and Fischinger 2015), the common concert experience testifies that a pop fan usually hardly knows what early music movement enthusiasts listen to and they, in turn, hardly approve of ars acustica experimenting and, again, this is probably by no means appealing to the lover of world music or folk music musicking. However, as for the musical omnivores as well as for the supporters of only certain musical practices, music remains a ‘useful’ product, simply because it functions, as elegantly noted by Lojze Lebič, as a “framing, when something from one world finds itself in another” (Zlobec 1994). The processes of transferring things from one world into another are, perhaps obviously enough from the statistics above, rather different among the different media through which we experience music. These processes deserve to be reflected within the perspective of glocalisation.

Postsocialism If the evasive concept of postsocialism is understood in terms of different Bourdieusque economies, as elegantly observed by Naila Ceribašić for Croatian folk music (Ceribašić 2013), the concept may be substituted by any of those discussed above. Post/modernity, post-histori/ci/sm (post-classicism), post-nationalism, or glocalism: they all indicate different views on different segments of the music world and its practices. Besides, socialism was far from a political monolith specific for the Slovene (and Yugoslav) past. As a concept, ‘the social’ is an important contemporary agenda within Europe. However, if it is understood as a pragmatic catchword that indicates a transition from the political system of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia toward a political order based on the praised ‘free movement of people, goods, services and capital’, postsocialism has a specific meaning. In the sense of a challenging process that promises something (a better life, change, etc.), postsocialism points to one of the main features of our current cultural economies. Just as the new version of each update of technology is a promise of an improvement, postsocialism was a promise of change: for Slovenia, at least until 2004, when it became a member of EU. However, what kind of promise? As it seems now, the only promise seems to have been the pluralisation – a polyphony – of different musical practices within a global network of glocalisation. There are many indications for this claim. The lively rhythm of performances offers many superb events, yet the public recognition of many music events hardly exists within the fragmented cultural communication (there are 29

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hardly any journal reviews, even of representative performances, regardless of the genres) (Hochkeppel 2017), the function of musicians has drastically changed (for instance, the DIY pop and sound artists lead the way in the royalty payment statistics if compared to the academically educated composers: in this respect we now live in a fully socialist musical space!),7 the period, mainly because of smart technologies, offers a plethora of musical genres, yet the ignorance about music as a cultural activity brings about a growing number of co-worlds or co-realities, as indicated in the sub-chapter on glocalisation. Moreover, the postsocialist situation accentuated only the historiographic ignorance of different aesthetics and poetics. It enhanced the antinomies that were so refined, for instance by Milan Kundera’s novel L’Insoutenable légèreté de l’être: the unfaithful Tomáš wanted “the Kingdom of God on Earth”, yet could not live without his beloved Tereza who, despising the relationship with a body, roughly speaking, found her realm in the relationship with the pets around her. The division encircles the opposition of ‘big stories’ vs. ‘small stories’, just as the solution at the Slovene Ministry of Culture regarding the two committees – one for ‘serious music, opera and ballet’ (‘big stories’) and one for ‘other music’ (‘small stories’). The opposition is clearly defined with regard to both concepts. The other music is just about everything that is not ‘serious’ (or ‘classical’), ‘opera’ or ‘ballet’. However, it is not defined with regard to the scope of the ‘other music’: “In a digital world, life,” writes Freya Parr, “it becomes easier if we can define a searchable genre” (Parr 2019) and if we can do that, we can also have around 4,000 names for only a few clusters of musical genres, as the discourses on post/modernity and its ‘Unübersichtlichkeit’ topos indicates. In the period of a nominal incommensurability of the existent musical genres, it is suspicious to speak of postsocialism. At least, if we accept the ‘digital socialism’ (Fuchs 2020) of P2P platforms and the free streaming of YouTube, Vimeo, or SoundCloud, for instance, we live in pure cultural communism. That is, at least for the listeners. To the contrary, free music sharing “can also constitute problems for artists who depend on deriving income from cultural commodities” (ibid: 16). Just as the socialist regime was problematic for the free spirits of music as well as politics, free music distribution is changing the musical landscape rather strongly toward community music logic: every artist tends to be heard at least within his/her community, if not universally. The above-mentioned Kundera novel has, of course, more indicative levels that fit well into Slovene postsocialist musical history. The one about the ‘flesh’ and ‘mind’ – body and reason – is fairly important. Just as Tomáš was chasing women’s ‘flesh’ and Tereza despised the ‘flesh aspiring toward higher goals’, many composers actually tend to follow the same premise per aspera ad astra (from the ‘fleshy’ thorns toward the stars high above). Lojze Lebič neatly formulates (t)his musical poetics as positioned “between the logic of the 7 There are no formal statistics available, but the banal fact is telling: there are around 120 academically educated composers, while there are more than 6,000 authors that are ranked as eligible for royalties for music production in Slovenia. See the statistics of the Združenje SAZAS n.d. 30

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heart and the logic of reason” (Zlobec 1994). The premise that combines the logic of the heart and the logic of reason goes, of course, toward the classical. The frictions between emotion and intellect seem to be resolved. Both systems complement each other, just as the styles in our polystylistic “post-modern modernity”. In general, the Slovene postsocialist music world hardly surprises with stylistic novelties. The variety of emergent “auditory scenes”8 indicates different practices of “musicking” (Small 1998). The contemporary differentiation of music practices seems to fit rather nicely into the sociological concept of “reflective modernisation” (Beck, Giddens and Lash 1994). A nice example of reflectivity is the recently established e-journal Centralala.si: “Centralala.si is here to keep you up-to-date, to document, to focus, to reflect, to encourage and question different approaches, principles and aesthetics of different musicians, bands, collectives, artists in different artistic fields (experimental music, sound art, contemporary dance, visual and performing arts, literature, etc.), institutions, organisations, venues, publishers, producers, journalists and publicists, theorists and many guest musicians through whom an interconnected local and international network of activities is built” (Centralala.si 2018–2020).

Practically, there is no need for any other music related activity anymore. Everything merges in there: musicians as well as different artistic fields, theorists and journalists, individuals and collectives, institutions and producers, national as well as international artists. The diction resounds the preambular paragraphs of the Constitution of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, from 1974, regarding the main human rights: “[…] freedoms and opportunities for the comprehensive development of the human personality and for bringing people, nations and nationalities closer together, in accordance with their interests and aspirations in creating an increasingly richer culture and civilization of the socialist society” (Ustava Socialistične federativne republike Jugoslavije, 1974).

The integrative yet highly differentiated and fragmented musical practices allow the claim that the Slovene musical postsocialism surprisingly elevates the cohabitation of differences. Different musical practices today must actually follow ‘freedoms and opportunities’: freedoms of creativity that are in a constant search for new opportunities to succeed. They all, actually, aspire to meet the requirements of our ‘increasingly richer culture and civilisation’. In this respect, the prefix post seems superfluous when addressing the postsocialist period in the musical Slovenia.

8 The term ‘auditory scene’ is used as a sense of social augmentation of the acoustic approach defined by Bregman (1990). 31

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ADORNO, Theodor W. (2003) “Das Altern der Neuen Musik”, in Rolf Tiedemann, Gretel Adorno, Susan Buck-Morss and Klaus Schultz (eds.) Gesammelte Schriften, Digitale Bibliothek, vol. 97,Berlin: Directmedia Publishing. BARBO, Matjaž (1993) Slovenska glasbena zavest [Slovene music consciousness], Ljubljana: Zveza kulturnih organizacij Slovenije and Znanstveni inštitut Filozofske fakultete. BARBO, Matjaž (2009) Pro musica viva. Prispevek k slovenski moderni po II. svetovni vojni [Pro Musica Viva. Contribution to the Slovene modernity after the WW II], Ljubljana: Znanstveni inštitut Filozofske fakultete. BAUMAN, Zygmunt (2016) “Behind the World’s ‘Crisis of Humanity’”, YouTube, 23 July 2016, BECK, Ulrich, Anthony Giddens and Scott Lash (1994) Reflexive Modernization. Politics, Tradition and Aesthetics in the Modern Social Order, Stanford: Stanford University Press. BECKER, Howard S. (1982) Art Worlds, Berkeley: University of California Press. BEKKER, Paul (1923) “Neue Musik”, in Paul Bekker (ed.) Neue Musik – Dritter Band der Gesammelten Schriften, Stuttgart and Berlin: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 85–118, BENSE, Max (1954) Aesthetica vol. 1 (Metaphysische Beobachtungen am Schönen), Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. BENSE, Max (1965) Aesthetica. Einführung in die neue Aesthetik, Baden-Baden: Agis. BLUMRÖDER, Christoph von (1995) “Neue Musik”, in Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht (ed.) Terminologie der musikalischen Komposition. Handwörterbuch der musikalischen Terminologie, vol. 1, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 299–312. BREGMAN, Albert S. (1990) Auditory Scene Analysis, Cambridge: MIT Press. BUNKER (n.d.) Zavod za organizacijo in izvedbo kulturnih prireditev and Stara mestna elektrarna – Elektro Ljubljana. Accessed on 25. February 2020, Centralala.si (2018–2020) Slovene e-journal for intersections of improvised music, www.centralala.si. CERIBAŠIĆ, Naila (2013) “L’économie de la musique traditionnelle en Croatie postsocialiste”, Ethnologie française 43 (2): 255–265. DRÜCKE, Florian (ed.) (2012) Musik im digitalen Wandel. Eine Bilanz aus zehn Jahren Brennerstudie, Berlin: Bundesverband Musikindustrie e. V. 32

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EGGEBRECHT, Hans Heinrich (1995) Musik im Abendland: Prozesse und Stationen vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart, München: Piper Taschenbuch. ELVERS, Paul, Diana Omigie, Wolfgang Fuhrmann and Timo Fischinger (2015) “Exploring the Musical Taste of Expert Listeners: Musicology Students Reveal Tendency Toward Omnivorous Taste”, Frontiers in Psychology, 20 August 2015, Every Noise at Once (n.d.) Spotify database. Accessed on 25. February 2020, FUCHS, Christian (ed.) (2020) tripleC: Communication, Capitalism & Critique 18 (Special issue 1: Communicative Socialism / Digital Socialism): 1–285, GRIFFITHS, Paul (1994) Modern Music: A Concise History, London: Thames and Hudson. HEILE, Björn and Charles Wilson (eds.) (2018) The Routledge Research Companion to Modernism in Music, London: Routledge. HOCHKEPPEL, Oliver (2017) “Glasbena kritika 2017. Glasbeno novinarstvo v digitalni dobi” [Musical criticism 2017. Musical journalism in the digital era], Ljubljana: Goethe Institut Slowenien, ILIĆ, Ljubica (2010) Music and the Modern Condition: Investigating the Boundaries, London and New York: Routledge. JOHNSON, Julian (2015) Out of Time: Music and the Making of Modernity, New York: Oxford University Press. KAMPOŠ, Goran (2019) “Jóhann Jóhannsson: Orphée”, Mladina, 11 November 2016, Kino Šiška (n.d.) Centre for Urban Culture, Ljubljana. Accessed on 25 February 2020, KOŠIR, Izak (2019) “Kljub kvotam manj slovenske glasbe. Komercialne radijske postaje ne upoštevajo zakona” [Less Slovenian music, despite the quotas. Commercial radio stations are not in line with the law], Mladina, 14 June 2019, LEBIČ, Lojze (1994) “Glasovi časov” [Voices of the hours], Naši zbori 47 (3–4): 59–65; 45 (5–6): 111–118; 46 (1–2): 1–5. LEBIČ, Lojze (1996) “Glasovi časov” [Voices of the hours], Naši zbori 47 (1–2): 1–6. LEBIČ, Lojze (2010) “Naša glasbena samopodoba. Lojze Lebič na konferenci slovenskih glasbenikov v Slovenj Gradcu” [Our musical self-image. Lojze Lebič at the conference of Slovene musicians in Slovenj Gradec], Družina, 21 Novem33

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ber 2010, AKC Metelkova (n. d.) Avtonomni kulturni center Metelkova mesto [Metelkova City Autonomous Cultural Centre], Ljubljana. Accessed on 25 February 2020, NEUBAUER, John (1986) The Emancipation of Music from Language: Departure from Mimesis in Eighteenth-Century Aesthetics, New Haven: Yale University Press. N’TOKO [Miha Blažič], “Dobre stare in dobre nove muzike” [Good old and good new musics], Nova muska. Revija za glasbe, muzike in godbe, 22 July 2010, O’LOUGHLIN, Niall (2000) Novejša glasba v Sloveniji [Newer music in Slovenia], Ljubljana: Slovenska matica. PAAR, Freya (2019) “What is Post-Classical music?”, Classical Music, 20 February 2019, POMPE, Gregor (2011) Postmodernizem in semantika glasbe [Postmodernism and musical semantics], Ljubljana: Znanstvena založba Filozofske fakultete. POMPE, Gregor (2019) Skice za zgodovino slovenske glasbe 20. stoletja [Sketches for the history of Slovene music in the twentieth century], Ljubljana: Znanstvena založba Filozofske fakultete. Portal Slotop50 (2013–2020) Združenje SAZAS [SAZAS Society], the collective management organisation for the protection and promotion of musical authors’ rights in Slovenia, ROSS, Alex (2008) The Rest is Noise. Listening to the Twentieth Century, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. RYKOWSKI, Mikołaj (2018) “Preface”, in David Hebert and Mikolaj Rykowski (eds.) Music Glocalization: Heritage and Innovation in a Digital Age, Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. SCHOENBERG, Arnold (1975) Style and Idea. Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg by Leonard Stein, London: Faber and Faber. SCHÜTZ, Alfred (1971) Gesammelte Aufsätze, vol. 3 (Studien zur phänomenologischen Philosophie), Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff. SMALL, Christopher (1998)Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening, Hanover: University Press of New England. STEFANIJA, Leon (2001) O glasbeno novem: ob slovenski instrumentalni glasbi zadnje četrtine 20. stoletja [On the new in music: alongside of Slovene instrumental music of the last quarter of the twentieth century], Ljubljana: Študentska založba, zbirka Koda. 34

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STEPHAN, Rudolf (1971) “Die sogenannten Wegbereiter: Überlegungen eines Musikhistorikers zu einigen aktuellen Problemen”, Musica 25 (4): 349–352. SUTHERLAND, Roger (1994) New Perspectives in Music, London: Sun Tavern Fields. ŠKEDELJ Renčelj, Viktor and Alja Pušnik Kramar (eds.) (2013) Listen to Slovenia–A Pocket Music Guide, Ljubljana: Slovenian Music Information Centre (SIGIC). ŠVOB-ÐOKIĆ, Nada, Jaka Primorac, Krešimir Jurlin (2008) Kultura zaborava: industrijalizacija kulturnih djelatnosti [Culture of oblivion: industrialisation of cultural activities], Zagreb: Hrvatsko sociološko društvo, Naklada Jesenski i Turk. TARUSKIN, Richard (2010) Music in the Early Twentieth Century, New York: University Press. TRDAN, Primož (2019) Slovenska elektroakustična glasba in zvočna umetnost [Slovene electro-acoustic music and sound art], unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Ljubljana: Univerza v Ljubljani, Filozofska fakulteta, Oddelek za muzikologijo. “Type of Radio Program Without a Special Status” (2011) Statistical Office of the Republic of Slovenia, Ustava Socialistične federativne republike Jugoslavije. Temeljna načela [The constitution of the Socialist Federative Republic of Yugoslavia. Fundamental principles] (1974) WELSCH, Wolfgang (2008) Unsere postmoderne Moderne, Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Zakon o medijih [Media law] (ZMed) (2001) Služba Vlade RS za zakonodajo, http://pisrs.si/Pis.web/pregledPredpisa?id=ZAKO1608. Zakon o uresničevanju javnega interesa za kulturo [Exercising of the public interest in culture act] (2002) Služba Vlade RS za zakonodajo, Združenje SAZAS [SAZAS Society], the collective management organisation for the protection and promotion of musical authors’ rights in Slovenia (n.d.). Accessed on 25. February, ZLOBEC, Marjan (1994) “Med logiko uma in srca” [Between the logic of the mind and the logic of the heart], Delo, 12 February 1994: 30.

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CHAPTER 3

Reflections on Lithuanian Postsocialist Music in the Framework of the Genotype Institution1 Gražina Daunoravičienė (Vilnius) Analysis of the development of national music in the present study employs an instrument of art product categorisation, based on the genre tradition in art music. This typological perspective will help reveal the effects of both the “postmodern turn” and the national music of the post-Soviet era that emerged when Lithuania, as a state de facto, regained its independence in 1991. One cannot help noticing the fact that the renewal of Lithuanian postsocialist music composition and its dissemination in the first decades of the twenty-first century are related to radical typological innovations of art music that had started in the 1960s. Thus, the focus of the study is an analytical observation of the development of Lithuanian music from the viewpoint of typology over the recent decades. The attempt to contextualise the music created by Lithuanian postsocialist authors in terms of a parameter of “species” is complicated by the general processes in theoretical discourses that highlight the state of the explosive essence of artistic phenomena, with both creative and theoretical narratives in the background. Permanent renewal (the case of genre theory2 is typical of the global processes) in the face of post-historicism3 raises an acute issue 1 Project “The Evolution of Lithuanian Music Culture (1970-2020) in a Typological Approach: from Deformation to New Phenomena”, funded by the Lithuanian Research Council, No. S-LIP-19-71, 2019-04-30. 2 In the studies of the art music genre, the works of Hermann Danuser (1995), Wolfgang Marx (2004), Jim Samson (1989, 2001), Jeffrey Kallberg (1996), etc. are worth noting. In the first decades of the twenty-first century, research in popular music genres has been developing rapidly. See the works of Fabian Holt (2007), Jennifer C. Lena and Richard A. Peterson (2008), Daniel D. Silver et all. (2016), etc. 3 New historicism, sometimes also called post-historicism, emerged as a critical school of the theory of literature, related to works of Stephen Greenblatt (2007: 197). Representatives of the new historicism postulate the historicity of artistic artefacts and the textuality of history and more strongly accept differences between cultures. 37

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as to whether the phenomenon of the typologisation of music (or other arts) is merely a fictitious dragging on a historical trail or a mental construct of creation experiencing a state of change. The typological identity, increasingly rarely demonstrated in creative products, raises, on a new level, the question of whether the phenomenon of the genus (musical genre) that typifies works still exists in the ‘body’ of contemporary art music. Is typologisation, as identity labelling, programming viable generations of the genre and is it resistant to fundamental perturbations of the art of sounds? On transferring the issue of typologisation to the theoretical narrative, I shall use the binary conceptuality of Jacques Derrida`s term “deconstruction” (Derrida 1988: 2–3): the destructive overturning element (“de”) and the creative one (“co”). An analysis of the three-decade-long development of art music in Lithuania in terms of typology points to the necessity to deconstruct the existing theoretical approaches and to sketch new theoretical models. That is appropriate if we believe that the present-day creation preserves the need for specific identity signification, which applies to the solution of the “problem of readability” of art texts (Greimas 1996: 197). On the other hand, we rely on the continuing relevance of Carolyn R. Miller`s definition of the function of “genre as social action” (“genres serve as keys to understanding how to participate in the actions of a community”) (Miller 1984: 165). A revision of concepts is related to the efforts of renewing the habits of theorising and of deconstructing one`s own viewpoint, especially because it is obvious that the types of artistic phenomena do not lose their meaning of “historical footprints”, even in the twenty-first century art scene. Arguments must be proposed by a reconsidered discussion of universals and unique typological states, in other words, a discussion of the idea and rights of the genre which, as early as forty years ago, Jacques Derrida promoted in the title of the article (La loi du genre, 1980: 55–81). As defined by the author of the present article, “[a] music genre is an inherited typological commonality of musical works – the genotype of music, an ontical precondition for music writing” (Daunoravichenė 1990: 11–12). In the further course of the present research, an attempt will be made to reveal the diversity of music genres in the works of postsocialist Lithuanian composers. The search for a new concept of typologies has also been encouraged by the headlines offered by the young generation of Lithuanian composers in the 2010s in order to systematise their own compositions (in the research process, the list of compositions, based on the works of young Lithuanian composers, was compiled by the author of the current study). These include: the art of sound (Klangkunst, term proposed by Helga de la Motte-Haber); electronic music, electroacoustic music, computer music, acousmatic music, multimedia, performance, conceptual music, happenings, video installation, sound installation, sound sculpture, experimental music, interactive sound installation, interdisciplinary music, etc. A critical appraisal of this list should note at least three points: (a) Composers apply concepts of different taxonomic levels, those of “species” or “genres”; 38

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(b) Typological nominations are unrelated to the titles of conventional genres employed before the 1960s; (c) The creative process radiates typological taxons that have never functioned in the history of music. The term taxon as a synonym for a music genre, based on the viewpoint of taxonomy, was proposed by the author of the study (see Daunoravičienė 2019a: 16, 117). The said list correlates with trends predominating in Lithuanian art music at the turn of the twentieth century. Several typical features of artists` endeavours are becoming apparent: composers (artists) are becoming increasingly outstretched and tend to master the means and creative technologies characteristic of different arts. In the creative process, they collaborate with artists from different fields, new opuses are composed by international teams, while the compositions themselves stand out due to visuality and performativity and the synthesis of different interactive technologies (electronics, computers, sensors, mechanical and kinetic devices, etc.). Similar processes take place in composers’ workshops and on the music scenes in many countries. Critical discourse on such creation is impossible without an epistemological approach to the tradition of the artistic artefact typologisation. From the most general viewpoint of art criticism, the author defines the genre of music as the genotype of music (Daunoravichene 1990: 11–12; 1992: 102), the inherited typological (taxonomic) commonality of compositions. The genotype is a mark of identity of products created by individual artistic intelligence which pervades the development of music art through its constant changes. The concept of a music genotype as an agent (system) and the macrosystem interpreted in that way makes it possible to widen the concept of an element into the concept of a system of genres.4 As an example, in this study, the opuses of the Lithuanian postsocialist music genre system will be further analysed in the context of transitional circumstances over the last three decades. The method of analysis is based on the system of four typological statuses, typical of the changes in genotype systems in transitional circumstances, proposed by the author of the article in her PhD dissertation (ibid: 13, 16–19): (1) the mono-genre of the old tradition, (2) the poly-genre, (3) the free genre (libro-genre), and (4) the mono-genre of the new tradition. In accordance with the proposed system (ibid: 9, 13), the mono-genre is a convention of the type of composition (its genotype) covering the totality of its artistic (aesthetics, content, and structure), communicative, and socio-cultural determinants. The poly-genre is defined by the author of the system as musical genotypes of mixed origin, characterised by a high level of genre dialogue. The free genre (libro-genre) is not related to the mono- or poly-genre convention. The old-tradition and the new-tradition genre systems are separated merely by 4 The deepest inter-systemic “caesura” was marked by the conditional boundary of the year 1600, recognised by a number of researchers, while minor changes in the system of genres took place in 1430, 1740/1750, and 1815 (Dahlhaus 1974: 624–625; Mehner 1979: 272). 39

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the symbolic landmark of the 1960s, a time of transition from modernism to postmodernism. The preconditions for the emergence of a new genre system were fundamental changes in the music philosophy, material, sound technology, and communication methods. They were reflected in the mono-genres of the new generation (a new tradition): instrumental theatre, installation, action, happening, performance, multimedia, musical sculpture, etc. The ongoing change in the art music genres has been evidenced not only by the changes in the systemic totality of sound art, but also by the fact that the genotypes of the new tradition were not found in the old-tradition genre system before the postmodern turning point (ibid: 13–20). Further, the analysis of the cases of the four music genotypes will be presented, based on examples of the works of postsocialist Lithuanian composers.

Cases of Mono-Genres of the Old Tradition (Opera) in Lithuanian Postsocialist Music A typological look at the last thirty years of Lithuanian music development reveals a structured view of the efforts of composers’ creativity and cultural processes. The creative harvest of the last decade of the twentieth century could be defined as an attempt to break free from the ideologically constructed and vigilantly supervised reality of Soviet art. At the same time, it was an attempt to heal the “scars” of the interrupted Lithuanian cultural history.5 Matthieu Guillot finds quite a few Lithuanian compositions of the Soviet era “labelled by a mark of interruption, after which they try, and quite hard, to continue the process of history. However, with their hesitant movement, they can only state their ‘backwardness’” (Guillot n. d.). The last decade of the twentieth century was truly an attempt to harmonise the processes of late socialism and Western art music, the two cultures failing to meet and to look for new forms of dissemination. Intense political changes shook up the natural development of creative work that had stagnated because of different prohibitions during the Soviet era, with the early twenty-first century being a turning point. The Lithuanian postsocialist music scene of the 2010s became a decisive breakthrough in dealing with the characteristic of the “backward culture”: the field of search for creative solutions expanded significantly, the Western theoretical discourse was intensively explored, and Western cultural promotion and dissemination models were introduced. They were stimulated by significant public optimism, euphoria about the EU enlargement to the East (Lithuania became a member state of the EU), the country’s accession to NATO, and social and economic growth forecasts for the twenty-first century. The renewal of the Lithuanian art scene in the second decade was initiated by the generation of young Lithuani5 This refers to the interruption by the Russian and German occupations (1940) of the expected, spontaneous development of Lithuanian music in the direction of modernisation when different stylistic trends (expressionist, micro-intervallic, etc.) were differentiated. 40

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an composers. A number of its representatives had studied or completed internships at foreign universities or music centres. The radical renewal of their creative work was, by many parameters, demonstrated by the typological characteristics of their compositions; intense genotype transformation and change processes began. I shall discuss the Lithuanian renewal process of postsocialist music that started in 1990 from the perspective of the ontic statuses of the genotypes typical of the time of transition. Experiments based on the convention of mono-genres of the old tradition in Lithuania revealed no lesser potential for creative work than the other above mentioned statuses of genotypes (poly-genres, free genres, and the new tradition mono-genres). Were we to try to evaluate the transformation spectrum of the traditional genre of opera over the three last decades, we would discover a wide range of diversity. The conventional genre is represented by Bronius Kutavičius’ diptych Ignis et Fides [Fire and Faith] (2001–2003), whose mass scenes and auto-da-fé interpret the French “grand opera” canon. The subtitle of the libretto of Onutė Narbutaitė’s opera Cornet (2012) – “Improvisation after A Tale of the Love and Death of Cornet Christopher Rilke by Rainer Maria Rilke” – decodes the direction of the opera canon modification. Rilke’s saga, as a “magnet” of the libretto storyline, attracted fragments of different verbal and musical texts. Forty Lithuanian operas composed over the course of three decades prepared the young generation of composers for the revision of the opera canon6 in the 2010s. The general trend in the new Lithuanian opera is a critical reinterpretation of the contemporary postopera (a concept introduced by Jelena Novak /2015: 6/). It is no coincidence that neologisms, typologically nominated by the composers themselves, have been created: Rita Mačiliūnaitė’s dance opera NO AI DI (2010) and duo opera Dviskaitė [The Duality] (2008), Rūta Vitkauskaitė, Jens Hedman, and Åsa Nordgren’s “spatial opera in the dark” Confessions (2015), Jonas Sakalauskas’ mini etude opera The Crane and the Stork (2008), mono-performance-operas Izadora (2008) and Džokeris [The Joker] (2010), and haiku opera Sniegas [Snow] (2011) as well as Vitkauskaitė’s animated opera Kliudžiau [I Hit the Mark] (2010) should be noted. Experiments in Lithuanian operas have absorbed a great deal of intellectual impulses from the contemporary philosophy of performativity of the postdramatic theatre, solutions of theatricalised music, unique site-specific searches, and impulses for the integration of new sound technologies. All that will be discussed, based on case studies. A conceptual revision of the opera canon was provoked by Rita Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-opera Dress Code (2012). Its multidimensional reduction of the verbal and musical texts in terms of duration surpassed the well-known precedents of miniature operas, such as Darius Milhaud’s La Délivrance de Thésée (the 1928 recording lasted just over 7 minutes) and Peter Reynold’s opera Sands of Time, 6 Opera reforms in Lithuania were stimulated by the NOA (New Opera Campaign) Festivals that have been organised by the independent creative group Operomanija since 2008/2009. 41

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included in the Guinness Book of World Records (3´ 34˝).7 The sixty-one-bar Dress Code by Mačiliūnaitė, lasting 2´ 40˝, has to be categorised as a typical nanotechnology-era opera mutation. The opera’s identity in the opus is witnessed by indubitable evidence: the libretto by Mačiliūnaitė and director Justas Tertelis (see below), the storyline predetermining the musical dramaturgy, and four characters (tenor, baritone, clarinet, and a tape). The action, underpinned by scenography and minimal scenery, takes place on stage; the characters wear costumes. That is not all: an opera score has been created, we hear calls as an invitation to the auditorium, and traditional monologues, duets, and ensembles are performed. Depending on the associativity of the audience, one can imagine the situations of the functions of the “actors” and the “orchestra pit” modelled by all four parts. While many of those components are reduced, exhibited in allusions or hints, the main organising function in the nano-opera is music, thereby preserving the autonomy of the art of sounds and the predominating function. The author described the trend of her nano-opera as a theatre of postdramatic musical narration (Mačiliūnaitė-Dočkuvienė 2017: 5). Undoubtedly, Novak’s term of postopera (“postopera is opera which is postdramatic and postmodern at the same time” /2015: 6/)8 also applies, as it defines opuses that transcend the conventions of the traditional opera. The intrigue of the nano-storyline of the Dress Code arises as the creators explore the emotional atmosphere of the male audience’s putting on ties. A wide range of questions are being considered: “Why do men need a tie when they go to the opera? Does the theatre create the dress code or do we do that, and does the theatre create us, too?” (from the playbill of the Dress Code). The audience actions are also theatricalised through asking them to decode the name Dress Code and dress themselves properly. The duration of the Dress Code performance (2´ 40˝) is extended with pre-opera rituals, and dressed-up audiences are escorted to the hall with a fanfare. In the audience consciousness, the seconds of the opera charged with micro-events stretch into a time period that is difficult to identify. The theatrical process is formed by a net of multiple musical, verbal, emotional, syntactic, and rhetorical theatrical events. The general trend of the postdramatic theatre – the abandonment of the libretto-connected verbal text and certain substitutes for it – also pervades the body of the Dress Code. Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-postopera libretto goes beyond the concept of the traditional libretto, while singing and acting ignore the intention of the libretto text illustration (as emphasised by Novak, postopera is “opera after drama” or “opera beyond drama” /2015: 6/). The Dress Code action is developed based on a set of onomatopoeic words of 7 The duration of the premiere of Peter Reynolds’ opera Sands of Time on 27 March 1933 was 4´ 9˝. A subsequent performance on BBC was even shorter: 3´ 34˝. The time taken by the opera (consisting of overture, chorus, aria, recitative, and finale) equals that of an egg boiling. 8 The term of postopera reflects the concept of postdramatic theatre, developed by HansThies Lehmann (Novak 2015: 8), characterised by genre interaction and means of expression of different kinds of art (Lehmann 2010: 131–161). 42

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the libretto (no conventional verbal text is used!). Vowels (o, a, and their combinations) presuppose the emergence of structures at the syntactic level, however, the rudiments of morphemes (Greek ‘form’) (ae, ao) do not develop into the level of lexemes. Thus, the functions of the verbal libretto are taken over by performative elements – the characters’ responses, the rhetorical semantics of the punctuation marks, and other elements. The perception of the musical process is determined by the intonational and processual commonality of language and music. That is reflected in the nano-libretto itself: Don Vitto: (quietly) Ooooo, o-oooo. (concentrated) o-ooooo, o-o. (richly) o-ooo, o-oo, o-ooo... Don Rafaeli: (capriciously) Aaaa! Aaaa! (angrily) a aaa, a, aaa, a, aaa! Don Vitto: (ostentatiously) Ooooo, o-ooooo, o-ooooo, o-o. Don Rafaeli: (lyrically) Aaaa, aaaa. Aa. Don Vitto: (surprised) Ooooo, o-ooooo? Don Rafaeli: (capriciously) A(e), a(o) (inhale, exhale, inhale) Don Vitto: (belligerently) A(e), a(o) (inhale, exhale, inhale, inhale, exhale) Don Rafaelo, Don Vitto (together): A, o, aaa, ooo! Oo? (inhale, exhale, inhale) A! Oo? (inhale, exhale, inhale) Ooo! Oo? (inhale, exhale, inhale) A, ooo? (A pause) Don Rafaeli, Don Vitto (together): (desperately together) Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Don Rafaeli, Don Vitto (together): (dramatically together) (exhale) THE END

We are confronted with a phenomenom that goes beyond the examples of traditional operas; therefore it is not easy to apply previous analytical practices and theories to the discourse of the nano-opera. A study of the musical evolution and interrelationships of the Dress Code characters reveals the composer’s and director’s elaborate consideration of the multi-dimensional and multi-aspectual management of musical and theatrical elements (see Figure 3.1).

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Evolution of dramaturgical states of the four characters: quietly, concentrated, richly, lyrically, capriciously, angrily, ostentatiously, suprised, belligerently, overacting, gaspung for air, audible exhaling, desperately, dramatically Intonation of the punctuation marks in the verbal text of the libertto (exclamation mark, question mark, comma, dots).

Responses: clicking one’s tongue, moaning, sighing, yawning, etc.

Chords of fifths (triads) in major (the “three calls” association) frame a two-phase crescendo form A- A’ + Coda. Rhetoric of onomatopoeic words a, a, o, a(e), a(o), Aaaaa..., Ooooo....

Dynamics of change in the musical material and dramaturgical functions: distant tones and figures, rich drawling sounds, quasi-minimalist loops of the clarinet, octave “zigzags” of the clarinet, high drawling sounds.

Figure 3.1 Six-dimensional management of the layers of structural elements in Rita Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-opera Dress Code

To understand how the components work synchronously within the chronological segment of 2´ 40˝ requires the imagination of the perceiver. The “three calls” divide the dramaturgical spatial time of the nano-opera into two phases, which the composer controls on a consistent curve of growing tension. The composer provides the phonogram-character with a threefold function; that is an “observing” and controlling female character: in the score, the function is conveyed through her typical responses (yawning, encouragement, laughter, moan; interjections “nu”, “cha”, “ojojoj”, “pff ”, “oh”, “aha”, “ai”, “oh”, and others). The phonogram also realises the pulse of the rhythmic organisation; the third function is the manifestation of the “opera calls”. The playing of the clarinet-character is regulated by different instructions (to click the tongue, to blow into the E♭ hole, to play a figure in a ricochet, etc.), the evolution developing in a rising curve. As the clarinettist goes on, and the sounds and short melodic phrases evolve into a technically sophisticated individual part, the clarinet surpasses the “live” actors Don Rafaeli and Don Vitto by its emancipation. The “live” characters routinely present themselves through singing one after the other at the beginning of the opera. The evolution of the four characters is conveyed through two framing duos. The first is a duo of the phonogram and beginner musical phrases of the clarinet. The second duo is performed in the midst of a narcissistic struggle between Don Rafaeli (tenor) and Don Vitto (baritone). They both boast their ties and try to impress with their sweet vocals. The vocal material of the “live” 44

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soloists is based on continuous, lazy drawling sounds that contrast with the increasingly virtuoso clarinet part. After the second call, the soloists pull the ties out of their pockets, put them on their necks, but do not tie them. The climax brings together all the “desperate” monologues (ff) of the three “live” performers. In a nervous rush, they try to tie all the put-on ties (see Figure 3.2). The arrows introduced in the score for the soloists represent physiological actions accompanying the tension: ↑ – audible inhaling (simulating lack of air); ↓ – audible exhaling.

Figure 3.2 A fragment of Rita Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-opera Dress Code (2012), bars 44–52

The finale-coda of the nano-opera is organised by the third call, the soloists calm down, and the clarinettist puts down his instrument, stands up, ties his tie in 10˝ and bows to the audience. Only a female high-heeled shoe – a metaphor for an observing woman whose trace opens and closes the nano-opera – remains on the stage. The interpretation of the nano-opera, permeated with creative and technological sophistication, has been entrusted to the test of our creativity. I shall emphasise another link between Mačiliūnaitė’s nano-opera and research in contemporary nanotechnology (a branch of applied science and technology). Working with nanoparticles9 experimentally confirmed scientists’ insight that a nanoparticle detached from standard material carries 9 Measured in nanometres (one billionth part of a meter). Nanotechnologies cover materials and objects up to approximately 100 nm. 45

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completely different properties, often far superior, electrically and chemically more conductive, and more active than the larger objects from which they are derived. This is supported by the insights from the analysis. They were provoked by the contrast between the eighteenth-century opera, which evolved in the worldview of the “steam machine” invention space (1769), and the twenty-first-century nano-opera as a cultural product formed by the era of nanotechnology. Multiple compositional programming of the opera nano-elements extends the depth of the artistic conceptualisation of the elements untypical of the traditional opera.

A Poly-Genre Case in Lithuanian Postsocialist Music A hybrid “mixed genre”, “genre in-between” (Fabian Holt’s term /2007: 180/), featuring mechanisms of interaction between the attributes of various genres, is the most universal and general trend of the late phase of the music genre development, its cause and effect, although the structural integrity of the genres of opuses is rarely noted in their titles. An example of an interplay between genotypes, a poly-genre, is represented by Algirdas Martinaitis Spleen Symphony for violin, piano, and orchestra (2019). It is symptomatic that composers themselves are reluctant to postulate the fact of genre interaction when advertising the genetic identity of opuses. Martinaitis also never publicises his creative method and ironically comments on those who compose their works by rationally “arranging 10-finger combinations”. The “name and patronym” of the symphony was described by the composer through pointing to Charles Baudelaire’s The Spleen of Paris (1869), poetic prose that is musical, plastic, and rough, coinciding with the soul’s pursuits, dreams, and grief. The naturalistic version of the word ‘spleen’ (1. an abdominal organ; 2. despair), as spelled out by Martinaitis,10 as an overly straightforward declaration is deceitful in its own way. Martinaitis is characterised by a specific interpretation of a word or an idea, the “scanning” of their internal tension, and the ability to construct them in sounds in a non-illustrative way. Martinaitis is close to Baudelaire in the duality of mindset – irony and holiness, and stinging imagination. Both are full of “explosive” mixtures of bitter scepticism and enlightenment. The artistic bodies created by them absorb both the intense inner movement and the spontaneous unexpectedness of the form. As Baudelaire, the “knight of sorrow”, put it, just like in Paris, where every “horror blooms as a fresh flower”, so the essence of man is twofold: at each moment, two aspirations compete in it, one for God and the other for Satan. 10 The literal meaning of spleen is an abdominal organ acting as a blood filter, and another meaning is despair. Martinaitis remembers his childhood: “[W]e used to disembowel a slaughtered pig, and parents would remove the spleen among other abdominal organs and [...] from it predict the future, the weather, diseases, etc. [...] On opening my composition, we shall find no signs for the future – just the hurrying, frightful and simultaneously playful, histrionic and hopeful spleen” (Martinaitis 2019: 56). 46

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The Spleen Symphony by Martinaitis, which branched out of Baudelaire’s petites poèmes en prose, spanned the intersection of two genres – a concerto and a symphony. A dual structural construction and the principle of poly-genre in general are typical of Martinaitis’ works. The sound of the Spleen is created as a multi-layered performance of the solo violin and the piano, orchestral instrument groups, paired duets, and the orchestra as a whole. The code for solving the mix of the symphony-concerto is also hidden in the publicly unannounced aim of Martinaitis to pay tribute to his composition professor Eduardas Balsys (1919–2019)11 on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of his birth. The key idea of the mixed genotype of Spleen Symphony also lies in Martinaitis’ determination to reinterpret the precedent of Balsys’ dual concerto-symphony Dramatic Frescoes (1965), in a new context. Similarly to historical prototypes, the soloists in the Spleen are differentiated, fragmented, and hierarchical phenomena. The group of soloists (concertino) is dominated by a super soloist – the violin, the dialogue is supported by a “hammer-type” piano of different temperament, however, in the symphony orchestra (ripieno), viola duets or a group of wind instruments are also active, ironically commenting on the soloist monologues. The Spleen boasts a mark of Martinaitis’ individuality, i.e. personification of the solo parts. Various solli – orchestral relationships (the piano accompanies the violin, their duet is accompanied by the bassoon, two violas, and other paired instruments, etc.) combine to create a live discourse of the “character” and timbre relations. As Martinaitis admits, “I always think in images”: all instrumental characters have their own lines, knocking about in despair as personalities. (Daunoravičienė 2019b). The Spleen solo paradigm is represented by the violin, a sensitively narrating and reflecting “character”. However, the postmodern subconsciousness of the opus both tries to shake off the romantic image of the hero and ignores its longer narratives, replacing “big stories” with reduced associative remarks. It is no coincidence that the violin part was “chopped as if coming from a post-traumatic theatre” (ibid.); he described his creative method as a permanent “chopping off ” the continuous line from all sides. The relationship between the components of the mixed genre – the symphony or the concerto – is harmonised by the composer’s understanding of different genotypes: “Symphony is what realises the meaning of the instruments and the orchestra; concerto is the performance of soloists, active dialogues, and ironic remarks of other instruments’ (ibid.). When trying to discover the relationship between those genotypes, it should be noted that, in terms of the relationships between soloists and orchestral instruments, more of the concerto character is found in the first part of the Spleen. It is stimulated by the antipodal characters of the soloists, the violin and the piano. The piano, as an equal partner of the violin, is a very individual character, radiat11 Talented Soviet-era composer Eduardas Balsys wrote music in different genres. One of his most significant large form musical compositions was the opera Kelionė į Tilžę [The Journey to Tilsit] (1980), in which Balsys creatively re-interpreted the principles of Berg’s dodecaphonic system. As a professor, Balsys educated a large number of disciples in his composition class. 47

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ing the suggestiveness of “contemplating chords” and the rhythmic energy. In the course of the Spleen, in merely three episodes are the two main characters (solli) are performing together. The first part of the symphony-concerto also displays the ironic paradigm of the orchestra, with obvious sneers emanating from the wind group (with bassoons as leaders). The second part of the Spleen provides the super soloist (violin) with more personality. In the absence of new material, the “remnants” of the thematicism of the first-part parts are exploited. In that part, sharp dialogues between the soloists are permeated with uninhibited irony – even at the climax. Martinaitis’ musical irony is also authorial, learnt not merely from Baudelaire’s petites poèmes en prose. He learned no less during his thirty-year cooperation with theatre director Eimuntas Nekrošius, especially during the production of his last performances in Warsaw.12 Just like in the Spleen, the world of Nekrošius’ theatre “covers” the whole text of the drama with irony, which is not open but complex and multi-layered. Martinaitis explains the enigma of composing the Spleen as follows: his “music was also ‘fool-born’ following ‘smart idiocy’” (Martinaitis 2019: 57). Perhaps this is why many episodes of the Spleen sound like introductions, or retransitions, or the tension of expectation that is sometimes “resolved” into the chord of the whole orchestra. In the Spleen dramaturgy, Martinaitis introduced another organising principle, i.e. the constructive rhetoric of the directions of movements of soloists and orchestra parts. He has no doubt that the language of the directions of movement is comprehensible to all, as is the reading of Joyce’s texts composed of anything at all; however, they become perceived at a higher level. In fact, all the theatrical construction of the symphony, as well as the soloist and orchestral material, is organised in up-and-down trajectories. The passages of the violin, the piano, and the string and woodwind groups in the first part of the Spleen are developing in an upward direction. In the descent of the second part, the garlands of the up-and-down of the material are criss-crossed in the centre of the violin solo. At the end of the Spleen, the sound becomes exhausted, the art’s cleansing of itself is consecrated, and silence speaks up through its pure suggestion. The intersections of movement in the Spleen are also complemented by other directing binaries: the orchestra “pits” and the drifted “mounds”. As a rule, the climaxes of the orchestra and the climbs to forte emerge after the lyrical “pits” of the orchestra (when it plays quieter and slower). The third directing plane is created through contrasts of the instrument textures, and the sound “flounces” between the rich symphonic tutti and the graphic solli. Any teleological directionality is avoided between sharp and angular “dots” or lines heard by the audience. Martinaitis’ composing philosophy tore from the theatre not only the positivity of irony, but also the provisions of the postdramatic theatre – an anti-narrative attitude, fragmentation, the principle of collage, and theatrical gestures. The counterpoint tangle of the myriad of contrasts and crossing links between the 12 In the National Theatre in Warsaw, Nekrošius staged Dziady [All Souls’ Day] by Adam Mickiewicz and Ślub [ The Marriage] by Witold Gombrowicz in 2018. 48

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instruments, solos and accompaniment, ensembles, and of hope and irony is the true sounding identity of the Spleen’s subconsciousness. Let us also discuss the issue of the minimal thematicism of the Spleen. The opus is filled with phrases of several tones. The harmonic code of the material, the DNA of the symphony-concert, is formed by a group of tetrachord tones of the Lydian fourth (PC Set 4–21 [0, 2, 4, 6], Figure 3.3. The orchestra does not develop any longer phases, and any kind of demonstrating affinity is avoided. The post-dramatic principle functioned and acted as a stimulus not to provide meaning and to chop off “live” lines, such as, e.g., piano passages. According to Martinaitis, the bleeding wounds were to “wean listeners from getting into the spirit of the ‘seedlings of romanticism’”. Thus, the Spleen material was made from randomly selected pieces, unrelated to the composition.

Figure 3.3 Algirdas Martinaitis, Spleen Symphony (2019), beginning of Part 2, structure PC set 4–21

And finally, let us talk about the theatrical gestures in the Spleen and Martinaitis’ artistic faith, declared more than once. The musical direction of the composition obviously absorbed the theatrical or cinematographic principles – from shot to shot – without any generative connection to each other. The theatrical construction of the symphony-concerto is organised as if from visual gestures: movements, textures, dynamics, and the counterpoint of the material texture density. The theatrical events recorded in the score concentrate at the end of the parts. Thus, Part 1 ends with a drowning sound, the performers “fall asleep” on the stage, and the score even records their “snoring”. Meanwhile, the conductor and the pianist cross their movements: the conductor theatrically slowly lets his arms drop. On the contrary, the pianist “asleep” on the keyboard raises his hands after the remark “everyone falls asleep” (Figure 3.4).

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Figure 3.4 Algirdas Martinaitis, Spleen Symphony (2019), end of Part 1, bars 267–278

The meaningful visual caesura between the parts of the symphony is like spiritual cleansing, a metaphor for music born of silence. Everyone is awakened by the sound of the leit-harmony and the chaotic piano chords (see Figure 3.3). The fortissimo height at the end of the Spleen theatre is more imaginary than auditive (Figure 3.4), featuring a noticeable conceptual link with Schnebel’s Visuelle Musik. The opus is completed with the energetic movements of the conductor and the “playing” of the orchestra by means of movements without any sound (“the conductor shows the “climax”). The performers’ raised hands in the finale and the shot apparently aim to awaken the audience from stagnation and from indifference to culture.

A Free Genre Case in Lithuanian Postsocialist Music The status of the free genre in her PhD thesis and in subsequent publications was legitimised by the author of the current study (see Daunoravičienė 1990: 13; 1992: 102). The term “libro-genre”, proposed by her, etymologically combines the two most important meanings of the word: the “free genre” (Latin libertās ‘freedom’) and the genre “in question” (Latin libro ‘to consider, to evaluate’). The free genre refers to what Dahlhaus noted in his late works, rejecting the statement on the decay (der Zerfall) of the music genre: it is the individualisation, emancipation of musical works, moving away from the norms of the genre (“die Individualisierung des musikalischen Werkes als Emanzipation von Gattungsnormen” /Dalhaus 1997: 100/). In the case of the free genre (the libro-genre), the composer, for his part, manifests the principled nonrelatedness of the composition to the convention and nominations of the genre. However, the paradoxical situation in its own way confirms the conception of genre norms and boundaries that still exists in the cultural consciousness. 50

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In Lithuanian music, like in many other countries, composing in free genres is becoming predominant. The process was initiated by a number of components of the postmodern turning point: the thriving transtextual (Gérard Genette’s concept) creation, a crisis of compositional material – the correlation of the form of an opus and the genotype, new developments in sound philosophy and sound extraction technologies such as minimalism, spectralism, postspectralism, etc. Free genres are acceptable not only to the creators of transtextual music but also to those professing various creative aesthetics. It is particularly suited to authors who abandon any links with any typified canon of traditional composition and to experimenters with new composing technologies. In Lithuania, the trend of libro-genres has accelerated since the end of the 1970s and branched into several specific varieties: (a) Opera with poetic “neo-programme”13 headlines (Vidmantas Bartulis’ Palydžiu išvykstantį draugą [I Am Seeing My Friend Off], 1981; Auksinių debesų lietus [Rain from Golden Clouds] for accordion, 2008; Onutė Narbutaitė’s Rudens riturnelė [Autumn Ritornello. Hommage à Fryderyk] for violin, viola, cello, and piano 1999; Mozartsommer 1991 for flute, violin, viola, and harpsichord 1991; and Justė Janulytė’s Debesų stebėjimas [Cloud Watching] for voice, strings, and winds, 2012). (b) The trend publicising technological keywords (Narbutaitė’s Metabolė for 2 oboes, harpsichord, and strings, 1992; Hoquetus for viola, cello, and double bass 1993; Rytis Mažulis’ Canon Mensurabilis for ensemble 2000; Quarter– Tone Canon for two pianos, 2010; Ex Una Voce Tres for two flutes and clarinet, with a technique of the renaissance canons, 2019), etc. (c) The group nominating cultural resonances (Mindaugas Urbaitis Bachvariationen II for six cellos 2000; Algirdas Martinaitis’ Muzikinė auka [Musical Sacrifices] for oboe, harp, and viola 1984; Lithuanian folk lyrics, Unfinished Symphony, 1995; Narbutaitė’s Mozartsommer 1991 for flute, violin, viola, and harpsichord 1991; Winterserenade for flute, violin, and viola 1997; Mažulis’ Čiauškanti mašina [Twittering Machine], 1986, etc.). (d) The discourse of creative resonances: Narbutaitė’s Was There a Butterfly? for string orchestra (2018), and Janulytės’ Ar tai buvo gulbė? [Was There a Swan?] for organ and orchestra (2019). The two compositions are connected by creative collaboration: the question-invitation, a challenge posed in the title of Narbutaitė’s composition (2018) is answered by Janulytė’s work (2019). (e) The tangle of sensory codes (Remigijus Merkelis’ Quintet MiKonst14 for piano, two violins, viola, and cello, 2000; Mažulis’ Clavier of Pure Reason15, 13 The term “neo-programme music” was used in Soviet musicology to emphasise the change in the post-modern programme music of the second half of the twentieth century as compared to the paradigm of programme music of previous centuries. The changes were particularly evident in the works of composers who applied the principles of intertextual creation. 14 MiKonst was made up from the word combination Mikalojus Konstantinas (Čiurlionis). 15 Clavier of Pure Reason synthesises the titles of Critique of Pure Reason by Kant and The Well-Tempered Clavier by J. S. Bach. 51

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1994; Vytautas V. Jurgutis’ Quantonom16, an audiovisual mechatronic project, 2019, etc.). (f) Authorial free genres, e.g. a series I Like Opera established by Vidmantas Bartulis, who re-composed the works of other composers in an intertextual manner.17 The list of Richard Kabelis’ compositions does not include any of the traditional genotype opuses.18 It is only natural, because his philosophy of composition is based on the preference for a rational structure, structural purism, and an anti-narrative provision for opuses. Kabelis’ Cell for violin, cello, and piano (1992) absorbs the technological keyword of the free genre (see group b). Linas Paulauskis attributed that opus to the composer’s series of “illusions of sounding/non-sounding music” or “strange, paranormal, or simply indescribable music” (Paulauskis 2008). The title Cell, one should say, comments on the very concept of Kabelis’ composing process: “Suddenly I see some small cell that is just perfect, then I have to look for a way to derive the whole composition out of that cell and grow it into a whole form” (Paulauskis 2008). The composer described his composing method as the principle of universals which can be expressed in numerical formulas or embodied in sounds. The analysis of the Cell helps to trace how the composer “evolves” a large composition from a cell. Quite a few compositional organisation segments (syntax, textural characteristics, schemes of the dramaturgy of development, etc.) are ignored, however, the monotonically “hammering” monorhythm gives priority to the harmonic vertical. The insights of the analysis state that all the harmonic elements of the Cell are only major or minor chords and their inversions – PC set 3–11 [0, 4, 7] equivalent structures. Thus, Kabelis’ so-called “perfect cell” means major and minor triads crystallised from the spectra of overtones and undertones, mathematically calculated by Nicomachus of Gerasa in the treatise Manuale Harmonicum (Manual of Harmonics) in the second century AD.19 Kabelis pondered the concept of a cell organically, eliciting its properties for existence, development, and reproduction. As we shall see, in that way were conceptualised the prerequisites for the creation of the compositional text of the Cell and initiated the formation of structures of varying degrees of largeness.20 In this composition the Triad, Set 3–11, which is based on non-functional logic, functions in all 24 variants (from all the 12 pitches). The numeric code 16 The title is the synthesis of three concepts: quantum + tone + om. 17 Over the years 1993 to 2017, Bartulis wrote fourteen compositions of the “I like ‘genre’”. The cycle includes the works of Vidmantas Bartulis, composed in an intertextual manner, which recompose the musical works forming the canon of Western music, such as, e.g., Bartulis’ I like J. S. Bach (Prelude in C Major), 1995, I like F. Chopin (Sonata in B Minor), 2000), I like G. Puccini (Tosca), 2004, and others. 18 The only composition of Kabelis associated with traditional genotypes is Invariations for string quartet (1983), one of the examples of his “unheard”, “extinct” music. 19 The proportions of the intervals of major and minor chords were discussed by Gioseffo Zarlino in his treatise Le Institutioni Harmoniche (1558). The chord inversion theory was conceptualised by Jean-Philippe Rameau in Traité de l’harmonie (1722). 20 From the author’s conversation with the composer Kabelis, held in Vilnius on 22 June 2019. 52

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6–12–24 of the structural multiplication of the triad works universally as an algorithm for harmonic structure transformations, creating LRP loops (to be discussed later) as well as designing the architectonics of the formal plan. Correspondingly, the Cell forms 14 sections of 24 bars in each (336 bars in total), and the internal structure of the sections is characterised by multiple dualities (12 bars each, 6 triads in each bar) so that the opus is composed of 2,016 triads. The constructive formalist conception of the Cell obeys the generative organisation of the harmonic structures (cells) and moves away from the recognisable criteria that determine genotypes in music. Thus, the free genre is not bound by any cultural typological or social project tradition. The formalist analysis of the triad disposition reveals a certain compositional trend: in the first digit there are 13 triads, in the third digit all the major and minor triads from all the 12 chromatic tones sound, while in other digits various Set 3–11 variants of interrelations occur. The most consistent (parsimonious)21 voice leading predominates in the first sections of the opus, later the triad combining becomes freer, and no common tones are preserved (see Figure 3.5).

Figure 3.5 Ričardas Kabelis, Cell for piano, violin, and viola (1992), a fragment of the score (bars 1–21)

The analysis reveals that when triads are joined (transformed) they are constantly rearranged. Kabelis admitted that, when writing the score, he sought the widest variety of instrumental voice leading, continuous timbre intermingling, and a “live” process of “cell proliferation”.22 However, the exploratory approach discloses a deeper principle of control of the Cell harmony process, 21 Richard Cohn’s term “voice-leading parsimony” summarised “the ability of a consonant triad to generate more members of its kind (triads) based on a single tone movement in the smallest step maintaining two common tones” (Cook 2005: 109). 22 From the author’s conversation with Ričardas Kabelis in Vilnius on 17 October 2019. 53

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which opens up when counterpointing voices are arranged as a harmonic matrix, leaving the common tones in the same voice (applying the principle of parsimonious voice leading): 1 2 b c g# g e e

3 c a e

4 5 6 b c# c# g g g# e e e

| | | |

2 c g e

4 6 5 3 1 b c# c# c b g g# a a g# e e e e e

| | | |

2 c g e

3 b g e

4 c a e

5 6 1 c# c# b a g# g e e e

Figure 3.6 Ričardas Kabelis, Cell (1992); a scheme of change in PC Set 3–11 in bars 1–3, from the viewpoint of parsimonious voice leading

The established features of harmonic change call for an adequate theoretical approach in the analysis of the Cell’s harmonic process, i.e. Neo-Riemannian theory, or NRT for short.23 It was that mathematised triad transformation theory that conceptualised the processual logic of the consonant harmony, which returned to compositions at the turn of the twenty-first century. It is very important to emphasise the significant fact that the date of the Cell completion in 1992 and the time of the first NRT publications (Cohn 1997) do not coincide! The Neo-Riemannian Theory (NRT) was formed several years after the completion of Kabelis’ Cell. In other words, creative practice discovered transformative triad relationships before the order of the new consonance theory was conceptualised. The NRT theory provided for the possibility of transforming triads into other triads through parsimonious voice leading. Viewed in that way, the concept of the cell in Kabelis’ Cell relied on the so-called P, L, and R operations and the ability to generate sequences and cycles of alternating triads. The NRT analytical technique also revealed the harmonic organisation of a higher hierarchy in the Cell. It can be traced through the division of the score into conditional “bars” which can be interpreted as “cells” of a higher hierarchy – a group of 6 triads in E major – E minor – C major – C sharp minor – A major – A minor. The interpretation of that group from the viewpoint of the NRT theory reveals a tone running through all harmonies, i.e. the tone E (see Figures 3.5 and 3.6). To apply the NRT transformation terms, the C major triad transformation to a minor is a Relative operation (R), the minor transformation to A major and E major to E minor apply a Parallel operation (P), while A major to C sharp minor, Leittonwechsel (leading tone change) (L); C flat minor to E major is a Relative transformation. The above discussed higher order “cell” (a complex of 6 triads) of the Cell is called the LRP loop of a trinomial generator and was described in Cohn’s first publications on the NRT theory (ibid: 44). Cohn established the 23 Neo-Riemannian Theory (NRT) was based on Hugo Riemann’s theory, proposed in 1880, of triad transformations to one another. Of the two consonance (Klang) transformations proposed by Riemann, step (Schritt) and change (Wechsel), the Wechsel variant is most important for the NRT theory, making it possible to transform major or minor triads into consonances of the opposing mode by means of the closest voice leading. By following the totality of the P, L, and R operations, the triad can be transformed into another triad, and different sequences and cycles of triads can be generated. 54

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basic feature of the LRP loop, i.e. that “the 6 triads share one pitch class (tone) at the centre of the Tonnetz illustration” (here it is tone E). The twice-applied LRP generator returns to the first triad, thus closing the LRP loop cycle. The NRT analysis also provides an insight into structural cells of a higher hierarchical level in the Cell. The formal development of the opus can be described as the process of gradual introduction of all 24 triads, yet the fractally superior organisation of the “cells” is represented by the change in axial LRP loop tones or the Tonnetz centres, which also reveals the principle of the LRP loop transformation.24 The mathematical origins of the Set theory and the NRT theory and their inherent analytical techniques confirmed the general insight: the Set 3–11 (triads) transformation principle in Kabelis’ Cell initiates sequences of triads of several hierarchical levels, to be discussed further. As seen in Figure 3.5, Kabelis’ Cell is initiated by the LRP loop (Tonnetz) triad around the tone E axis. Further LRP triad loops accumulate around the Tonnetz centre, i.e. tone F, and the new LRP loops, around the tone E♭. The remaining triads are brought together by the new Tonnetz centres – tones D and F♯. That exhausts the entire field of 24 triads, as subsequent triad generation would duplicate the already exposed cells. Thus, the fractal primary cell generativity in the Cell unfolds on several levels: on the level of the primary LRP loop or the Tonnetz, while the latter organises the relationships of higher level LRP loops. They are revealed by an overview of the hierarchical structures of the opus (see Figure 3.7):

Figure 3.7 Ričardas Kabelis, Cell for piano, violin, and viola (1992); the fractal primary cell generativity and the total LRP loop relationships

One should hear Kabelis’ advice on how to listen to such formalised music, which tends to ignore audience expectations. Kabelis admits, “I do not make curtsies, and I do not measure the expected response from the audience. I have no doubt that it will be good if I manage to do everything as I need to. If I find any pattern, everything starts to flow smoothly and develop into a form, 24 The higher level structural organisation of the Cell was revealed through the Set analysis ( Jurkėnaitė 1996: 56). 55

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a structure, and everything else [...]. It’s like discovering the law of nature” (Paulauskis 2008). Kabelis believes that it would be a utopia to expect to discover a different unique law for each new composition. He considers the issue of listening to such compositions philosophically. The flashing kaleidoscope of the music of consonances in the Cell “just has to sound, and it should not be listened to too eagerly; it will take from the audience what it needs and give the audience what it needs. It’s like rain – which is just raining.”25 As we can see, the principle of not relating opuses to the traditions of the genre legitimises the concepts of the “free genre” or “libro-genre”. It can be justified by analogy with the concept of “free forms” used in theoretical literature. When considering what the term “free genre” means, we should note two analogies of the term “free form”. Yuri Kholopov noted two things related to the term of “free form”: first, certain negativity (free from what, from “classical logic”?) and, second, the absence of a clear divide between a “free form” and a “bad form” (Kholopov 2012: 377). That paradoxical situation only confirms the concept of the genre norms and boundaries that still exists in cultural consciousness. That is precisely why Kabelis’ Cell, due to its apparent disregard for genotype conventions, cannot be called a trio, as implied by the composition of three instruments. Spontaneous marking of typicality in creation indicates the ongoing search for genotypic commonality in the forms of opuses. On the other hand, the “free genre” is characterised by double encoding, since radical shifts in creation coexist with the remnants of the tradition of genre typologisation hiding in the subconsciousness of the opus.

Cases of Mono-Genres of the New Tradition in Lithuanian Postsocialist Music Mono-genres of the new tradition that emerged in the second half of the twentieth century advertise the ideas of the spontaneity of occurrence of change and order as well as self-organisation of complex systems-formation and deformation. Because the genre phenomenon and the mechanisms of its dynamics (discussed by literary critics-formalists Victor Shklovsky and Yuriy Tïnyanov) are common to different types of art, they may be revealed by an intermediate approach. Tïnyanov wrote: “The genre emerges from attacks and beginnings in other systems and fades away turning into the remnants of other systems [...] First appears the opposite constructive principle.26 It manifests itself as ‘random’ outcomes and ‘accidental escapades or errors’, and that random outcome gets established. In fact, every degeneration of normative poetics, every ‘error’ and 25 Kabelis continues: “That is a spontaneous process, I am trying not to add anything from myself. [...] I do not know if I’ll succeed. I believe that music is a true acoustic, natural instrument, a sound; that is the only reality” (Paulauskis 2008). 26 According to Tïnyanov, to be dynamic, the interaction between a constructive factor and the material must be ever varying, fluctuating, and changing (1977). 56

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every ‘injustice’ by its potential becomes a new constructive principle [...]. During the breakup of a genre, it moves from the centre to the periphery, while a new phenomenon dives out of literary trifles, its backyards and its valleys, to the centre (Shklovsky calls it ‘canonisation of minor genres’)” (Tïnyanov 1977: 255–269).

Processes of the destabilisation of music genres and the emergence of new ones take place in a similar manner. An example of a new tradition mono-genre is represented by Rytis Mažulis’ sound installation Talita cumi. What happened in a three-dimensional Dolby surrounding space installation Talita cumi (lyrics by Oscar Milosz, 6 vocalists /“dead voices”/, computer, and tape, 1997/1999) was called by Mažulis himself a “live sound tragedy”, because in the opus the life of sound was “killed”. After putting down another “live” semitone, 100 cents (A–G sharp), on his desk, Mažulis cut it into 29 micro-intervals of 3.45 cents each. The inside of the semitone became a macro-world for him, to be studied through the telescope of his intelligence. The depth of an individual tone, computer-explored by spectralists, looked like an individual world. The conclusion was then formulated by Tristan Myuray: “Music lies within each individual tone, not just in their combinations” (Myuray 2009: 345). As Ivan Wyschnegradsky encouraged in the early twentieth century, Mažulis in Talita cumi also divided a crotchet, a unit of duration, into 96 utopian fragments. The dispositions of the “fragments” of harmony and rhythmic units, although visually (numerically) visible in the score (see Figure 3.8), became practically incomprehensible to the listener’s ears. The unusual quality of music, strange opus material, women standing/ sitting in a circle, “the impression of a pulsating colour spot – like the sea in clear noon light, as if the same, but different every time” (Topolski 2005: 40) and the slow time of ‘long shots’ absolutely called for extra-musical elements. The visual solution for the sound installation Talita cumi was implemented, and the costumes and lighting were designed, by Russian director Olga Pautova, in 1999. The material of the feature film Talita cumi was shot in October 1999 during two concerts, at the Solitude Castle in Stuttgart and the Centre for Art and New Technology [Zentrum für Kunst und Medientechnologie – ZKM] in Karlsruhe. The introspection of the inside of sound and the strong breakdown of the rhythmic benchmark was astounding, just like Mažulis’ tenacity to associate that level of microdimensionality27 with the vision, utopia, and accidental harmonies. The sound of Talita cumi in the stage of pre-composition was not determined or predicted by plotting millimetre to millimetre”. The six-voice microdimensional harmonies were random: the voices intertwined freely in space, they were “stretched” horizontally (in time) to the right or left. The 27 The concept of “microdimensionality” contains the roots of two words (Gr. mikrós ‘small’ + Latin dimenius ‘measurement, dimension’; from the viewpoint of physics, ‘size’). The concept is still lacking in live usage, theoretical justification, and conventional definitions. Here, the term applied to the complex characterisation of the musical structure of small ‘sizes’ that extended across different parameters of the composition organisation (Daunoravičienė 2016: 318). 57

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“pangs of conscience” of Mažulis, a sworn constructivist, were compensated by a very strict material production process (division and permutation schemes of the fragmented microstructures, etc.) (See Figure 3.8):

Figure 3.8 Rytis Mažulis, the score of the Talita cumi installation for 3 tapes and 6 female voices (1997)

The creative experiment proved its worth. The sounding hallucination of a mystic, magician, and hypnotist of sound was created. Strikingly, the intoxicating contemplation of the music of Talita cumi, the music of “incense clouds, the bitter smell of wilting plants, and light-headedness” (Nakas 2000: 31), was composed using strict formalistic methods of material “production”: a series of 29 micro-intervals (Kleinstintervallen)28 and a series of durations composed of irrational durations of the split crotchet revolved around Messiaen’s triedand-tested cycles of interversions. Mažulis’ wide step toward microdimensions getting increasingly smaller was compensated by a reliable technological guarantee for the production of symmetric permutations. New quality material standards were added to Mažulis’ catalogues of the elements of pitches and durations (see Figures 3.9 and 3.10):

28 This is Walter Gieseler’s concept used by Kholopov in the third part of his book Analysis of Harmony (2009). Kholopov called microinterval music microchromatic and attributed it to the twentieth-century composition techniques. Based on Alois Hába’s compositions, Kholopov proposed a classification of the types of microintervals. 58

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Figure 3.9 Rytis Mažulis, Talita cumi, series of 29 microintervals

Figure 3.10 Rytis Mažulis, Talita cumi, series of microdurations of 30 elements

The music of Talita cumi is performed by three phonograms broadcast at different speeds (on the canon mensurabilis principle). Infinite fragments of prepared semitones and durations arranged in thirds (H–C, MM = 64; G♯–A, 59

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MM = 60; F–F♯, MM = 56) and the phonograms realising the canon in a narrow space create the acoustic macrospace of Talita cumi. Against the background of the “surrounding” recording, six vocalists (“dead voices”) mysteriously whisper the syllables of Milosz’s poem in French. The microscopic elements of pitch/duration scattered by the force of permutation – cut, crushed or already perished sounds – go round in a fatal carousel of irrational microdimensions. The crash of “live” sound and death gives way to the dead computer sound. The hypothetical friction of interverse spirals produces a “slow-changing, however, glowing in various colours, flow of sounds” (Motte-Haber 1999). The key words for Mažulis’ works – microdimensional music – would be insufficiently defining and ignoring too many of the specific features of his neo-avantgarde compositions. Because in his music we encounter a uniquely complex case of auditory microscopy, its identity is revealed only through the data of very specific facts and analyses as well as their hermeneutic margins. I shall finish the presentation of the three decades of Lithuanian postsocialist music from the viewpoint of typological transformations with Marius Čivilis’ Installation on Led Glasses (2013), as an example of the new mono-genres (genotypes). It is listened to and observed by 12 recipients. The LEDs in the installation are made to flicker by the Arduino controller with self-made software and can be controlled by any MIDI interface. Thus, the composer was able to experiment using a variety of music software. During the premiere, the soundtracks of the installation presented the transformed (accelerated) music of the first part of Rytis Mažulis’ opus Bézier Spline Canon (2005). As the music of the installation sounds, the equipment that transforms the rhythmic pulse frequencies sends light signals into the glasses of the participant listeners and observers. The composer admitted: “My plan was to achieve the frequency of sonic and flickering events with no strong correlation between them. However, the most interesting things started due to mechanical shifts between the pitch class change rate and the LED light bulb flicker curves” (Daunoravičienė 2020); see Figure 3.11. An interesting context of the creative process of the said opus became apparent when looking at the preconditions of its emergence from the sociomusicological viewpoint. Since the design of the installation was based on the idea of installing diodes on the sunglasses, the composer had a problem of first finding, and later “damaging” a set of 12 sunglasses. This provocation encouraged the author to behave cleverly. Čivilis explained: “Several days before the premiere, on my Facebook page I asked people to donate no longer used sunglasses. All of them had to be drilled, soldered, and glued, thus the glasses were not the property of the listeners/observers, they were very simple, all of them donated” (ibid.). Prepared in that way, the LED-installed sunglasses were a considerable provocation to the cognitive, physiological, and psychological experiences of the listeners/observers.

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Figure 3.11 Marius Čivilis, Installation on LED Glasses (2013) in the Music Innovations Studies Centre in Vilnius

During the installation, under instruction of the author of the work, all recipients are required to lie with their eyes closed. The rhythmic impulses of the sounding music correlate with the flashes of the LED bulbs – their frequency and intensity. In accordance with a physiological and medical interpretation of the process, the LED light flashes are absorbed and reflected in the retina of the recipients’ eyes. Irritation reveals a vascular network or pattern in the retinas of the recipient/observer eyes or, to put it in medical terms, hallucinationes visualis post stimulatio retinae cum LED luminaires29 takes place. The listeners/ observers of the installation see specific drawings, networks, configurations, fractals, schemas, etc. As one of them testified, “sometimes you had a feeling that you were weightless, moving in some direction, you saw colours, spots of changing shapes and some other things”. In that way, Čivilis, in his Installation on LED Glasses, constructed and realised the interface of functional structural parts characteristic of works of the art of sound (Werken der Klangkunst). From the technological viewpoint, Martin Supper described it as a reduced three-element interactive system consisting of input, transformation, and output (Germ. Eingabe – Transformation – Ausgabe) (Supper 1999: 125). The installation is performed in Vilnius, in the premises of the so-called Sound Sphere.30 Its genotypic identity is embodied in 29 Daunoravičienė’s consultation with the ophthalmologist Rūta Žuklytė (8 April 2020). 30 “The Sound Sphere” is a mobile acoustics space in the Music Innovations Studies Centre, established in the Lithuanian Academy of Music and Theatre, in 2010. The spatial sound 61

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a characteristic site-specific character, though it must be acknowledged that it is also valid for performance. Pluralistic ontic states of genotypes coexist in the same cultural milieu. Mono-genres of the new tradition are characterised by a high level of dialogue between the genotype attributes and fill a huge twenty-first-century inter-genre creation space. To sum up the expression of the genotype of music in the context of compositional practices between the 1960s and 2010s, several alternative epistemological solutions can be made: • Anti-, quasi- 31, poly-genre, or simply music compositions without genre, can be seen as highly deformed variants of typical genre models, as a paradoxical and intense extension of the typological example. • Lithuanian composers’ works of recent decades can be divided into two conditional groups: (a) those linked to the tradition of the genotype of music, (b) those ignoring and denying it, thus placing the latter outside the boundaries of the genotype epistemology. • One can recognise that the greatest innovation of a category is its disappearance and proclaim the non-universality of the genre category as incapable of ontically providing new music practices with meaning. • One can reconsider the status and the type of functioning of the genotype of music in the milieu of compositional practices over the last 6 decades. It was the latter solution that the author of the study chose. The article analysed the causes and movements as well as the genetic identity of the postmodern turn compositions in Lithuanian postsocialist music over three decades (1990–2020), using the theoretical approach of the genotype institution and the algorithm of analysis. A critical review of the breakthrough also stimulated an epistemological revision: it encouraged the deconstruction of an institutionalised approach to the categories of the music genre and the construction of a new concept. The genre of music is defined as the genotype of music, a taxon, an inherited typological (taxonomic) commonality of compositions. It is an identity mark of products created by treating the genotype/taxon of music as an analytical category, the study of the dynamics of three typological statuses (mono-genre, poly-genre, and libro-genre) reveals an ongoing plausible systemic transition (“chromaticism”), a process of the macrosystem change, testifying to which requires a considerable chronological retreat. The discussed typological chain of Lithuanian postsocialist music: the mono-genre of the “old ” tradition – the poly-genre – the libro-genre – the mono-genre of the “new” tradition – showed the relationships of genotypic structures as a “sphere” is formed by 24 sound sources, controlled by the Ambix plug-in. Innovative technology provokes multimedia and synesthetic experiments of spatial and spherical sound and colour interactions and premieres of acousmatic and ambisonic works. 31 See Mauricio Kagel’s antiopera or, according to Kagel, “a balletfor non-dancers” – Staatstheater(1967–70), Henri Pousseur’s Votre Faust, Fantasia variable du genre opera (1961–68, rev. 1980), Klaus Egge’s Sinfonia dolce quasi passacaglia op. 31 (1969), and others. Particularly, many such opuses can be found among Alfred Schnittke’s works: ViolinSonataNo. 2 Quasi una Sonata (1968–1987), K (Eine) Symphonie – The FirstSymphony (1969–1974); ‘negative Passion’ TheHistory of Dr.Johann Faustus (1983), (K)ein Sommernachtstaum for orchestra (1985) and others. 62

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state inter differentias specificas, characteristic of the development of the art of sound at the turn of the twenty-first century. Such an angle reveals complex metamorphoses at the genotypic level and attempts to discern the hypothesis of the change in the genre systems (macrosystems) (intuitively felt by researchers) as well as to predict the vision of the future. Such an approach reflects the consciousness of a pluralistic postmodern culture in a specific typological form and reflects our philosophy of culture and artistic processes.

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DAUNORAVIČIENĖ, Gražina (2020) Interview with the composer Marius Čivilis, Vilnius, 14 April 2020 (unpublished). DERRIDA, Jacques (1988) “Letter to a Japanese Friend” in David Wood and Robert Bernasconi (eds.) Derrida and Différance, Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1–5. DERRIDA, Jacques (1980) “The Law of Genre”, Critical Inquiry 1: 55–81. DIMAGGIO, Paul (1987) “Classification in Art”, American Sociological Review 52 (4): 440–455. FINK, Monika (2019) “Sound Sculptures and Sound Installations in the Evolution of Intermedia Art Forms”, Music in Art: International Journal for Music Iconography 44 (1–2): 239–251. GREENBLATT, Stephen (2007) Learning to Curse: Essays in Early Modern Culture, New York and London: Routledge. GREIMAS, Algirdas Julius (1996) “Apie dievus ir žmones” [Of gods and men], in Algirdas Julius Greimas, Tautos atminties beieškant. Apie dievus ir žmones [In search of the memory of the nation. Of gods and men], Vilnius: Mokslas, 194–215. GUILLOT, Matthieu (n.d.) “Post scriptum: laisvos refleksijos. Avangardo pamokos” [Post scriptum: free reflections. Avant-garde lessons], Lietuvos muzikos informacijos centras. Accessed on 15 January 2020, HOLT, Fabian (2007) Genre in Popular music, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. JURKĖNAITĖ, Audronė (1996) Teoriniai ir praktiniai seto analizės aspektai [Theoretical and practical aspects of set analysis], unpublished BA final thesis, Vilnius: Lithuanian Academy of Music and Theatre. KALLBERG, Jeffrey (1996) Chopin at the Boundaries. Sex, History and Musical Genre, Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press. KHOLOPOV, Yuriy Nikolaevich (2009) Garmonicheskiy analiz, Chast’ 3 [Harmonic analysis, vol. 3], Моskow: Nauchno-izdatel’skiy tsentr Моskovskaya konservatoriya. KHOLOPOV, Yuriy Nikolaevich (2012) Muzïkal’nïe formï klassicheskoy tradicii. Stat’i, materialï [Musical forms of classical tradition. Аrticles, materials], Моskow: Nauchno-izdatel’skiy tsentr Моskovskaya konservatoriya. KLUMPENHOUWER, Henry (1994) “Some Remarks on the Use of Riemann Transformations”, Music Theory Online 9: 1994, LEHMANN, Hans-Thies (2010) Postdraminis teatras [Postdrammatic theatre], translated in Lithuanian by Jūratė Pieslytė, Vilnius: Menų spaustuvė. 64

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LENA, Jennifer C., Richard A. Peterson (2008) “Classification as Culture: Types and Trajectories of Music Genres”, American Sociological Review 73 (5): 697–718. MAČILIŪNAITĖ-DOČKUVIENĖ, Rita (2017) Muzikinės naracijos komponavimo būdai postdraminiame teatre [Ways of composing musical narration in postdrammatic theatre]. Summary of the artistic research paper. Vilnius: Lithuanian Academy of Music and Theatre. MARTINAITIS, Algirdas (2019) “Splino simfonija” [Spleen Symphony], Gaida: 29th Contemporary Music Festival (booklet), Vilnius: Vilniaus festivaliai: 56–57. MARX, Wolfgang (2004) Klassifikation und Gattungsbegriff in der Musikwissenschaft, Hildesheim, Zürich and New York: Olms. MEHNER, Klaus (1979) “Ästhetische Aspekte einer Gattungstheorie der Musik”, in Werner Kaden and Walther Siegmund-Schultze (eds.) Handbuch der Musikästhetik, Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 251–273. MILLER, Carolyn R. (1984) “Genre as Social Action”, Quarterly Journal of Speech 70 (2): 151–167. MOTTE-HABER, Helga de la (1999) ”Girdimas negirdimume” [Audible in the inaudible] in Rytis Mažulis, Talita cumi (booklet, CD, LMIPCCD009), Vilnius: Lietuvos muzikos informacijos ir leidybos centras. МYURAY, Tristan (2009) “O mikrokosmose zvuka” [On the microcosmos of sound], in Т. Кyuregyian and Valeriya Tsenova (eds.), Коmpozitorï o sovremennoy kompozitsii. Khrestomatiya [Composers on contemporary composition. Chrestomathy], Моskow: Nauchno-izdatel’skiy tsentr Моskovskaya konservatoriya, 345–346. NAKAS, Šarūnas (2000) “Ryčio Mažulio Talita cumi ir Ričardo Kabelio Ex oriente lux” [Talita cumi by Rytis Mažulis and Ex oriente lux by Ričardas Kabelis], Kultūros barai 7: 30-33. NOVAK, Jelena (2015) Postopera: Reinventing the Voice-Body, London: Ashgate Publisher. PAULAUSKIS, Linas (2008) “Portretas. Ričardas Kabelis: Garsas yra vienintelė tikrovė” [A Portrait. Ričardas Kabelis: Sound is the only reality] Lietuvos muzikos link 16, https://www.mic.lt/lt/diskursai/lietuvos-muzikos-link/nr-16-2008-geguze-spalis/ portretas-ricardas-kabelis-garsas-yra-vienintele-tikrove/. SILVER, Daniel D, Monica Lee and C. Clayton Childress (2016) “Genre Complexes in Popular Music” PLoS ONE 11(5): e0155471, SAMSON, Jim (1989) “Chopin and Genre”, Music Analysis 8 (3): 213–231.

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SAMSON, Jim (2001) “Genre”, Grove Music Online,

SUPPER, Martin (1999) “Technische Systeme von Klanginstallationen”, in Helga de la Motte-Haber (ed.) Klangkunst. Tōnende Objekte und klingende Räume, Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 119–134. TÏNYANOV, Yuriy Nikolaevitch (1977) “Literaturnïy fakt” [Literary fact] and “O literaturnoy evolyutsii” [On literary evolution], in Tynianov, Yu. N, Poetika. Istoriya literaturï. Kino. [Poetics. History of literature. Cinema], Moscow: Nauka, 255–269 and 270–281, TOPOLSKI, Jan (2005) “Talita cumi. Cum essem parvulus” [Little girl, arise. When I was a child], Kultūros barai 10: 40–43.

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century; and what reason we have to argue that the new Georgian art music, which had been formed by the beginning of the last century, is an heir of the traditional Georgian culture. Only after having done this we will be able to argue that just this firm historical memory and loyalty to tradition enabled Georgian musical culture to deal with ideological postulates pressed upon it by the Soviet regime, and to find its path through the maze of diverse and mutually exclusive tendencies of twentieth-century Western music and occupy its place on the international arena. From the beginning, I would like to state that the originality of Georgian musical culture is, nowadays, an acknowledged fact. Though it may be that Giya Kancheli (1935–2019) is the only one among professional musicians who received wide international recognition, we can claim that Georgian traditional polyphony has already been acknowledged by the whole world as one of the singular phenomena of the intangible cultural heritage of humanity (Georgian polyphonic singing 2008).

A Few Facts about Georgian Traditional Musical Culture The beginning of the history of Georgian traditional musical culture can be traced back thousands of years. It formed gradually, as a result of the processes of everyday life, as well as the spiritual development of numerous Georgian tribes,1 and later of the Georgian ethnos, reflecting the peculiarities of its thinking and the ideas of its artistic world. Ancestors of the Georgians, who lived not only in the Caucasus, but in Asia Minor as well, had close economic and political relationships with the peoples of ancient Mesopotamia and with the proto-Greeks – the Etruscans and the Pelasgians – then later with ancient Greeks and later still with the Romans. These relationships left their mark on the cultural development of these ethnic groups. Thus, the originality of old Georgian culture (third millennium BC – fourth century AD) was formed in the process of communication with different ethnic cultures and so developed its rather important specificity – an openness to different cultural influences in communication with related or hostile nations and the assimilation of different features that were created in near or distant countries. Moreover, the closeness to the Sumerian-Mesopotamian civilization conditioned one more important feature of Georgian culture – a particular allegiance to tradition that has lasted in the Georgians’ consciousness right up to the present. These specific features characterised Georgian culture at the next stage of its development as well – after declaring Christianity to be a state religion of Georgia (326 AD). It is natural that alongside liturgy, Christianity brought to Georgia Christian music in general – monophonic Hebrew, Syrian, or Greek 1 In the twelfth century BC, as a result of the consolidation of various Georgian tribes, the first Georgian kingdoms of Diauehi and Colchis were formed in Mesopotamia, which united Carduchis, Macrones, Mossynoecis, Tubals, Tibarenians, Sciphins, Chalybes-Chaldois, Taochis, Mushkis, Phasians, Chanis/Lazs/Megrelians and others. 68

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psalms and hymns, which, gradually, due to the influence of pre-Christian Georgian musical thinking, accepted the polyphonic form that characterised it. We have no immediate evidence of the polyphonic nature of pre-Christian Georgian music. Nothing is said about it in the ancient written sources.2 Georgian names for the vocal parts mzakhr, zhir and bum3 were mentioned for the first time by Ioane Petritsi, a Georgian theologian and philosopher of the eleventh century.4 So, why do we think that the traditional style of thinking influenced the formation of the structure of Georgian polyphonic chants? The most cogent argumentation for this is that the process of transformation of Greek monophonic chanting into polyphonic chanting, which took place in the early Middle Ages (tenth–eleventh centuries), conditioned the formation of the classic mode of three-part Georgian Christian chanting, which was unique in the Christian world of the period. In the Middle Ages, Georgia was surrounded by peoples of monodic cultures. Such a transformation of the Christian chant would have been impossible without a pre-Christian Georgian polyphonic musical thinking, which could become the only pre-condition for the formation of the then unique polyphonic chanting. It should be noted in passing, the Austrian ethnomusicologist and anthropologist Siegfried Nadel arrived at the same conclusion when he transcribed songs sung by Georgian prisoners in German camps during World War I (Tsurtsumia and Ziegler 2014). Having studied these songs carefully, he concluded that “Georgian polyphony has nothing in common with its cultural neighbours: ecclesiastic music of Middle East, Greece or Armenia did not work out polyphonic forms similar to it. […] In case of Western European influence on the formation of Georgian polyphony, the same result would have also been reached in Armenia, Greece or Syria” (Nadel 2010: 16). In contrast to Europe, where the development of polyphony was accompanied by the development of notation, professional Georgian ecclesiastic musicians used neumes to write down only the first part of the chant, while the singers themselves harmonised the second and the third parts in a traditional style, which speaks in favour of the local roots of Georgian polyphony.5 2 King Sargon II of Assyria wrote about the conquest (714 BC) of Mannea – one of the proto-Georgian tribes in Urartu and mentioned that they sang “joyful songs” during work ( Javakhishvili еt al. 1943); Greek military leader and historian Xenophon (401 BC) speaks about the melody sung “somehow” by another proto-Georgian tribe, the Mossynoecis, which, apparently sounded different from the tunes familiar to him (Xenophon 2008: [20]). 3 The first, second and third (bass) parts in a Georgian multipart chant and song. 4 Petritsi uses a musical analogy to explain the essence of the Holy Trinity to Georgian readers: God the Father, God the Son and the Holy Spirit create one unity, just as these three parts create one harmony due to joint sounding (Petritsi 1937). 5 Eleven handwritten neumatic collections of Georgian hymnography (tenth–eleventh centuries) have survived to this day and are preserved at the Georgian National Centre of Manuscripts. The tradition of the oral harmonisation of the second and third parts was practiced until the 1880s, when chants started to be notated in European five-line system. 69

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Thus, in the early Middle Ages, Georgian Christian culture created a recognisable musical style, which was unique for that time, and confirmed the domination of the “host” culture, thus making polyphony one of the main characteristics of the Georgian musical identity in the Middle Ages. The processes that unfolded later (starting in the thirteenth century – with the breakdown of the powerful state and constant wars against numerous enemies – Persians, Arabs, Mongols, and Turks) made it impossible for old Georgian professional music to function regularly and correspondingly to continue its intense development. Even more so, as time passed, imperfect notation with neumes facilitated the approximation of its mode-intonational and harmonic expressivity to the polyphony of the secular oral tradition. As a result, by the nineteenth century, peasant polyphonic song and polyphonic ecclesiastic chant had, in fact, created a unified system of traditional musical thinking, which radically differed from the European system of that period.

New Times The nineteenth century is an important boundary in the history of Georgia. The country lived a peaceful life, but Georgia found itself facing the danger of not physical destruction, but of cultural decline. In 1801, Russia annexed Georgia. The abolition of the Georgian kingdom and the autocephaly of the Georgian church were followed by the politics of replacing Georgian culture with its Russian counterpart: a ban on the Georgian language in educational institutions, on conducting divine service, and on singing Georgian chants. At the same time, Georgia, through Russia, managed to restore its relations with Europe, which were broken in the Middle Ages. A powerful national liberation movement, which began in the 1860s and was guided by the great public figure Ilia Chavchavadze, brought to the agenda the issue of saving oral folk literature and traditional singing-chanting, as well as creating national art music and, first of all, national opera. The attempts of the new school of Georgian composers to adopt the Russian-European experience, and to retain national identity while, at the same time, learning to think using European musical categories and to synthesise them with specific features of national traditional musical thinking, brought certain results. It seemed that history had repeated: if in the Middle Ages, when single-part Greek chants were transformed into three-partGeorgian hymns,the peculiarities of collective thinking were dominant in the polyphonic structure of Georgian Christian music, as its specific features of polyphonic constructionwere preserved, this time everything happened quite differently. Much time has passed since then, and European musical culture was formed in the meantime as a complex system based on various artistic-aesthetic and technological conceptions. The communication of Georgian traditional culture with European cultures caused essential changes in musical thinking. Moreover, it caused the 70

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destruction of the traditional system formed over the course of centuries: a change of non-tempered sounds to tempered, of modal relations to tonal, and (most importantly) of the old ways of forming artistic structures to new ones. It was believed that the idea of adopting the European experience was a chance to refresh the traditional one. Knowledge kept in the cultural memory combined with historically formed European orientation on the one hand, and the polyphonic character of Georgian traditional musical thinking on the other hand, explains the special interest in European forms and genres. This process developed in the creative works of the first generation of Georgian classics – Meliton Balanchivadze (1862–1937), Dimitri Arakishvili (1873–1953), Victor Dolidze (1890–1933), Niko Sulkhanishvili (1871–1919) and Zacharia Paliashvili (1871–1933), who, for years, determined the vector of the further development of Georgian music. Among them, Sulkhanishvili’s and Paliashvili’s roles are especially important in the colourful panorama of Georgian musical life in the transition from the nineteenth to the twentieth centuries.6 Attempting to synthesise the national and European experience, they found a foothold in traditional musical thinking because it symbolically embodied Georgian culture and was, therefore, a guarantee of the national character of the composer’s musical language. The efforts of the first Georgian composers were not directed towards a mechanical copying of genres or forms of European art music, but towards forming a new type of national musical thinking. Zacharia Paliashvili realised this objective especially well: his opera Abesalom da Eteri [Abesalom and Eteri] (1909–1918), a classic example of national opera, became a model work which expressed the strivings towards the synthesis of two cultural experiences in the process of forming and developing national art music. In spite of a rather complicated socio-political situation, the four-year period of independence of the country (1918–1921) became the most important stage in Georgia’s musical life. Soon after the first Menshevik revolution (21 February 1917) in Russia, on 1 May 1917, the first institution of higher education in the history of the country was established – the Tbilisi based Imperial Musical college was transformed into a conservatoire. In 1918, as a result of the great endeavours of Georgian intellectuals, the first national university was established. In 1919, three Georgian operas: Paliashvili’s Abesalom da Eteri [Abesalom and Eteri], Arakishvili’s Tkmuleba Shota Rustavelze [The Legend of Shota Rustaveli] and Dolidze’s Keto da Kote [Keto and Kote] were performed for the first time on the stage of the Tbilisi Opera Theatre;7 the State Chorus was formed, the anthem of the Democratic Republic of Georgia was composed, etc.

6 At this time, Tbilisi, a multiethnic and multicultural city, was the cultural centre of the Caucasus. Persian, Azerbaijani, Armenian and Italian melodies were heard in its streets. Tbilisi folklore was the synthesis of Georgian text and Persian (Eastern branch) and Italian (Western branch) melodies. 7 Opened in 1851 with Lucia di Lammermoor by Gaetano Donizetti. 71

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The Epoch of “Radical Socialist Realism” The second annexation of Georgia by Russia in 1921 was followed by a massive loss of human life and a new socio-political reality. Georgian society, which up until then had preferred national values, faced the most complicated challenges. In spite of the cultural chaos of the 1920s, the call of the working classes and peasants to the “cultural front”, calls to create the so-called proletarian poetry and songs, made the value system of the new regime clear. In 1932, the Bolshevik state, having declared socialist realism the doctrine, which was to determine state cultural politics, and having formed artistic unions, created a methodically structured system, which was aimed at controlling the conformity of production created by artists in compliance with the ideological demands. The first part of the slogan of socialist realism – “national in form and socialist in content” – turned out to be completely acceptable to the newly formed Georgian composing school, though the second part – “socialist in content” – presented serious barriers for the composers. It will suffice to name Paliashvili’s and Balanchivadze’s cantatas8 as typical examples of the “artistic products” created as a result of the limited artistic freedom and the growing pressure; their styles were associated with the revolutionary–proletcultural current of the Soviet music and had nothing in common with the national opera style of these composers. Attempts of the new generation of composers to create a Georgian version of a “Soviet mass song” turned out to be a failure, though examples were created, and in fact formed the then-repertoire of the State Chorus, as is clearly confirmed by the materials kept in the National Archives of Georgia (Kvantaliani 1993). Of course, the Chorus carried out the official repertoire politics, when it introduced into the repertoire such pieces as: Arakishvili’s Kshinavs kura [Furnace Breathes], Shalva Azmaiparashvili’s (1903–1953) Kolektivizatsia [Collectivisation], Andria Balanchivadze’s (1906–1992)9 Studenturi simghera [Students’ Song], Grigol Kiladze’s (1902–1962) Komkavshirlebis marshi [March of Komsomol Members], Shalva Mshvelidze’s (1904–1984) Ertad dzmebo [Together, Brothers], etc. Compulsory directives to reflect socialist reality through rose-tinted glasses, the identification of ideology with art, and the defects of the ideology itself caused the disastrous state of all musical genres, included text, since in verbal and, thus, in musical content, the aspects of all ideas other than the praise of the new epoch were excluded. Such a situation considerably influenced the genre priorities of the Georgian music of the Soviet period – from the beginning of the century up to the 1920s opera was of exceptional importance; the 1920s are somehow a transi8 Paliashvili’s cantata to 10th Anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution (1927), Meliton Balanchivadze’s cantata Dideba Zahess [Glory to Zahesi], to the construction of Zemo Avchala hydroelectric station near Tbilisi (1927). 9 Andria Balanchivadze was a son of Meliton Balanchivadze and brother of George Balanchine. 72

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tory period when, alongside the old tendencies, new ones were being formed – the prioritisation of instrumental genres stands out, although the classics still worked in the opera genre. In the 1930s, instrumental music was almost the only genre that the new generation of composers actively exploited and, in the next decades, special significance was attached to the genre of symphonic music, with the most significant achievements of Georgian music associated with it. In particular, this applies to the following genres: in the 1920s–1950s – to symphonic, concerto, chamber-instrumental works by Mshvelidze, Balanchivadze, Aleksi Machavariani (1913–1995), Otar Taktakishvili (1924–1989), Sulkhan Tsintsadze (1925–1991), and others, and in the 1960s – to works by Bidzina Kvernadze (1928–2010), Sulkhan Nasidze (1927–1996), Giya Kancheli (1935–2019), Nodar Gabunia (1933–2000), Nodar Mamisashvili (b. 1930), Natela Svanidze (1926–2015), Felix [Phillip] Ghlonti (1927–2012), Vaja Azarashvili (b. 1936), and others. Scholars (not only Georgian) who have studied this music justly note that the emotional-psychological content as well as the whole system of expressive means of this music are both marked by individuality, and are an expression of the spirit of its epoch. But this idea, which seems rather clear at first glance, does not sound as unambiguous as it did some fifty years ago. The fact is that, in spite of its unchanging political course, during the seventy years of its existence, the Soviet regime would, from time to time, become more or less tolerant. The 1930s–1950s was the most severe period, and I call this period the epoch of “radical socialist realism”. Georgian music of this period was an artistic reality determined by certain historical and socio-political conditions and closely linked to the classical-romantic world; thus, it fully corresponded to the general direction designed by the official ideology to music – not to trespass on the borders of tonal music in the sphere of musical expression in order to defend Soviet music from the “harmful” influence of the “formalistic-decadent” tendencies of contemporary music. This demand was one and the same for all genres of music: “time demonstrated that there were no spheres hidden from the biased attention of the party in Soviet culture” (Aranovskiy 1997: 344). In spite of this, talented Soviet (Georgian among them) composers managed to avoid straightforwardness in their best works and created a deep artistic world marked with diverse human emotions. To say nothing of Dmitry Shostakovich and Sergey Prokofiev, when it comes to the Georgian composers of this period, one should mention the works by Balanchivadze, Machavariani, Taktakishvili, Revaz Laghidze (1921–1981), and others. It is not necessary at all to apply artistic-aesthetic criteria of that period to appraise their best works, since “value is not an absolute feature of a work of art, but a certain characteristic of its social being and social perception. Therefore, value is not once and forever fixed quantity-volume, but a dynamic quantity which changes – sometimes abruptly, even so abruptly, that at times value turns into anti-value” (Orjonikidze 1988: 56). That is why the things that were considered anti-value by the official authorities, nowadays, are accepted as values, and vice versa. 73

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How did these composers create works that are valuable even today? The famous Georgian philosopher Merab Mamardashvili thought that totalitarian ideology has a well worked out mechanism of building a “destructive field of thinking”, which, in turn, forms the specific structure of “linguistic field”. Soviet totalitarian ideology corrupts and destroys thinking and consciousness from inside, “it bans products of human thinking and their exchange among people” (Mamardashvili 1992: 7–9); the whole Soviet musical practice made sure that the functioning of the “destructive field of thinking” penetrated musical thinking as well – the part of the Soviet (Georgian included) music that responded to the official state orders within this structured linguistic field. This official musical language opposed the expression of individual composers’ will, since in the semantics of the language originating from the mass song, the pathos of the specific collectivistic world outlook characteristic of socialist art was presented immanently. Of course, ideological tools were used by the non-totalitarian West as well. The “Americanisation” of music in the middle of the twentieth century (Howard Hanson, William Schuman, etc.), nourished by “American nationalism”, serves to demonstrate “the virtue of American power by combining familiar nationalist tropes with an aggressive, hyper-masculine sound” and expresses one of “the central tenets of 1950s consensus culture: American exceptionalism”. The success of this music during the 1950s is linked to its “compatibility with mainstream political ideologies of the period” (Ansari 2015: 1). But the ideology of a democratic state in contrast to a totalitarian one does not press anything upon the people but, rather, leaves them the right to choose, although, as the contemporary anti-ideologists think, it does everything to tempt them (Nodia 1992: 158). It can be said that, when judging musical content, Soviet aestheticians, and with them official musicologists, as a rule, referred to the significance of its subject (plot). In other branches of art, it is possible to render one and the same meaning in different forms, but due to the particular character of music, pure absolute music does not have “form different from the content since it has no form without content”, because “content and form, material and its elaboration, image, and idea merge in an indivisible unity” (Ganslik [Hanslick] 1895: 173). It follows that musical substance is a multi-layered artistic structure, the content of which is not tethered to one dimension, with an identifiable ideologically determined layer. A rather large number of such conjuncture works (operas, cantatas, oratorios, songs, symphonies with compulsory festive finales, etc.) existed in Georgian music of the 1930s–1950s (as well as generally in Soviet music), though history has preserved only the names of their authors. One layer of artistic content of the best examples of Georgian music of the 1920s–1950s is linked to national tradition, although, for ideological reasons, the semantically expressive world of old professional ecclesiastic music practically does not participate in it. In the symphonic, concerto, and chamber-instrumental music by Mshvelidze, Balanchivadze, Machavariani, Taktakishvili and Tsintsadze, imagery from the epic, heroic, or lyrical genres of folk music is 74

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in the foreground. In this music, the understanding of the world as a harmonious whole exists in association with ideas historically formed in the Georgians’ consciousness; on the other hand, the “in-depth semantic programme” of Western art music forms is also present in the conceptions of these compositions. For example, it is interesting to consider where the Soviet and, in particular, the 1940s–1950s Georgian “symphony plot” comes from. “Classicist utopia” (Aranovskiy 1997) which was formed in the eighteenth century and was later nourished by romantic idealism, found a rich soil in Soviet and Georgian symphony, although with an important correction: the classical-romantic paradigm here showed itself as a certain dramaturgical cliché, which only formally repeated the idea of a festive-apotheoses finale. What, in symphonic conception, was determined by the eighteenth–nineteenth-centuries world outlook, under the communist ideology, unveiled the falsity of the call to reflect a non-conflicted reality and expressed the absurdity of the real situation. Such specific an emotional and psychological atmosphere and dramaturgical stereotypes characterise almost all the voluminous Soviet symphonic or vocal-symphonic cycles. Yet, even under the most severe censorship, talented individuals managed to create, by their own free will, a new artistic reality instead of the “pseudo-realistic”. Shostakovich’s symphonies are, perhaps, the best example of this. Notwithstanding the formal finales in Georgian symphonic music, composers tried to realise original ideas in previous movements by means of interesting musical material and individual style as happened, for example, in the four-part symphonic poem Zviadauri10 (1940) by Mshvelidze, and in Symphony No. 2 by Taktakishvili (1953). Under the conditions of the most severe censorship, Symphony No. 1 (1944) by Balanchivadze, Shostakovich’s friend,11 indubitably is an exception, becoming a perfect expression of an artist’s freedom in the closed space of totalitarianism. It is a large symphonic cycle on World War II, in which the composer attributed a plot-situational significance to the distribution of folk material (Tsulukidze 1971: 97). Especially extraordinary for that period was its final Adagio, an original grand requiem, wherein the composer surprises listeners with the strength of tragic feeling aroused by the victims of the war. Everything is non-standard here – the choral theme of the viola divisi, which is characterised by the strict graphic clarity of the counterpoint of traditional ecclesiastic chant and its sublime character, free of everyday vanity. The work develops towards a powerful, tragic culmination, marked with the expressiveness of the emotional tension of folk mourning, which is balanced in the short second part of the finale; the belief in victory of goodness over evil is expressed through the music of heroic apotheosis. Of course, loyal advocates of social10 On the poem Stumar-maspindzeli [Host and Guest] by Vazha Pshavela. 11 Balanchivadze met Shostakovich when he was a student at Leningrad conservatoire (1927–31). He was one of those few friends who encouraged the Russian composer in 1937, when his opera Katerina Izmailova was ruthlessly criticised. Their friendship lasted all life. 75

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ist realism did not hesitate to point out this deviation from the stereotypical scheme and, in 1948, following another one of the ideological “purges” at the centre of the empire, on the empire’s periphery, Georgia, Balanchivadze was labelled a “formalist”. Balanchivadze’s Symphony No. 2 (1959) does not have a festive finale either; the dramatic collisions12 culminate in a lyrical finale, full of light melancholy and tenderness. The epoch of “radical socialist realism”, when this symphony was composed, was the period when the price of independent thinking was being tortured to death; that was how an extremely talented young conductor, Evgeni Mikeladze (1903–1937) was killed after a successful tour of the Tbilisi Opera and Ballet Theatre and the State Symphonic Orchestra of Georgia in Moscow, where the First All-Union Decade of Culture and Art took place. In order to avoid such a fate, every artist, especially if he/she was talented and had outstanding individuality, had to pay tribute and make compromises. I call it a “compensation method”, when, in order to compensate for their artistic freedom, artists had every now and then to feed the state mechanism, as happened in Shostakovich’s case, when, after Katerina Izmailova, he created an openly propagandist oratorio, Pesn’ o lesakh [Song about Forests]. In the 1940s–1950s, Georgian composers resorted to this method quite often, which enabled them to express their free artistic will. For example, during the same period, Machavariani created a violin concerto, distinguished by its most beautiful melodic motifs, as sublime as prayers; the ballet Othello, which received several international awards, and the oratory Den’ moeĭ rodiny [My Homeland’s Day], in which live musical images, which carried marks of his talent, turned into a conjuncture of artistic content clichés of placard representations of socialist collectivism. Balanchivadze did the same; the symphony, which was ruthlessly criticised by the communists in 1948, was, in a year, followed by the opera Mzia (incidentally, unsuccessful) which reflected life on a collective farm. “Anti-values” created in such a way, and inacceptable for the official ideology, express the real values of Georgian music of the 1920s–1950s, which occupied a worthy place in the treasury of twentieth-century national culture, and conditioned the powerful rise of national professional music and caused a great upswing of national art music in the 1960s.

More Freedom, More Possibilities … This upswing became possible due to the coincidence of two circumstances: the first was linked to a change in the social-cultural situation, as a result of the new political state of affairs of the 1950s–1960s; the second was the appearance on the artistic arena of a new generation of composers, who were later called “the generation of the 60s” – Kvernadze, Nasidze, Kancheli and Gabunia. The so-called “ideological thaw” of the Khrushchev period made the 12 The symphony is dedicated to the events that happened in Tbilisi in 1956, when the Soviet army killed young people participating in the protest meeting. 76

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situation far easier for music than for other branches of art; officials became more tolerant of verbal genres, but the freedom of expression of instrumental music was practically unlimited from the very beginning. Despite replacing the barbaric methods of harassing “differently-minded” people by the more “civilised” ones, during the next so-called years of “stagnation”, the centre returned to its uncompromising position, and the atmosphere grew graver once again. For example, if, at the beginning of the 1960s, it was possible to perform Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 4, in the 1970s, according to Kirill Kondrashin, a conductor who emigrated from Russia, Symphony No. 13 (Babi Yar) by this ingenious musician, who had been acknowledged as a Soviet classic by the state authorities, was banned, along with Alfred Schnittke’s Symphony No. 2, Sergey Slonimsky’s opera Master i Margarita [The Master and Margarita] and a number of works by Edison Denisov, Sofia Gubaidulina, etc. (Kondrashin 1994: 9–13). The directions sent from the capital echoed differently in the republics. Changes that took place in the political course gave Georgian artists the chance to avoid the necessity to compromise with the authorities in order to realise their own artistic ideas. Although certain persons made compromises even in that situation – some tried to gain the benevolence of the officials, some because of “business considerations”, while others did it as a price paid for the activities inacceptable to the ideology. For example, in the case of Ioseb Kechakhmadze (1939–2013), the author of internationally recognised choral music, expressed the paradoxical situation formed in Georgia of that period rather well; the composer had worked at the Ministry of Culture and had to propagate Soviet cultural politics, but, from 1978, semi-legally cooperated with the Patriarchy of the Georgian Orthodox Church, and had to composed odes to the Comsomol simultaneously with ecclesiastic chants. It was a tacit agreement with the authorities, which ignored his anti-state activities and, in return, he had to fulfil official commissions from time to time. Briefly speaking, since the 1950s–1960s, the new generation launched a new stage in the development of Georgian musical thinking – the so-called “thaw” gave them a chance to acquaint themselves with various, often contradictory, experiences of twentieth–century Western music. Among the achievements of this music, works of Stravinsky, Bartók, Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Honegger etc. are of special importance for Georgian music. The world of impressionist harmonic timbre turned out to be very significant for Georgian musicians, they demonstrated a great inclination towards unusual sonorities, occasionally used aleatorics, serial techniques or minimalist means, but they were basically indifferent to constructivism and other novelties of the avant-gardists. Despite using modernist techniques rather modestly, the novelty of their musical constructions clearly displayed a new world outlook: externally renewed musical vocabulary (distinct tonal logic was replaced by decentralised, sometimes atonal thinking, fragmentary serialism, new modality, dissonant chords, angular, declamatory melodics, etc.), which, from the 1960s, also showed anticipatory signs of postmodernism (mainly intertextuality and poly77

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stylistics), in fact demonstrated the renovation of emotional and psychological content, artistic-aesthetic principles, and a variety of individual musical ideas. Therefore, the imagery of new Georgian music changed abruptly: the emphasis moved from the objective-epic sphere to psychologised lyrics, the subjectivity of musical expression was revealed in the sharp individualism; and the genre character of music determined by an intense application of folk material was replaced by the grotesque. The tendency towards individualisation widened the horizon of the 1960s–1980s Georgian music and made the content aspects versatile. Its semantic and emotional atmosphere is distinguished by the depth of the authors’ feelings – here we encounter philosophical meditation and lyrical contemplation, the grief of leaving and the tragedy of parting, the overflow of passions and disappointment. This variety is united by one thing – the humanistic attitude, which implies working out such a conception of human, according to which, man occupies the central place in the system of values; this music is also distinguished for its endeavours to render artistic ideas by means of the original musical language, through the search for one’s own intonation in exploiting any, even serial technical elements. This attitude towards the national issue did not change in the Soviet Union, even after the modification of the political situation: the authorities did everything to form, not only a socio-economic unity of the multi-national state bound by a common political system, but a cultural unity as well. Such a unification, in its turn, was to ensure the ideological solidity of the great country. Despite such an official course, in the 1960s–1970s, Georgian musicology, the only one in the Soviet Union, managed to work out a conception of national musical culture. Its author was the multitalented scientist and public figure Givi Orjonikidze,13 who played a special role in the conceptualisation of the principles of the world outlook with regard to technological changes that took place in the then Georgian musical culture. The acknowledged leader and ideologist of “the 60s generation”, he gave a verbal form to the new aesthetics, which was manifested in their creative practice. Orjonikidze accepted the idea of historical heredity and the unity of the twentieth-century Georgian musical culture as the basis for his conception, although national cultures of the peoples living in the Soviet Union were interpreted as an indivisible part of the Soviet musical culture. It was then that the Russian musicologist Boris Yarustovskiy joyfully declared: “Yes, we have a Soviet intonational order!” (Yarustovskiy 1973: 28). In spite of this, opposing the conception of universal Soviet culture formed as a result of “merging nations”, Orjonikidze considered the idea of originality and uniqueness as an essential feature of national musical cultures and argued that national element is important in the world outlook of art. 13 Givi Orjonikidze (1929–1984) was a Georgian musicologist, well-known in the Soviet Union and Europe, especially in Germany. His Russian colleagues wrote that Orjonikidze “made a significant impact on forming artistic life of Soviet country at the beginning of the 70–80s” (Zaderatsky 1999: 12). 78

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Orjonikidze, whose family was repressed in 1937, due to his life experience had to become a diplomat and a master of the Aesopian language, so that, even under the totalitarian regime, he could express the ideas inacceptable to the official ideology. Such boldness did not go unnoticed by Wolfgang Sandner, who wrote an essay for Kancheli’s CD with the orchestral piece Trauerfarbenes Land: “Even at that time, one needed only to scratch the surface of official terminology to bring to light the astonishingly unbroken words of Giya Kancheli’s friend, the Georgian musicologist Givi Orjonikidze. […] For the year 1982 and the place where they were uttered, these statements bordered on heresy, and already for this reason alone, go to the heart of Kancheli’s music” (Sandner 1998). Orjonikidze’s conception of national musical culture reflected the reality of Georgian music of the 1960s – the attitude towards the national tradition changed; it is understood more widely: now Georgian composers consider a national world outlook as a whole system of categories and emotional and psychological sensations, which actively participates in the formation of the artists’ psychology and thinking, determines their character and ensures the expression of the national in the composers’ conceptions. If in the music of the 1920s–1950s, a compulsory condition for expressing national was using folklore material, since the 1960s it was no longer a compulsory, but a potential condition. The main objective of authorial rehashing of the folklore sources was not to let the semantics of folklore penetrate, through the material taken from it, into the individualised imagery. In the subjectivised artistic content, the national acts not directly but is mediated; it often reveals itself only in the common emotional and psychological atmosphere, and makes listeners feel the national character and energy, though sometimes they can observe the turning of folklore into grotesque by means of imitating it. The idea of tradition is manifested in the attitude of the renewed national musical style towards a historically formed romantic model of understanding the world, and is correspondingly reflected in the content of Georgian music at various stages of its development, including the last decade of the previous century. It is revealed on a conceptual as well as dramaturgical level, in the principles of programming or poetic thinking, lyrical psychology, or contrast polarization. In this context, we can name a number of works composed in the 1960s–1980s: Sulkhan Nasidze’s symphonic trilogy Pirosmani (1977), Passione (1978), Dalai [Mourning Song] (1979); David Toradze’s Symphony No. 2 Ode to Nikortsminda [a millennium-old church in Georgia] (1970); Ghlonti’s Romantic Symphony (1975) and Vita Nova (1979); Svanidze’s Symphony No. 1 (1967) and chamber oratorio Pirosmani (1970); Temur Bakuradze’s string quartet Pshauri Natirilebi [Pshavi Mourning Songs] (1969); Nodar Mamisashvili’s piano cycle Lirikuli dgiuris purtslebidan [Pages from a Lyrical Diary] (1976); Kvernadze’s vocal-symphonic poems; Gabunia’s concerto-symphonic and chamber music; Ioseb Kechakmadze’s chorus compositions. Also worth mentioning are Taktakishvili’s and Revaz Lagidze’s operas and Tsinstadze’s, Machavariani’s, and Revaz Gabichvadze’s ballets. 79

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The first, and for that period, unprecedented event in Georgian music was Nodar Gabunia’s vocal-instrumental piece Igav–araki [Fable] (1964),14 which echoed a specific emotional and psychological atmosphere and an ironic, paradoxical aspect of the interpretation of reality, established in Georgian cinema and theatre since the 1960s. Sulkhan-Saba Orbeliani’s15 allegorical text about “building a village with the help of a rooster’s crowing” presented by the reciter, explicitly pointed to the way of living in the Soviet state called “a state of slogans”, although, of course, such parallels were not drawn openly. It turned out to be the only composition in the works by Gabunia in which quasi-folklore expressivity (intonation, harmony, and manner of intoning) creates a sharp, grotesque imagery. In Georgian music of this period, one could observe the co-existence of the so-called “negative” and “positive” aesthetics. According to the former, the existing reality deserves only a negative estimation, and art, which sets certain aesthetic values, is therefore false (Adorno). The positive idea, that is the idea of “setting” renewed Georgian music, echoes the Western existential tendency,16 which opposes the rationalist theory and, like romanticism, recognises the intuitive grasp of reality and subjectivist world outlook. It is clear that this “setting” does not lie on the surface of the design, it means neither Soviet optimism, nor Hollywood “happy ending”; it often ensues from negation, and in every particular case, creates a different artistic reality. So, we encounter existential tones in the new romantic tendencies in the Georgian music of the 1970s, which, thus, synchronically echoed the process underway in music practice elsewhere in the world. The closeness to the typical European way of thinking (and not only musical) of the century is evident in the special meditative relief of Kancheli’s music,17 where we encounter the “existential exit beyond oneself ” (Heidegger). It is, by no means, accidental that the first bars of Kancheli’s Trauerfarbenes Land, composed in the 1990s, evoked associations with Albert Camus’s L’Étranger, wherein Camus speaks about the powerful effect of a laconic telegram: “Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday – I can’t be sure. The telegram from home says – your mother passed away. Funeral tomorrow” (Sandner 1998). The existential character of music is not a prerogative of only this musical work; since the 1960s, it is distinctly given in Kancheli’s works, in whose music the “created reality does not separate people in their feelings but […] includes people in the belonging to the truth residing in the created and thus sets being of people with each other and existing with each other” (Haidegeri [Heidegger] 1992: 70). Giya Kancheli, who composed seven symphonies during the first period of his creative career and even constructed the original dramaturgical model 14 Received UNESCO award in 1965. 15 Eighteenth-century Georgian writer and enlightener. 16 “The essence of art is creating; the essence of creating is setting the truth. Art will gain its own essence as it is set” (Haidegeri [Heidegger] 1992: 78). 17 In spite of the essential difference between dramaturgical levels, the same specificity characterises Bakuradze’s music. 80

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of one-movement symphony, actively applied the word as the symbol of transcendental, universal since the 1980s. For him, both music and word have symbolic content. He frequently creates multi-lingual compositions, in which words are often presented as independent semantic or asemantic units and do not carry conceptual content. This is the case in his only operaDa ars musika [Music for the Living],18 in which he uses five languages: Sumerian, English, French, Italian and Georgian. Here, Kancheli puts purely musical content into the verbal sound-phoneme and gives it the same significance in the creation of musical language as the musical sound itself. Thus, he creates a unified musical-semantic field in which a word becomes an integral part of the musical structure. This opera is innovative, not only in terms of word treatment but also in terms of its genre specifics as well. In this political musical theatre, in the anti-militarist play against violence, the music-scenography-directing is so welded that changing one of the components means destroying this original universe. Music of the 1960s–1980s expressed its connection to traditional values, first of all, through their original interpretation. For example, by this period it was already possible to realise the ethic- philosophical ideas that were formed in the in-depth layers of conceptual design on the verge of religious consciousness and expressed the attitude of composer’s thinking to eternal categories common to both national and international. This process started in Kancheli’s Symphony No. 2 (1970), which was, for that time, rather provocatively named Sagaloblebi [Canticles] and was followed by a number of opuses among which were Nasidze’s Symphony No. 6 Passione and chorus poem Vedreba [A Prayer] (1980), Taktakishvili’s chorus cycle Midzghvna Shushaniks [Dedication to Saint Shushanik] (1979), Kvernadze’s opera Iko mervesa tselsa … [And in the Eighth Year …] (1983), Mamisashvili’s chorus poem Da gananatla kideni soplisani [And by Death the World was Illuminated] (1979), Kancheli’s Liturgy for viola and symphonic orchestra (1989), etc. This music is far from the traditional understanding of religious feeling: along with the individualised experience of the religious, it reflects the author’s spiritual world, attitude to the eternal categories of harmony, kindness, and love. High aesthetic values characterise the works of those composers who entered the arena in the 1970s–1980s: Teimuraz Bakuradze (b. 1943), Ioseb Bardanashvili (b. 1948), Giorgi Chlaidze (b. 1943), Giorgi Shaverzashvili (b. 1950), Zurab Nadareishvili (b. 1961), and others. Generally, they followed those who had paved the way in the 1960s, although each one of them differed from the others in his individual vision of reality and orientation toward original values. For example, Bakuradze continues the dialogue with listeners on the theme of life and death, which he had started in his string quartet Pshauri Natirilebi and in the 1990s attached to the theme a tragic sounding (Two Books for a 18 Kanchelis’ opera was created on the libretto of Robert Sturua, an outstanding Georgian theatre director, the dramaturgical structure of which conditioned the original dramaturgy of the opera. In addition to Tbilisi Opera and Ballet Theatre it was restaged for the Deutsches National Theatre inWeimar (1999). 81

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Quintet /1992/); the Israeli composer Bardanashvili,19 who was brought up on the traditions of Georgian musical culture, also learned to honour his roots: his original musical style was formed as a result of the synthesis of Georgian and Jewish musical traditions, and expresses the harmonious relationships, characterising the twenty-six-century long coexistence of these two peoples in Georgia20 (Poem-Dialogue for 4 French horns, guitar, cello and two pianos, 1975; Symphony No. 1 Exodus, 1980). It is worth noting that two composers of that time, Svanidze and Mikheil Shughliashvili (1941–1996), are nowadays called non-conformists because their musical stylistics stand out against the background of the then mainstream Georgian music. But in the case of Svanidze, it is not as a result of rejecting traditional values but, rather, of the radicalisation of musical language that was achieved through free adaptations of different composing techniques of the twentieth century and differing sharply from the moderate attitudes established in the 1960–1980s Georgian music (for example, in the chamber oratorio Pirosmani, which is an example of an expressionist portrayal of a traditional topic – the tragic fate of an artist in society – with elements of serial and atonal music, Sprechstimme, etc.). As for Shughliashvili, his world outlook was nourished by positivism (Dolidze 2005), his experiments, which started in the 1970s, were based on using principles of number relationships to organise his music, and aimed at the adequate graphic representation of musical form, which required computer techniques.21 Such experiments became usual following the declaration of Georgia’s independence. A new stage not only in the history of Georgian music, but also in the history of the country as a whole began from 1990. One of the most painful and insidious plans of the Soviet imperialist policy was the unification of the republics into a single economic system, the violation of which, as expected, was followed by economic collapse in Georgia. Instigated by Russian special forces and supported by the military, the civil war eventually led to the loss of territories in the Abkhazia and Tskhinvali region, and Russian occupation. Political and socio-economic difficulties in the country affected musical life as well: along with state subsidies, composers lost the opportunity to perform their works in public, and state-funded orchestras, chamber ensembles, choirs, the Tbilisi Opera and Ballet Theatre, and the Kutaisi Opera House turned fell into a severe crisis. Concerts were rarely held; previously popular international festivals of classical music were stopped, etc. Under a liberal ideology, value orientations of the society changed, as did the dynamics of the relationships between different fields of music – the number of classical music consumers significantly decreased in favour of Georgian and, for the most part, Western popular music consumers in different direc19 Since 1995 he has lived and worked in Israel. 20 Jews are one of the oldest communities in Georgia, having migrated there during the Babylonian captivity (sixth century BC). 21 Shugliashvili’s music was almost never performed in Soviet times; it gained recognition in Georgia in the 2000s. After performing at the Swiss-Georgian festival of contemporary music Close Encounter, his music was highly appreciated by foreign critics. 82

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tions of mass culture, which resulted in a radical change in the Georgian melosphere (Zemtsovskiy 2012). One thing must be said, the people deprived of religion by the Bolsheviks returned to the church with particular enthusiasm and early-Christian hymns preserved at the National Centre for Manuscripts and restored by young professional musicians were revived at numerous old and newly constructed churches. Those trends did not change in the new millennium. Show business was still in first place (in this, Georgia does not differ much from the modern Western countries). However, the number of people interested in classical music began to increase; academic concerts, including contemporary music, were organised regularly and Georgia once again became a country of numerous international festivals of theatre, film, folk and academic music. As for Georgian composers, the above-mentioned experiments mainly affected the generation of the 1990s. The main artistic-aesthetic ideals of the composers who appeared in Georgia in the 1960s–1980s did not change, even in the more recent times of liberal ideology. The new generation of composers, Eka Chabashvili (b. 1971), Maka Virsaladze (b. 1971), Revaz Kiknadze (b. 1960) and others, have brought new tendencies, the most important among them from the conceptual aspect being the interpretation of music as a complex multi-constituent whole (a synthesis of audio-visual, electro-acoustic, electronic phonation and timbres, a symbiosis of verbal and musical phonemes, etc.). From this aspect, creative works by Chabashvili, a composer, artist, and essay writer and author of numerous opuses, among them several musical-theatrical, symphonic, and chamber pieces, which are marked with unbounded fantasy and talent, deserves special note. The most important thing in this music, which attracts not only domestic, but also foreign audiences, is its experimental spirit and the novelty in the interpretation of national sources of music.

Instead of a Conclusion It could be summarised that, due to the Soviet experience of the attitude to ideology, gifted Georgian artists developed a specific approach, which helped them express their free will and create exceptional artistic values, despite the strictest totalitarian regime. This was the limit of freedom possible at the time. The boundaries of freedom are conditional in every society. This boundary is defined by personal responsibility, but it is often caused by other determinants, unfortunately, mostly “unfriendly” forces. The price of freedom in the Soviet Union was compromise. Georgian composers, freed from the necessity of compromise, moved from the real-imperialist space to the ideal world of freedom. This is evidenced by their works of the 1960s–1980s, in which the highest values are present. The composers’ historic and cultural memory and their aspirations to become part of the contemporary musical culture are clearly seen in Georgian art 83

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music of the Soviet and post-Soviet periods. However, the key to the international success of this music lies in the very fact that individuality of expression based on the national culture occupies a significant place in its plural identity, thus, allowing Western listeners to encounter a different cultural circle represented by the composers of this music.

References ARANOVSKIY, Mark (1997) “Simfoniya i vremya” [Symphony and time], in Mark Aranovskiy (ed.) Russkaya muzïka i XX vek [Russian music and the twentieth century], Moscow: Gosudarstvennïy Institut Iskusstvoznaniya, 303–370. ANSARI, Emily (2015) “The Virtue of American Power and the Power of American Virtue: Exceptionalist Tropes in Early Cold War American Musical Nationalism”, GESJ: Musicology and Cultural Science 1 (11): 19–24. DOLIDZE,

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Mikhail”,

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GANSLIK, Eduard [Hanslick, Eduard] (1895) O muzïkal’no prekrasnom [On the beautiful in music], Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Yurgensona. Georgian polyphonic singing (2008) Nomination fileNo.00008, Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, UNESCO, https://ich.unesco.org/en/RL/georgian-polyphonic-singing-00008. HAIDEGERI, Martin [Heidegger, Martin] (1992) Dasabami khelovnebis Kmnilebisa [The Origin of the Work of Art], Tbilisi: Goni. JAVAKHISHVILI, Ivane, Nikoloz Berdzenishvili and Simon Janashia (1943) Sakartvelos istoria [History of Georgia], Tbilisi: Sakartvelos SSR Sakhelmtsipo Gamomcemloba. KONDRASHIN, Kirill (1994) “Vam ne pridetsya krasnet’ za familiyu” [You will never have to blush for your last name], Muzïkal’naya Akademiya 1: 9–13. KVANTALIANI, Tamar (1993) Akhali kartuli sagundo shemsruleblobis sakitkhebi [The Issues of new Georgian choral performance], unpublished diploma thesis, Tbilisi: State Conservatoire. MAMARDASHVILI, Merab (1992) Saubrebi filosofiaze [Conversation on philosophy], Tbilisi: Metsniereba. NADEL, Siegfried Frederick (2010) “Georgian songs”, in Rusudan Tsurtsumia and Joseph Jordania (eds.) Echoes from Georgia: Seventeen Arguments on Georgian Polyphony, New York: Nowa Science Publishers, 1–17.

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NODIA, Gia (1992) “Ideologia: erovnuli da skhva” [Ideology: national and others], Afra /Sail 5: 157–168. ORJONIKIDZE, Givi (1988) “Problema cennosti v muzïke” [Problem of value in music], Sovetskaya muzïka 4: 52–59. PETRITSI, Ioane (1937) Ganmartebai proklestvis diadokhosisa da platonurisa filosofiisatvis [Commentaries on the philosophy of Proclus Diadochoses and Plato], in Shromebi/Works, vol. 2, Tbilisi: Tbilisis Sakhelmtsipo Universitetis Gamomtsemloba. SANDNER, Wolfgang (1998) “Essays in Otherness. Giya Kancheli in His Music”. Introduction for the CD Trauerfarbenes Land, ECM 1646, Munich: ECM Records. TSULUKIDZE, Anton (1971) Kartuli sabchota musika [Georgian Soviet music], Tbilisi: Khelovneba. TSURTSUMIA, Rusudan and Susanne Ziegler (2014) “Echoes from the Past: Georgian Prisoners’ Songs Recorded on Wax Cylinders in Germany 1916–1918”, in Historical Recordings of the Berlin Phonogramm–Archiv (with 2 CDs), Tbilisi and Berlin: International Research Center for Traditional Polyphony of Tbilisi State Conservatoire, and Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv. XENOPHON (2008) Anabasis, vol. 4, translation by H. G. Dakyns, YARUSTOVSKIY, Boris (1973) “Yest’ Sovetskiy intonacionnïy stroy!” [Yes, we have a Soviet intonational order!], Sovetskaya muzïka 3: 52–61. ZADERATSKIY, Vsevolod (1999) “Vïdayushchiysya uchenïy, publitsist i deyatel” [Prominent scientist, publicist and public figure], in Nato Moistsrapishvili (ed.) Givi Orjonikidze, Tbilisi: Tbilisi State Conservatoire, 219–22. ZEMTSOVSKIY, Izaliy (2012) “Melosfera Musorgskogo – ego ‘neizvestnaya rodina’” [Musorgsky’s melosphere – his ‘unknown homeland’], Muzïkal’naya akademiya 3: 30–36.

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CHAPTER 5

National and General Signs of the Ukrainan Church Music of the Present Lyubov Kyyanovska (Lviv)

The late 1980s to the early 1990s marked a decisive turning point, not only in the history of Ukraine, but also in its spiritual life. This was characterised by the completion of the totalitarian stage and the beginning of the next one, by the complex vicissitudes of the revival of the national idea at all levels, and by radical changes in outlook. The collapse of the Soviet Union and the formation of an independent state on its ruins on 24 August 1991 released and made public hitherto intentionally concealed and forcibly forbidden ethical, philosophical, political, scientific, aesthetic postulates, radically changing the ideological orientation of society. Archives began to open in large numbers and, in accordance with their documentary evidence, communist crimes against citizens were made public. The history of Ukraine was subjected to radical revision, in which the fundamental events of the past were redefined from the standpoint of another system of values. The role of the individual in history was rethought, especially the names of prominent figures who, in Soviet historiography, had been designated as traitors: for instance, Hetman Ivan Mazepa, the first President of Ukraine (in 1918), Mykhailo Hrushevs’kyy, and many others. In the process of national revival, religion acquired a special role, since the Church had been extremely cruelly persecuted by the communist regime. For a long time, religious confession had indirectly been a symbol of inner spiritual freedom. Only the Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate was officially allowed. Moreover, it had to cooperate with the relevant ideological divisions of the Communist Party and the State Security Committee. The Head of the History Department at the National University of the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy, Dr Natalya Shlikhta, states: 87

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“There is an opinion that all bishops were connected with the KGB. I once interviewed a well-known Church researcher, Michael Bourdieu, who had been monitoring freedom of conscience in the Soviet Union since the 1960s. He spoke of several Orthodox hierarchs who began their activities in the 1970s and 1980s. He said that in order to do something to protect the Church, the bishop had to achieve a certain level of cooperation with the special services. Otherwise, a person had no chance of becoming a bishop” (Skorokhod 2016).

Semi-officially, in the western regions of Ukraine there were several Roman Catholic churches, including the famous Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Lviv, which was also visited by Greek Catholics. All other Christian denominations, especially Greek Catholic and Autocephalous, were banned and kept underground. Processes of religious revival began in Ukraine before the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The era of “perestroika” of the last Soviet Secretary General Mikhail Gorbachev stirred up believers as well. Before the proclamation of independence, on 23 April 1991, the Verkhovna Rada of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic adopted the Law “On Freedom of Conscience and Religious Organizations in Ukraine” concerning one of the most important problems in the ethno-national development of the society. Finally, all bans on religion and church organizations were lifted. Citizens of the republic were legally granted the right to freedom of conscience and religion, and the interests of believers and religious organizations were combined with the interests of the state (Zakon Ukrayiny 1991). First of all, these rights extended to the free celebration of religious holidays and church attendance, observance of marriage rites, baptism, the first Holy Communion, and funerals, which had previously been categorically forbidden; those who violated the ban were threatened with dismissal, disciplinary punishments and even being classified as mentally ill. The ban on other denominations, which had previously been severely persecuted in the USSR was also lifted. For example, in Ukraine this encompassed the Greek Catholic Church (UGCC) and the Autocephalous Orthodox Church (UAOC). Since 1991 the situation regarding religion in Ukraine has been metaphorically confirmed by the second law of Newton’s laws of motion and universal gravitation. His second law states that the rate of change of momentum of a body is directly proportional to the force applied. In addition, Ukrainians have traditionally been considered as the most religious people in Europe. That is why, in the period of the USSR, despite all prohibitions, a Christian outlook was preserved in the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. Ukrainians secretly celebrated the biggest religious holidays, baptised children, married and so on. When the persecution of religion ceased, church traditions were very actively revived and carefully cherished in the independent Ukraine. To confirm this, let me demonstrate recent official statistics: “If in 2013 there were more than 70.6% Orthodox, then in 2018 there were 67.3%. The number of Roman Catholics decreased from 1.3% to 0.8%. Greek Catholics, on the contrary, increased from 5.7% to 9.4%, and 88

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Protestants from 0.8% to 2.2%. The number of Muslims decreased from 0.7% to 0.2% in 2017 (no data for 2018). In five years the Jewish population increased slightly – from 0.3% to 0.4%. The number of Buddhists (about 0.1%), Hindus (0.1%), pagans (0.1%) and representatives of other faiths (0.1%) remained virtually unchanged. As for atheists, in 2018, 11% of Ukrainians did not consider themselves to be of any religion [8.3% did not respond – L. K.]” (Do yakykh tserkov: 2018).

That is, 80% of the populations of Ukraine are believers and most of them belong to Christian denominations. For Ukraine, the return of freedom of religion meant not simply a return to religious values, because the most important and most numerous layers of national culture and tradition have been revived, which even in their most “secular” manifestations appeal to Christian origins. At the same time, the legalization of different denominations or different branches of the same denomination (such as in Orthodoxy, where for a long period there were three confessional communities: The Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate, the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Kyiv Patriarchate and the Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church) caused sharp controversy in the community on religious grounds. They reveal, as in a drop of water, contrasts and conflicts, not only among the religious community, but also in civil society; since religion has occupied a very important place in the social and political life of the state, it has influenced on the consciousness of believers in all spheres of life. The complex and dramatic collisions of the existence of religion in Ukrainian society have been brightly reflected in art. It is worth noting that religious subjects were present in national art even in the most “atheistic” periods, albeit veiled. It is difficult to recall even one truly significant Ukrainian artist – poets, composers, playwrights, etc. – who, both in Soviet times and in the independent state, did not express their vision of the sacrum in one way or another as the highest absolute value, beyond time and existential circumstances. A leading modern Ukrainian composer, Myroslav Skoryk, has outlined the impulses of contemporary sacred creativity thus: “Why have we composers recently turned to religious music? Firstly, because it had been banned, and secondly because religious music tries to be morally pure, spiritual, it requires a purity of feelings, faith, experience, compassion and participation – that is to say, everything that is lacking in the modern world” (Chekan 2005: 9). Hidden religious impulses were noticeable in the works of writers, composers, artists of the 1960s (the so-called “Sixties”, representatives of art of “Khrushchev’s Thaw” period). It is clear that under rigid ideological censorship they were expressed in an “Aesopian language”, often encrypted in historical or folklore hypostasis. Among the most important Ukrainian literary works of the Soviet era of the second half of the twentieth century, in which sacred symbolism was clearly embodied, I should mention the novel Sobor [The Cathedral] (1968) by Oles Honchar, the verse novel Marusia Churai (1979) by Lina Kostenko, Ihor Kalynets’s poetry (1960s–1980s), and paintings by Ivan 89

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Ostafiychuk, Alla Horska or Ivan Marchuk. All these artists were cruelly persecuted by the communist regime: Alla Horska was killed under unknown circumstances; Lina Kostenko was constantly under the surveillance of the KGB; Ihor Kalynets, together with his wife Iryna Stasiv-Kalynets, were sent to the Siberian camps for decades; Ivan Ostafiychuk was forced to emigrate to Canada, etc. However, the most religious subjects were presented in music, in which sacred motifs and allusions were transmitted by several “channels”, in terms of both theme and content. They were based on various associative ranks, and indirectly conveyed to the listeners their important spiritual meaning preserving a millennial of uninterrupted musical and ritual tradition. Among these “channels” the most important were: • Characteristic folk music genres and rituals, especially Christmas and Easter ritual folk music; • The genre of the spiritual choral concert, stylistic allusions to the choral masterpieces of the most prominent representatives of Ukrainian Baroque music: Maksym Berezovsky, Dmytro Bortniansky and Artem Vedel; • Appeal to poetic and religious symbols of the past, embodied in the literature of the eighteenth–nineteenth centuries; in particular, in the works of Hryhoriy Skovoroda, Taras Shevchenko, Ivan Franko, and Lesya Ukrainka. Ukrainian artists particularly and actively addressed the national baroque tradition in an effort to find the most appropriate artistic forms of embodiment of religious outlook, contrary to the official state doctrine of atheism. In this conscious choice there is an important layer of meaning: on the one hand, the baroque era of the seventeenth–eighteenth centuries was one of the culminating periods of the history of the people. It was associated with the existence of an independent “Zaporozhian Sich”. On the other hand, spiritual music reached its highest peak at this time. Such a phenomenon of national culture as the choral spiritual concert appeared in the creativity of Maksym Berezovsky, Dmytro Bortniansky, Artem Vedel and many others. “The baroque nature of many Sixties [composers of the 1960s – L. K.] seems to be conditioned on the one hand, by the need to return the high-spirited heritage of a nation whose true cultural treasury was connected with the baroque era. On the other side, baroque themes and images have formed a kind of ‘Aesopian language’, which has facilitated speaking about the most actual problems of the present: very often cultural reflection has already been fulfilled on the macro level of dramaturgical plan or ‘cultural dialogue’ with the period by integrating some of its text into the modern text. The simplest and most common example of such a ‘dialogue’ [...is a] composer’s use of a literary text of this era, which in general programmes a complex set of appropriate means or a whole dramaturgical scheme, capable of being an indisputable indication of the source of the inspiration and, at the same time, may be updated according to modern aesthetics” (Mel’nyk 2003: 91). 90

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Leading Ukrainian composers have used these specific genres and thematic “keys” of the spiritual sphere. This is why religious and folk subtexts are present in works of different genres. One may point to a number of iconic artefacts of the late Soviet era in which a sacred source forms the core of a figurative concept. In Ivan Karabyts’s choral concert Sad bozhestvennykh pisen’ [The Garden of Divine Songs] (1971) the poetry of the “wandering philosopher” Hryhoriy Skovoroda has been recast in a modern way with the transformation of spiritual songs – kanty and psalms of the eighteenth century. In the melody of the Larga Symphony (1973) by Yevhen Stankovych the similarity with an ancient Ukrainian sacred monody is heard. In Levko Kolodub’s Symfoniya v styli ukrayins’koho baroko [Symphony in the Style of the Ukrainian Baroque] (1980) there are vivid allusions to the choral spiritual concerts of Dmytro Bortniansky and Artem Vedel. In the orchestral Poema pam’yati Tarasa Shevchenka [Poem in Memory of Taras Shevchenko] (1963) by Vitaliy Hubarenko, elements of the chorale and imitation of psalm intonation indicate the use of Biblical psalms from Taras Shevchenko’s poetry. Leonid Hrabovsky’s Concerto misterioso [Mysterious Concerto] for nine instruments (1977, in memory of the folk artist Kateryna Bilokur) exquisitely combines characteristic ethnic ritual songs with typical motifs of a spiritual concert. When new times came, the communist ban was lifted from the churches. It is clear that art has also responded to the religious and spiritual demands of society. Thus, it is not surprising that creativity on religious topics, including music, during the time of independence has received exceptional attention. In a situation of creative freedom, sacred images in art have become much fuller and multifaceted in the creativity of the above-mentioned artists, representatives of the older generation of “Sixties”, and in the spiritual formation of their younger contemporaries. They replaced the celebrated generation of “Sixties” and had a great deal to rely on in their creative visions of religious imagery. These artists received a good foundation for the development of spirituality and have done this very successfully. The lengthy list of composers who came to professional music in the late 1980s but truly realised themselves after 1991, includes Viktor Stepurko, Mykhailo Shukh, Victor Kaminsky, Victoriya Pol’ova, Oleksandr Kozarenko, Yuri Lanyuk, Anna Havrylets, Ihor Shcherbakov, Karmella Tsepkolenko, Volodymyr Runchak, Oleksandr Yakovchuk, Volodymyr Shumejko, Mykola Lastovetsky and, from the younger generation, Bohdana Frolyak, Mykhailo Shved, Bohdan Sehin, Ostap Manulyak and many others. Their works, including those based on spiritual themes, are performed not only in Ukraine, but far beyond its borders. It is more correct to state that only very few contemporary Ukrainian composers avoid the spiritual-religious sphere, because in the national artistic continuum it has become the fundamental basis of all creative impulses and manifestations. On account of social and political changes in Ukraine in the 1990s and the first decades of the twenty-first century, religious forms of culture have acquired incredible intensity, striking efficiency and diversity. This is confirmed by the formation of various societies of sacred orientation, the popularisation 91

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of church creativity by prominent artistic groups (musical and theatrical), the arranging of exhibitions of icons and church paintings, the publishing of albums, monographs, and the organisation of ensembles performing spiritual music etc. Thus, the line of religious art was revived in all forms in painting, poetry and music, and architecture (for example, in the Lviv region with a population of about 3 million inhabitants, around 350 new churches were built during the years of Independence /1991–2019/ and almost all the old ones were restored). Despite their considerable number, the richness of thematically figurative and genre embodiment of spiritual themes, not all of these “products” are equally valuable in their artistic quality. It should be noted that among these numerous musical and religious opuses there were various creative motivations. For example, really talented artists demonstrated an extraordinarily subtle understanding of the sphere of the sacrum, an exceptional treatment of canonical texts. At the same time, there were also many authors whose interest in church genres and Biblical subjects was caused solely by the desire to adapt to the situation, by the wish “to keep up with fashion”. This was the reason for the fact that during the thirty years of the independence period, when religious subjects were not only officially allowed but were also proved to be in demand by society, a large number of low-level artistic opuses on church themes belonging to the amateur sphere have appeared. However, in this large number of works there are many truly innovative compositions, strikingly individual in their artistic style, consonant with both the subject and the spirit of the times. Thus, the return of religious genres, sacred themes, and symbols in Ukrainian musical creativity, and the bringing up to date of canonical genres during the last decades of the twentieth century and in the first decades of the twenty-first century have become an “organic” part of the processes of spiritual renewal. Olena Ripko has rightly noted that, “(t)he white spots of history are not just like the forgetting of entire inhabited continents, they are enormous ecological lacunae, which have had a striking effect on the conceptual foundations of science and, finally, on the genetics of artistic culture” (Ripko 1996: 26). For this reason, composers are intensively restoring the artificially interrupted historical tradition of sacred art in a wide range of genres. In all the diversity of hundreds of religious and spiritual artefacts in Ukrainian music, several groups can be identified, within which genre and thematic subgroups can also be outlined. In 2009, for the first time, Ostap Manulyak did a very detailed classification of contemporary (i.e. created during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries) Ukrainian music in a diverse way related to spiritual and religious principles. The advantage of this classification is that Manulyak as a composer is actively involved in the creation of music and religious artefacts. Moreover, he collaborates with festivals of spiritual music, so that he understands the problem from the inside – as a creator, as a researcher, and as a participant in spiritual and artistic activities. Manulyak researched this subject in his doctoral dissertation 92

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and offered a universal system of typology and classification of compositions belonging to the religious musical field. In general, he has divided them into two categories: “religious music” and “sacred music”. These two general areas can also be further divided into a number of subcategories. “In particular, within the category of ‘religious music’ are distinguished the following works: – works of para-liturgical genres: they are not intended by the canon as an integral part of the Liturgy or other church services, but may be used in it; – works in which canonical texts are used in combination with other texts (‘quasi-sacred or quasi-liturgical music’) or canonical texts are interpreted in a non-specific context (‘para-sacred music’); as well as ideologically secularised works; – works that are not directly related to a religious cult, but that have a spiritual orientation by their content, title or the composer’s intention (non-sacred music of religious subjects). In the category ‘sacred music’ can be distinguished subcategories such as: – ‘sacred non-liturgical music’ – works belonging to liturgical genres of all formal characters and compositional techniques, but which for certain reasons (performing forces, stylistic features, time frames etc.) cannot be universally used in liturgical practice; – ‘sacred liturgical music’ – works based on canonical church chants. They are an integral part of liturgical practice and can be universally used in it. The application of this new classification system made it possible to define the attitude of contemporary composers to the tradition of religious music and church canons (in the case of sacred music)” (Manulyak 2009: 16).

Ostap Manulyak’s classification promotes our awareness of a very wide range of religious and spiritual themes in the works of contemporary Ukrainian composers and of the diversity of their approaches to sacred sources. In this article the author partly uses Manulyak’s classification, somewhat rethinking it in terms of other parameters. Genre and thematic sphere are generally the most distinguished, but separate subgroups are indicated in it as well. The first general group includes the canonical genres of different denominations, mainly Orthodox (and the ritually identical Greek Catholic and Autocephalous) and Roman Catholic, with fewer Protestant genres. Some works combine elements from different denominations or meaningfully expand the religious canon by identifying the national Ukrainian character of a canonical work (such as the Deutsches Requiem by Johannes Brahms). The first subgroup in this group contains works by contemporary composers in genres that predominate in the Orthodox and Greek-Catholic rite – the Liturgy (John of Chrysostom and St Basil the Great), the Akathist hymn, the Rosary, the All-night vigil, the Memorial service, and others. To this subgroup belong the works of Lesya Dychko (Urochysta Liturhiya [Solemn Liturgy] for soloists and mixed choir, 1999–2003), Victor Kaminsky (Arkhiyereys’ka Bo93

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zhestvenna Liturhiya [Pontifical Divine Liturgy], 2000; Akafist do Presvyatoyi Bohorodytsi [Akathist to the Most Holy Mother of God], 2002; Vervychna Sluzhba [The Rosary], 2001; Paskhal’na Utrenya [Easter Matins], 2005), Yevhen Stankovych (Liturhiya dlya mishanoho khoru [Liturgy for Mixed Choir], 2003), Olexandr Kozarenko (Ukrayins’ka kafolichna liturhiya [Ukrainian Catholic Liturgy], 2005), Volodymyr Pavensky (Bozhestvenna liturhiya [Divine Liturgy], 2014) and many others. At the same time, modern Ukrainian composers often turn to writing an incomplete liturgical cycle, creating separate parts of it. In this context, we should mention works of Valentyn Sylvestrov (Otche nash [Our Father], 1995), Victoriya Pol’ova (Kheruvyms’ka [Cherubic Hymn], 1999; Otche nash [Our Father], 2002; Zapovidi blazhenstv [The Beatitudes], 2003), Mykhailo Shukh (Blahoslovy, dushe moya, Hospoda [Bless the Lord, o My Soul], 2000; Svyatyy Bozhe [Holy God], 2000), Olena Popova (Viruyu [The Creed], 2002), Iryna Aleksiychuk (Molytva Hospodnya [The Lord’s Prayer]; (Otche nash [Our Father]), Yuri Ishchenko (Otche nash [Our Father], 2003), Victor Tymozhynsky (Blahoslovy, dushe moya, Hospoda [Bless the Lord, oh My Soul]), Bohdana Filts (Dostoyno ye [Worthy It is], 2004) and others. The absolute quantitative majority of the works of this subgroup can be explained by an external impulse (after all, Orthodox and Greek Catholics make up almost 75% of citizens of modern Ukraine). An internal impetus for the development of the Orthodox and, close to it, the Greek Catholic tradition is a very voluminous layer of creativity of past eras: from ancient monody to the religious music of the composers of the early twentieth century (Mykola Leontovych, Kyrylo Stetsenko, Oleksandr Koshyts). Representatives of the musical culture of the Ukrainian diaspora in the world should also be mentioned here. They have constantly addressed spiritual topics and church genres (Ihor Sonevytsky, Maryan Kuzan, Zinoviy Lavryshyn etc.). For this reason, the appeal of the canonical genres of Orthodox and Greek Catholic tradition is perceived by both artists and listeners as a continuation of the centuries-old tradition of national culture. In the spiritual surroundings of the Ukrainian Greek Catholics in the western regions, belonging from the late eighteenth century until 1918 to the Austrian (from 1867 Austro-Hungarian) Empire, the phenomenon of “priestly intelligentsia” appeared. In Galicia, Bukovyna and Transcarpathia most politicians, scientists, artists, cultural and educational figures had been alumni of theological seminaries, theologians by primary education, or came from priestly families. The second subgroup includes works in genres directly related to the Catholic liturgy, such as masses, requiems, propers and other sacred genres, written mostly in Latin or with reference to the Catholic denomination. To this subgroup belong Et incarnatus for mixed choir a cappella (1990), the Mass In excelsis et in terra for soloists, choir, organ and percussion (1992) by Mykhailo Shukh, the Passion according to St Luke Cantus Canonicus Na smert’ Isusa [On the Death of Jesus] in four parts for female choir, reader and twotrumpets or for eight-voiced mixed choir (1991) by Volodymyr Runchak, Frahmenty 94

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latyns’koyi liturhiyi [Fragments of the Latin Liturgy] for mixed choir and organ (1991) by Oleksandr Shchetynsky, Missa Luminosa (2011) and Stabat Mater (2015) by Oleksandr Rodin, the Mass for soloists, mixed choir and string orchestra by Al’ona Tomlionova and many others. The third subgroup consists of religious musical compositions which are genres from Protestant denominations. In fact, this group is the smallest in number, since there are only a few Protestant communities in Ukraine (according to the above statistics approximately 2%). Here there are almost no specific artistic sources, i.e. created by Ukrainian composers or composers – representatives of other national groups in this territory in the past epoch, unlike the extensive heritage of the Orthodox, Roman and Greek Catholics. Existing examples of the creativity of Ukrainian composers related to the Protestant spiritual sphere, have been inspired by artistic impulses (for example, fascination with the Protestant chorale, organ music, baroque tradition, orientation towards models of spiritual music by J. S.Bach or G. F.Handel), or by cooperation with relevant foreign centres, most often German. This group includes the organ chorales Melankholiya [Melancholy], Tykha molytva [Silent Prayer] and Rizdvyana pisnya [Christmas Song] (2000–2002) by M. Shukh, in which the author appealed to J. S.Bach’s organ choral preludes, Apokryfy [Apocrypha] (2001) for organ by Sviatoslav Lun’ov, in which as a prototype he has also chosen the organ music of the Leipzig Kantor etc. The fourth subgroup consists of so-called mixed genres, in which the canonical forms of one denominational liturgical rite are compared with others (for example, Orthodox and Catholic), or canonical parts turn to fragments of entirely secular texts. Such a symbiosis was used by M. Shukh in the seven-section Requiem Lux Aeterna for canonical Latin texts and poems by N. Minsky, V. Solovyov and K. Balmont (1988), and by Olexandr Kozarenko in Strasti Hospoda nashoho Isusa Khrysta [The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ] – ten antiphons from Ostroh chant for reader, choir, soloists, organ and orchestra (1999) which combines the Orthodox text and melodic canvas of Ostroh chant with an instrumental accompaniment, characteristic of the Catholic tradition and the genre of passions most associated with the creativity of the Protestant J. S. Bach. The second general group of religious works we define as “para-liturgical”. In it (following O.Manulyak’s definition) are combined vocal and choral works, not provided by the canon as an integral part of the Liturgy or other church services. Nevertheless, they may be used in it, for example during Communion or at a spiritual concert. The first subgroup here is the genre of Psalms, common to all Christian denominations. In Ukrainian culture this genre has received an exceptional role and has been marked by national symbols. From the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the Psalter has belonged to the group of spiritual texts necessary to the artistic practice of Ukrainians. Although the translations of the Psalter in many European cultures have numerous versions, for Ukrainians they have

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played the role of one of the central elements of the artistic mentality of the people. Researchers have noted as follows: “The arrangements of David’s Psalms in Ukrainian literature became a factor traditionally associated with constant signs of mentality, and so on. The transcultural essence of this genre had begun to be formed from the beginning of the nineteenth century. Taking the Holy Scriptures, adapting them to the perception of a person of the nineteenth century, writers have thus gravitated to the perfection of the phenomenon of the sacred person, to the manifestation of the agonistic principles of the human being, in particular, the being of the Ukrainian people” (Bovsunivs’ka 2001: 117).

The exclusiveness of the psalms in Ukrainian musical culture proves the historical fact that on the basis of the Psalter one of the leading genres of the Ukrainian baroque arose – the part-song and then the spiritual concert. The consonance of the texts of David’s Psalms with the national mentality is conditioned primarily by the lyrical and personal nature of the high poetry of the Psalms, by the heart-centred nature of Ukrainians (according to all researchers) and domination of the “philosophy of the heart” in their outlook. That is why in the period of Independence the rapid revival of this genre in professional composers’ art has occurred. Its prevalence and versatility of interpretations have demonstrated the continuity of the national and mental tradition in the artistic outlook of Ukrainian composers. Enthusiasm for performing and the need for this genre by leading choral groups were also important. In particular, in the context of the Fifth Festival of Choral Music Zolotoverkhyy Kyyiv [Golden-domed Kyiv] (2001), the all-Ukrainian Contest of Composers entitled Muzyka na psalmy [Music for Psalms] was held. Thus, the creativity of contemporary composers in relation to these very important texts for the Ukrainian spiritual tradition was stimulated. One of the conditions of the contest was the appeal to the texts of the Knyha psalmiv [Book of Psalms] in the translation of the prominent religious figure Metropolitan Ivan Ohienko, who has dedicated his life to translating the Bible into Ukrainian and the Psalms in particular. As a result of such inspirations, at least two hundred works on psalms in various versions have been written over the last thirty years (separate works, cycles, several musical readings of psalm texts united in cycles etc.). Amongst them are the cyclical compositions (Psalmy Davyda [Psalms of David] for mixed choir and orchestra by Olexandr Kozarenko, 2006; the choral cantata Psalms of David by Mykola Lastovetsky, 2000; Antyfony i psalmy 17 storichchya [Antiphons and Psalms of the 17th Century] by Viktor Stepurko, 2011; Psalms of David for choir a cappella by Valentyn Sylvestrov, 2005; Desyat’ psalmiv [Ten Psalms] for various choirs and soloists by Volodymyr Huba, 1999; a choral diptych Psalms of David for Biblical texts for mixed choir a cappella by Iryna Aleksiychuk, 2000; Psalms of David for mixed choir a cappella by M. Shukh, in Russian translation, 2000) and separate works: more than ten psalms by Yuri Ishchenko; Blazhennyy, khto dbaye pro vbohoho [Blessed is He Who Cares for the Poor] for women’s choir, Bozhe miy, nashcho mene ty pokynuv [My God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?] for mixed choir, Do tebe pidnoshu 96

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ya, Hospody, dushu svoyu [To Thee I Lift up My Soul, My Lord] for men’s choir (2000) by Anna Havrylets; Vyslukhay mene, Bozhe pravednyy [Listen to Me, My Righteous God] (2001) by Vitali Haiduk; numerous versions of psalms by Oleksandr Yakovchuk, such as: Do Tebe, Hospody, vzyvayu ya [To Thee, Lord, I Call] for soloists and mixed choir (2005), Hospody, Hospody nash [Lord, Our Lord] for soloists and men’s choir (2006), Hospod’ – to miy pastyr [The Lord is My Shepherd] for soloists and women’s choir (2006), Blazhen muzh [Blessed is the Man] for soloists and men’s choir (2007), Chomu zavorushylys’ narody? [Why Have the Peoples Risen Up?] for soloists and women’s choir (2007), Miy Bozhe mylyy [My Dear God] for mixed choir (2011) and the original version for the English text My Soul, Give Thanks to the Lord for soloists and mixed choir (2005). I have mentioned a small section of Ukrainian compositions of recent years, based on the Psalter texts, but the list is actually much longer. Such a huge preference for this genre in the creativity of artists of different aesthetics and stylistic directions, artistic interests, generations and regions, is conditioned by a number of objective prerequisites, especially national, mental, cultural and historical. To the second subgroup belong choral spiritual concerts, which stand out it in the panorama of the paraliturgical genres of contemporary Ukrainian music. This choral tradition was started by Andrea and Giovanni Gabrieli’s multi-choral Concertі, in 1587 at a Venetian school. It was then continued by the German masters Heinrich Schütz and Samuel Scheidt. In Ukraine it found fertile soil and formed the basis of the “Golden Age of the Ukrainian Music” (Kudryk, 1995) in the choral concerts of Maksym Berezovsky, Dmytro Bortniansky and Artem Vedel, written mostly to Psalm texts. Therefore, the return of this genre to the sphere of national musical culture and the continuation of its traditions at the present stage has become one of the ways of manifestation of national spiritual identity and continuity. As was mentioned above, one of the first works in this perspective was the choral concert Sad bozhestvennykh pisen’ by Ivan Karabyts, in which baroque models have been cleverly and originally embodied. In independent Ukraine this genre is represented in professional music quite widely and variedly. It has received new figurative and thematic contexts, the new authors’ versions of the interpretation of both the texts and the form of the choral concert. For example, Myroslav Skoryk in the concert Chy ty mene, Bozhe mylyy, navik zabuvayesh [Do You Forget Me Forever, Dear God] to Psalm 12 for men’s choir (2003) did not use the authentic text from the Psalter, but a poetic versification by Taras Shevchenko. Yevhen Stankovych wrote a concert, Hospody, Vladyko nash [God, Our Lord] for choir a cappella (1998) to other Biblical texts, not taken from the Psalter. Viktor Stepurko created the choral concert Kontsert pam’yati Mykoly Leontovycha [Concert in Memory of Mykola Leontovych] (2001) to canonical texts, making use of the baroque tradition in honour of the memory of one of the most prominent composers of the early twentieth century, the author of the famous Shchedryk. In contrast to previous works, there are samples of a fairly accurate following of the can97

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ons of the baroque genre: for example, a choral concert on the canonical text Blazhenna lyudyna, shcho vyterpyt’ probu [Blessed is the Man Who Endures the Test] by Yuri Ishchenko (2000) or Nekhay voskresne Boh [Let God Arise] by Anna Havrylets (2004). The third genre sphere within the “paraliturgical” tradition is the spiritual song in its wide spectrum: from arrangements of songs from the annual church cycle (Christmas, Easter, Marian hymns, related to the Nativity of the Virgin), which are exceptionally numerous in Ukrainian folk music, to composed songs of religious content dedicated to certain holidays or other Church events. The phenomenon of contemporary Ukrainian spiritual songs as a long historical process was considered in great detail by Ol’ha Zosim in her doctoral dissertation (habilitation thesis) (Zosim 2017). She has defined five chronological periods of development of this genre: the first period, from the end of the sixteenth century to the last third of the eighteenth century (manuscript); the second period, beginning with the printing in 1791 of the Bohohlasnyk and ending at the turn of the nineteenth century. According to Zosim, this period lasted only some thirtyyears (until the establishment of atheism in the Soviet Union and in Ukraine as part of a totalitarian empire). However, in this short time there occurred an artistic and stylistic renewal of the musical language of spiritual songs, connected with the active development of the national school of composing, as well as “the formation of its new confessional branch – the Protestant”. The fourth period covered the 1930s until 1991 (when Ukraine became an independent state). Since in the communist system creativity in the sacred sphere was forbidden, Zosim has rightly defined this period “as foreign or diasporic. The latest, fifth, period began in 1991 (in the era of restoration of independent Ukraine). It is marked by the restoration of earlier traditions and the creation of new traditions characteristic of the postmodern era” (ibid: 300–301). The last period is most significant in the present context, especially in combining traditions and innovations in a rather “conservative” way, related to fostering the genre of the spiritual song. By a composer’s elaboration of folk songs dedicated to major religious holidays, I mean a detailed preservation of form, rhythm and melodic basis, rather than arbitrarily quoting works in other genres (such as Victor Kaminsky’s quotation in his Rizdvyanyy kontsert [Christmas Concert] for violin and orchestra of an ancient carol, Shcho to za predyvo [What a Miracle] and the thematic motif of Shchedryk) or the creation of concert artefacts based on such songs (such as concert work Bukovyns’ke rizdvo [Bukovyna Christmas] 2009 for soloists, choir and orchestra by Anna Havrylets). This is precisely the elaboration of the melodic primary source that can be performed during the Divine Liturgy during Communion, during the Easter Vigil Service, or at the end of the Service upon leaving the church. Nowadays in most Orthodox and Greek Catholic churches works by outstanding composers of the past are being performed. For example, at the end of the Divine Liturgy the prayer Bozhe, velykyy, yedynyy [God, the Great, the Only One] is often sung by the classic composer of Ukrainian music, Mykola 98

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Lysenko, although he did not write it as a canonical piece. In the time between Easter and Pentecost the Easter songs Vytay mizh namy, Khryste, vytay [Fly between Us, Christ, Fly] or Khrystos voskres! [Christ is Risen!] by the western Ukrainian composer Joseph Kyshakevych are often sung. Among contemporary works in the genre of the spiritual song one may distinguish the Dvï rïzdvyanï koliskov [Two Christmas Lullabies] – “Spy, Isuse, spy” [Sleep, Jesus, Sleep] and “Svyata nich” [Holy Night], 2005) by Valentyn Sylvestrov, a treatment of the baroque Christmas song Ne plach, Rakhyle [Do not Cry, Rachel] by M. Skoryk (2002), a number of Victoriya Pol’ova’s works: Presvyata Troytse [Holy Trinity] for soprano and women’s choir (2005), Molytva sv. Syluana [Prayer of St Silouan] for soprano and women’s choir (2005), Molinnya teple [The Warm Prayer] for soprano and women’s choir (2007), Tropar Rizdva [Troparion of Christmas] (2007), Velychannya Rizdva [Christmas Magnification] (2007), Stykhyra Paskhy [Paschal Stikhira] for soprano and women’s choir (2007), and many others. A special place is occupied by choral and vocal arrangements by composers-practitioners (choral conductors, including church conductors, conductors of vocal ensembles, teachers in higher and secondary educational institutions etc.), created with a focus on performing needs and purposes. In concert practice these arrangements are used the most, because they are understandable, easy to use, and with a level of difficulty targeted at a wide audience, for amateur singers and the general public. Ostap Maychyk, who researched the work of composer-practitioners of the second half of the twentieth century, wrote that these composers “subordinate their creative thoughts to the needs and performance opportunities of the general public, dedicate their products to either professional or amateur groups (often collaborating with one and the other at the same time), or didactic goals. Their main task is finding a full understanding of their ensembles or students” (Maychyk 2010: 23). These works include a number of choral arrangements by the prominent Ukrainian choirmaster Anatoliy Avdiyevsky, for fifty years the chief conductor and artistic director of the H. Veryovka Ukrainian National Honoured Academic Folk Choir. He made arrangements of the shchedrivka Pavochka khodit’ [A Peafowl is Walking], the ancient Christmas carol Dobryy’ vechir tobi, pane hospodaryu [Good Evening to You, My Lord], the ancient ritual wedding chant Ptashechka [Little Bird], performed during the marriage ceremony. In the Orthodox and Greek-Catholic churches, arrangements and spiritual songs by Olexandr Kalishchuk (born 1931) are often heard. He is the author of the collections Dzvonyat’ v tserkvi dzvony [In the Church the Bell Rings] (2000) and Podarunok dushi [The Gift of the Soul] (2001). In churches, compositions by Halyna Martyniuk are also used (Prypadayu do tebe, miy Khryste [I Bow before Thee, My Christ]), as well as a collection of choral arrangements Pisnyu slavy zaspivaymo [Let us Sing a Song of Glory] by Myron Datsko to poems by the Basilian father Vasyl Mendrun, arrangements and composed spiritual songs by Stepan Stelmashchuk, Roman Soviak, Yevhen Kozak, Ivan Maychyk, Yuri Antkiv, Mykola Popenko and many other musicians who have been con99

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ducting choirs for many years combining this with pedagogical activity at high and secondary schools. Their great merit lies in the fact that in the repertoires of their ensembles they have maintained the musical and religious tradition and continued it in their own work. Popular-style arrangements of spiritual folk songs and composed songs with the religious content from well-known poets have gained popularity in recent years, although in the vast majority of canonical services (except for some cases in Protestant denominations) they have not been performed. Instead, spiritual songs of “light” style (popular variety) are very often heard in concert programmes, festivals, and mass celebrations of religious holidays. The third group on religious subjects in contemporary Ukrainian professional musical culture consists of “secular” works with sacred symbolism. Quantitatively, this group is the most voluminous. At the same time, it is difficult to differentiate it into homogeneous subgroups, because these works represent a completely individual interpretation of Biblical, sacred and ceremonial themes, images, symbols and associations, interpreted according to the personal intentions of the authors. According to Manulyak’s classification, this group includes quasi-sacred or quasi-liturgical music, para-sacred and extra-sacred music on religious topics. One could also extend this list by adding the “music with Biblical symbolism,” works on literary texts with religious allusions, with quotations from famous sacred works, or, for example, using liturgical texts such as Dies irae and many other types, with a combination of secular and sacred genres, in subjects, intonational allusions, and rhetorical figures. Focusing on this group of religious direction in contemporary Ukrainian music, it would be necessary to expand the text of the article to a volume of at least 700–800 pages, or to give an illustrative example that would prove the particular importance of the religious outlook in the national musical space of the Ukrainian Independence Day. Such an illustrative example is Myroslav Skoryk’s opera Moysey [Moses] to a libretto by the contemporary poet Bohdan Stelmakh. In many respects it is unique, not only in the Ukrainian national tradition, but also in world culture. The literary source of the work was not based on the story from the Old Testament, in which the first Biblical prophet and the history of the exodus of the Jews under his direction from the Egyptian captivity to the Promised Land was described. Rather, it is based on the eponymous poem by the prominent Ukrainian poet, philosopher, critic and playwright Ivan Franko (1856–1916). The poem Moysey became his opus magnum and in Franko’s legacy played the role of a testament to his people. From philosophical, psychological and historical standpoints, the poem can be interpreted from three perspectives: as a version of the Biblical story with universal ethical values; as an allegory of the Ukrainian nation with characteristics of the national type and prophecies of the future; and, finally, the image of Moses contains autobiographical traits. Contemporary philosophers and literary critics have endeavoured to find in this poem the features of the modern nation, analysing the poet’s prophecies from the current social and political situation: “Franko’s non-native crowd is 100

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devoid of the existential finality that would allow it to be classified more or less unequivocally in philosophical terms: it is not, it becomes, and its path to the Promised Land is, at the same time, the path of its ascent to itself, to its own national self ” (Zabuzhko 1993: 104–105). The opera was first performed at the Solomiya Krushelnytska Lviv Academic Theatre of Opera and Ballet on 23 June 2001 under the composer’s direction. The next few performances took place in Lviv during the visit of Pope John Paul II to Ukraine (23–27 June 2001). The Pope visited the Opera House and blessed the entire company, although it was not part of the programme for his visit. Thus, the play has become unique from another aspect – it is the only musical and theatrical work of Ukrainian culture that has received the papal blessing. Although in Moses Skoryk did not use the folk music as its basis entirely, it is still a genuinely national work – not by letter, but by spirit. Moreover, it has become the composer’s national and family testament. His father, a wellknown folklorist, and social and cultural figure, Mykhailo Skoryk, was exiled to Siberia with his wife and two sons by the communist authorities. There he had noticed the great musical talent of his youngest son and asked Myroslav to write sometime in the future an opera Moses. And thus it happened. The musical language of the opera is restrained, rather laconic, without unnecessary external effects. The graphic line of the composer’s writing is transparent and exactly like a Gothic arabesque. The score is very professional in every dramatic and expressive detail. In this first composer’s essay in the genre his impeccable artistic taste and intuition can be seen. In the opera Skoryk has found the golden proportion, without ethnographic literacy and direct reference to folk prototypes. This work was created in the spirit of the Ukrainian musical tradition – from the spiritual concerts of the eighteenth century to modern trends of the beginning of the last century. The image of Ukrainian society in the Skoryk’s Moses is also the result of an objective and true assessment of the position of modern national spirituality. Reflections on the people’s heroic past have been encoded in masterly fashion in musical allegories and symbols. The composer wrote the opera focusing on the religious tradition of Ukrainians, which in modern Ukrainian society is perceived as the most active form of self-awareness of the individual. Because of the concentration on the higher spiritual ideal, Skoryk has not employed a particularly complicated system of expression. It has been postulated by avant-garde tendencies to be a refined intellectual language, formed on the basis of aesthetic principles of the leading artistic directions of the twentieth century, as a constant search for progress and an up-to-date means of expression. Thus, the composer has boldly and independently interpreted the musical drama in accordance with his own individual conception of the Biblical parable. In an interview, Skoryk emphasized that he had intended to create music, uninspired by any other stimulus apart from an internal understanding of art in the context of our time: 101

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“In this opera I have embodied my own understanding of ‘modernity in music’ – yet not in the sense in which some of colleagues understand it, as the using of refined avant-garde techniques of expression (they were relevant several decades ago), but according to the real sound world we live in. A new romantic art, full of desire for beauty and sensitivity, is gaining ground more and more, and it is in this that I see the present and the future – not only for professional musicians, but especially for those who aspires to love music” (Mel’nyk and Kyyanovska 2001: 52).

Having transferred the events of Moses from centuries ago to the present day, the author has freely used the range of musical signs that form the real sound atmosphere of our daily existence, in which he has found a metaphor for the modern way to the Promised Land. It is no coincidence that the steep and thorny path, not so much the purpose and the final stage of the forty-year journey, has been described in particular; as well as everything that happened along the way, associated with our life: the atavism of official art – with memories of Soviet cantatas, even with the use of marching and mechanical rhythm in the second act, a popular-style orgy from the first act, and a wide range of traditional lyrical styles, from nostalgia for Puccini, reflections of fin de siècle romances, to popular song clichés. However, this colourful kaleidoscope of diverse vocabularies and melodic turns does not break into separate parts. On the contrary, it has instead created an organic, meaningful integrity, in the background of which there clearly stands out another philosophical and ethical meaningful layer, connected with the image of Moses. The most appropriate definition of the genre and content of Skoryk’s Moses is opera-parable, in which the static and allegorical quality of the figures and their actions prevail over the dynamics of plot development. The composer emphasises here a symbolic paradigm of the world history of mankind, rather than a concrete sequence of events, limited by time and space. In its construction it is close to an opera-oratorio: this is confirmed by the leading role of the choirs, the abstract interpretation of the individual images, and a certain static quality in the narration – the heroes are not particularly active, but they are constantly thinking, arguing, dreaming, doubting, suffering, and hoping. The real changes take place not so much on the stage but outside it, and viewers are only shown impulses for the actions. This interpretation of dramaturgy has an analogy with large-scale spiritual and musical works: oratorios, stage cantatas, even masses, in which the main focus is not the vanity of action, but the reflection of eternity. Therefore, Skoryk’s opera does not include psychological development of the characters. Each figure is a concise and capacious symbol, completely unilateral internally, as in the case of the heroes of parables and biblical legends. Such a concept is really characteristic of the oratorio genre, but the principles of the oratorio are interpreted by Skoryk in a rather peculiar way. In the opera the subjective and the lyrical is much more vividly revealed than in the epic impersonality and monumentality which prevails in oratorios, especially on Biblical and philosophical themes. The very construction of the opera – two acts with a prologue and an epilogue – is too compressed compared with the 102

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scale of a traditional oratorio. Even its temporal duration (the opera lasts for less than two hours) contradicts the canons of the genre. All this again returns to the comparison with the aphoristically capacious parable, which makes it possible to suggest the definition of the genre of Moses as innovative, as a special type of scenic parable; although it may seem unusual, it fits well in the context of the intense creation of new genres in contemporary art. The development of the opera unites and symphonises a flexible and rich system of leitmotifs, which provides both the sequence of development and recognition of the main symbols. Thus, one of the most important leitmotifs is associated with the image of the “tight shackles” of the enslaved people. It appears at all the most important moments of the opera, and it begins and ends the whole work. According to the interval structure, it is a chain sequence whereby overcoming resistance rises upwards and, reaching the top, each time falls powerlessly; only at the last occurrence does it break. We can assume that this leitmotif not only musically, but also graphically, symbolises the liberation of a people who have been wandering in the desert for forty years. It directly illustrates the completion and achievement of the goal proclaimed in Franko’s poem. The main character, the prophet Moses, is also characterised by a group of different leitmotifs expressing the contradictory states of his soul. The composer has used signs quite understandable in semantics, in some cases analogical to musical and rhetorical figures. There are leitmotifs of Moses’s doubts, of his despair, of his prophecies, and the leitmotif of the God he has seen. Moses’s opponents, Abiram and Datan, have a striking leitmotif characteristic (the leitmotif of doubt and despair). Its construction is based on polyphonic dissonant melodic development and an incisive rhythm. Although critics have evaluated the traditional musical language of the opera differently, Moses has been staged with great success in Lviv, in the National Opera House in Kyiv and several times in Poland (Warsaw and Bydgoszcz). Performances have received favourable reviews. The opera was recorded on CD before the première. In this article, a wide panorama of purely canonical genres, para-liturgical artefacts, and an exceptionally numerous group of secular works (vocal and choral, orchestral) has been presented. Chamber and instrumental works have not been researched in this context. Amongst the works by Ukrainian composers of the last decades of the independence period, the main focus has been laid on one striking work in particular – the opera Moses by M. Skoryk. Such exceptional religiosity in the musical culture of a European people during the general recession of Christian values has, in addition to all the above-mentioned historical and socio-political reasons, a number of important cultural and mental prerequisites. It should be emphasised that the theoretical conception of the image and thematic groups outlined in the classification given was based on a millennial Christian doctrine in Ukrainian history, somewhat atypical to the European tradition. Here are two features of the Ukrainian version of Christianity: (1) There has never been an Inquisition and religion has not been used as a “punitive” or “calming” means at all; 103

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(2) The second feature of the national and religious image of the world is the natural synthesis of the pagan pre-Christian and later Christian paradigm into one inseparable integrity. This postulate is confirmed by numerous examples of both folk and professional art. In her monograph, Ol’ha Bench-Shokalo, a researcher of Ukrainian choral singing, describes many rituals and customs from the folk tradition, combining Christian and pagan elements. Among them, most attention is paid to the shchedryk. This is an ancient Christian ritual song performed on the generous evening before Orthodox feast of Theophany and on the very day of Theophany i.e. 18–19 January. In content it is a song that glorifies the baptism of the Saviour. However, the words of the poetic text of an ancient song, including one of its key phrases (“A little swallow flew”), contradicts its place in the calendar of Christian holidays. In addition, no swallow flies in these lands on 18 January.1 This song was adapted to one of the main Christian holidays from ancient “pagan” rites. Bench-Shokalo notes that “[o]bviously, it is about the ancient Ukrainian calendar and the rituals that were common on these lands long before Christianity was adopted in Kyivan Rus’. Since the Creation of the World, an ancient calculus has been recorded, dating back over seven millennia, because that is the age of Ukrainian agrarian culture, imprinted in the sacred ceremonial texts and in archetypal signs on ritual subjects” (Bench-Shokalo 2002: 12).

Such examples can be multiplied geometrically, extending to both ancient folklore and professional music. Famous humanistic scientists – culturologists, philosophers, folklorists, musicologists etc. have researched this problem in great detail. Mykhailo Hrushevs’kyy noted the confrontation and the initial antinomy of the pre-Christian and Christian image of the world: “The annual calendar circle is basically our one religious system [...] too soon broken: was destroyed by new Church activities [...] Unfortunately, we do not have our old calendar in its full and pure pre-Christian form and we must consider at every step not only devastation and breakdown, but also the changes, disruptions and translocations caused in the old system by the Church and the Church calendar”(Hrushevs’kyy 1993: 171).

The emigré scientist Oleksa Voropay, in a work published in Munich thirty years later, noted: “[...] Byzantium brought Christianity to Ukraine with its culture, but its culture, not culture [overall]. We already had a national culture and Volodymyr the Great [Prince of Kyiv, who baptised Rus’ in 988 – L. K.] merely added Christian culture to his native [one] [...]” (Voropay 1993: 5). 1 The text of the shchedrivka: “Shchedryk, Shchedryk, a Shchedrivka, / A little swallow flew [into the household] / and started to twitter, / to summon the master: / “Come out, come out, O Master [of the household]. / Look at the sheep pen, / there the ewes are nestling / and the lambkins have been born. / Your goods [livestock] are great / you will receive much money [by selling them] / If not money, then chaff. / You have a dark-eyebrowed wife”. / Shchedryk, Shchedryk, a Shchedrivka, / A little swallow flew.” 104

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National and historical prerequisites for attitudes to religion, and its place in human life have been formed over many centuries. They have been expressed primarily in folk rituals and customs closely related to music and song. Therefore, they were revived with the restoration of the independence of the state. They have found expression in professional and popular music, not only in canonical genres intended for worship, but also in a wide range of spiritual and secular creativity, in a thematic and figurative continuum of symbols, metaphors and allusions of Biblical origin. They have found expression in the content of theatrical, choral, and vocal works. The national tradition is also manifested in the development of para-liturgical genres, above all, of folk origin (carols, shchedrivky, hahilky etc.), an expansion of the sphere of their use through various instrumental and vocal arrangements of folk songs. In analysing the religious and spiritual creativity of contemporary Ukrainian composers, it should be noted that in different regions the process of the transformation of sacred genres and religious themes and symbols in composers’ creativity is quite peculiar, since the role of religion in social life is different (for example, in western Ukraine and in Donbass). The difference in denominations, the duration of the deliberate break of religious tradition, and many other external impulses influenced the nature of the perception of sacred signs. It is no accident that Ol’ha Klokun, who has studied the versatile and heterogeneous processes of the existence of religious music in modern Ukrainian society, differentiates “the main tendencies of contemporary Ukrainian liturgical music in three positions: poly-confessionality as a characteristic feature of the contemporary liturgical repertoire of Ukraine, inter-confessional musical relations as one of the leading features of contemporary liturgical music, poly-stylistism as a characteristic of the musical component in the worship of all Christian churches” (Klokun 2004: 38).

These items indirectly reflect the close connection of religious music with the social and historical realities in which the millennial tradition has been revived and renewed. Klokun’s characterisation concerns both liturgical creativity and analyses of the embodiment of sacred images and spiritual symbols in national music as part of a wider panorama. Despite all the contradictions and complexities faced by the contemporary Ukrainian school of composers in the creation and reproduction of spiritual subjects in their various dimensions, religiosity is one of the most important factors of the modern national cultural and musical process. Volodymyr Lychkovakh has described this phenomenon as “meta-religious”: “A spiritual space of meta-religiosity – a sanctified, ‘trembling’ attitude to the world as holy, to the affirmation of culture as a cult – the profound worship of the Divine Essence of higher spiritual values (sanctuarium)” (Lychkovakh 2010: 18). Translated by Zoryana Lastovetska-Solanska

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Appendix: List of Selected Musical Weblinks Lesia Dychko, Liturhiya [Liturgy], Lesya Dychko, Svyatyy Bozhe [Holy God], Bohdana Frolyak, Otche nash; Bohoroditse Divo; Blahoslovy, dushe moya, Hospoda [Paternoster; Our Lady, Virgin; Bless the Lord, oh My Soul], Anna Havrylets, Nekhay voskresne Boh [Let God Arise], Anna Havrylets, Bozhe miy, nashcho mene ty pokynuv [My God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?], Anna Havrylets, Tebe poem [We Sing to You], Victor Kaminsky, Kontsert No. 2 Rizdvyanyy dlya skrypky z orkestrom [Concerto No. 2, Christmas, for Violin and Orchestra], Victor Kaminsky, Oratoriya Idu. Naklikuyu. Vzivayu… [Oratorio “I go. I call. I invoke…”], Ivan Karabyts, Choral concert Sad bozhestvennykh pisen’ [The Garden of Divine Songs] 1, Ivan Karabyts, Choral concert Sad bozhestvennykh pisen’ [The Garden of Divine Songs] 2, Ivan Karabyts, Choral concert Sad bozhestvennykh pisen’ [The Garden of Divine Songs] 3, Mykhailo Shukh, Yanholska kolyskova [The Angel Lullaby], Myroslav Skoryk, opera Moysey [Moses], Myroslav Skoryk, Psalm № 53, Valentin Silvestrov, Requiem for Larissa, Valentin Silvestrov, Otche nash [Paternoster], Evgeny Stankovich, Kamerna simfoniya No. 11, Dotyk Yangola [Chamber Symphony No. 11, Touch of Angel], . Victoriya Pol’ova. Svitli Pisnespivy [Songs of Light], . Viktor Stepurko, Dyptych. Liturhiya spovidnyts”ka. Bohorodichni dogmaty [Diptych. The Confessional Liturgy. Deiparos Dogmas],

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Viktor Stepurko, Izhe cheruvymy [Cherubicon], Viktor Stepurko, Dyakuyte Hospodu [Thank the Lord] (Psalm 136)], Oleksandr Yakovchuk (Alexander Jacobchuk), Vesnyanka [Spring Song], Oleksandr Yakovchuk (Alexander Jacobchuk), Simfoniya – Rekviem “Tridtsyat’ tretiy” [Symphony – Requiem No. 33, Lyrics by Vasyl Yukhymovych],

References BENCH-SHOKALO, Ol’ha (2002) Ukrayins’kyy khorovyy spiv. Aktualizatsiya zvychayevoyi tradytsiyi [Ukrainian choral singing. Actualisation of the customary tradition], Kyiv: Vyd-vo zhurnalu Ukrayins’kyy svit. BOVSUNIVS’KA, Tetyana (2001) “Tradytsiya ‘perelozheniy’ psalmiv Davydovykh v ukrayins’kiy literaturi XIX stolittya” [The tradition of the ‘arrangements’ of David’s Psalms in the Ukrainian literature of the nineteenth century], in Bibliya i kul’tura [Bible and culture], Chernivtsi: Ruta, 117–120. CHEKAN, Yuriy (2005) “Vstupna stattya” [Introductory article], in Dukhovni tvory M. Skoryka [The spiritual works of M. Skoryk], Kyiv: Muzychna Ukrayina, 4–9. “Do yakykh tserkov khodyat’ ukrayintsi: yak zminyuvalasya relihiyna prykhyl’nist’ naselennya ostanni ’’p’yat’ rokiv” [To which churches Ukrainians go: how has the religious commitment of the population changed over the last five years] (2018) in Analitychnyy portal Slovo i dilo [Analytical portal The Word and the Work], 23 October 2018,

HRUSHEVS’KYY, Mykhaylo (1993) Istoriya ukrayins’koyi literatury [History of Ukrainian literature], vol. 1, Kyiv: Lybid’. KLOKUN, Ol’ha (2004) “Funktsionuvannya tserkovnykh pisnespiviv v interkonfesiynomu prostori” [The functioning of church songs in an interconfessional space], in Volodymyr Sherstyuk (ed.) Doslidzhennya. Dosvid. Spohady [Research. Experience. Memories], Kyiv: Milenium, 38–48. KUDRYK, Borys (1995) Ohlyad istoriyi ukrayins’koyi tserkovnoyi muzyky [A Review of the History of Ukrainian Church Music], L’viv: NAN Ukrayiny, In-t ukrayinoznavstva im. I. Kryp’yakevycha. LYCHKOVAKH, Volodymyr (2010) Slov’yans’kyy Sacrum – skarbnytsya Yevropy: Naukovi ta publitsystychni pratsi iz slavistyky, ukrayinistyky, kul’turolohichnoyi rehioniky [Slavic sacrum – the treasury of Europe: Scientific and journalistic works on Slavic 107

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studies, Ukrainian studies, cultural region studies], Chernihiv: Chernihivs’kyy natsional’nyy pedahohichnyy universytet imeni T. H. Shevchenka. MANULYAK, Ostap (2009) Sakral’na tvorchist’ l’vivs’kykh kompozytoriv kintsya ХХ–ХХІ st. u konteksti providnykh tendentsiy suchasnoyi relihiynoyi muzyky [Sacral creativity of Lviv composers of the late twentieth – early twenty-first centuries in the context of leading trends of contemporary religious music], Abstract of unpublished PhD thesis, L’viv: L’vivs’ka natsional’na muzychna akademiya im. M. Lysenka. MAYCHYK, Ostap (2010) Kompozytors’ka tvorchist’ zakhidnoukrayins’kykh khorovykh dyryhentiv-praktykiv druhoyi polovyny XX st. [Composers’ creativity of the western Ukrainian choral conductors – Practitioners of the second half of the twentieth century], unpublished PhD thesis, L’viv: L’vivs’ka natsional’na muzychna akademiya im. M. Lysenka. MEL’NYK, Lidia, Lyubov Kyyanovs’ka (2001) “Prytcha pro ‘Moyseya’” [The Parable of ‘Moses’], Zhurnal PiK, 3–9 July 2001: 52–53. MEL’NYK, Lidiya (2003) “‘Sad bozhestvennykh pisney’ Ivana Karabytsya v konteksti neobaroko ukrayins’koho i yevropeys’koho” [‘The Garden of Divine Songs’ by Ivan Karabyts in the context of Ukrainian and European neo-baroque], Naukovyy visnyk Natsional’noyi muzychnoyi akademiyi Ukrayiny im. P. I. Chaykovs’kohoi (31: Vivere memento /Pam”yatay pro zhyttya/. Statti i epohady pro Ivana Karabytsya) [Scientific Herald of the P. I. Tchaikovsky National Music Academy of Ukraine (31: Vivere memento /Remember to live/. Articles and memoirs of Ivan Karabyts)]: 88–96. RIPKO, Olena (1996) U poshukakh strachenoho mynuloho [In search of a lost past], L’viv: Kamenyar. SKOROKHOD Ol’ha (2016) “‘Vsi yepyskopy v SRSR buly zmusheni spivpratsyuvaty z KDB’ – istoryk Tserkvy Natalya Shlikhta” [“All bishops in the USSR were forced to cooperate with the KGB” – Church historian Natalya Shlikhta], Tsenzor. NET., 21 August 2016, VOROPAY Oleksa (1993) Zvychayi nashoho narodu [The Customs of our people], Kyiv: Oberih. ZABUZHKO Oksana (1993) Filosofiya ukrayins’koyi ideyi ta yevropeys’kyy kontekst [The Philosophy of the Ukrainian idea and the European context], Kyiv: Osnovy. Zakon Ukrayiny “Pro svobodu sovisti ta relihiyni orhanizatsiyi” (1991) [Law of Ukraine “On freedom of conscience and religious organizations”], Vidomosti Rady URSR 25: 656–666. ZOSIM Ol’ha (2017) Skhidnoslov”yans’ka dukhovna pisnya: sakral’nyy” vymir. Monohrafiya [East Slavonic spiritual song: Sacred dimension. Monograph], Kyiv: NAKKKiM.

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CHAPTER 6

Serbian Orthodox Choral Music: Its Revival Over the Three Last Decades Bogdan Đaković (Novi Sad)

The musicological approach to the field of Orthodox choral music of the last decades of the twentieth century can be understood through the phrase nova musica sacra, which includes two semantic areas – functional church music and compositions for the concert stage (Gulyanitskaya 2002: 24). This definition brings with it a complex relation between ritual aesthetics and artistic expression based on the ‘object’ – a religious theme which has been treated artistically freely. Since the last decades of the nineteenth century the majority of the great Orthodox composers have chosen the second path with its predominantly artistic approach. During the first half of the twentieth century, as a still ‘traditional’ period of this genre, Serbian composers favoured the same artistic point of view, while only a small number of them (Stevan Hristić, Marko Tajčevic, Milivoje Crvčanin) were capable of creating valuable music for both aesthetic realities. Serbian church choral music of the last three decades has mainly been written for concert use. After the end of the era of state socialism, national identity became the “question of all questions” in almost every country of Eastern and Southeastern Europe (Kuljić 2006: 153). The collapse of the socialist regime in the 1990s, once understood as a “new religion”, provoked some fundamental changes which have influenced a new approach to the religious context (Prodanov Krajišnik 2007: 42). Because of the issues of the Yugoslav wars and terrible national conflicts, religion itself took the role of a cultural defender, so that all peoples involved, including the Serbs, used their religious identities as cultural symbols that differentiated one from the other. With this concept many new elements were born: from the general return to tradition and religiosity, through reviving “collective memory” and aiming at establishing national con109

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tinuity with the pre-Yugoslav national past, to celebrations of religious, national heroes and historical events (Prodanov Krajišnik 2007: 42). During the 1980s nationalism was on the rise among all the peoples that constituted the Yugoslav federation. After the first free elections after World War II, held in 1990, the Socialist Party of Serbia, which mainly continued the political line of the League of Communists of Serbia, acted as a bearer of “secular religion” using religious symbols and elements not to bring out the importance of spiritual values, but to win substantial political points. The dominance of ethnic nationalism in the Church within the Serbian Church hierarchy has ruined its delicate and important ontological and historical aspect (Bigović 2000: 42–43). It seems that the gradual de-secularisation of the Serbian society that occurred in parallel with similar processes in the whole of Yugoslavia during the late 1980s and early 1990s, beside the general ‘turning back’ to Orthodox Christian tradition and its cultural elements at the same time was based on secular coordinates which demonstrated all the crises of contemporary humanity. Because of the strong traditional national project, this historical period of the “renaissance of Serbian culture” in the late 1980s has been connected with newly (re)discovered cultural elements, populist in character, invented by the postsocialist elite and also with the new freedom for the Church itself and for believers as a reborn part of society. It went chronologically together with a similar movement in the world of art, when the myth of universal values reached its end, and when thanks to postmodern perspectives questions of the meeting of artistic heritage and the present time came out (Jovanović 2011: 15). This was happening in all spheres of Serbian art, both secular and religious. Many kinds of definitions, terms and diagnoses that brought together artistic past and present were used as synonymous or having a similar meaning.1 All these concepts were present artistically, no matter if the final results led to pure restoration in the mode of the ‘popular key’, or creative transposition of heritage through contemporary artistic language. The awakening of national ideas in the last phase of socialism in an indirect way brought new tendencies and articulations with regards to the realisation of the new programmes. Initiated by local communities all over Serbia, there were organised festivals of traditional folk music, which included choirs singing church repertoire and chanters. Those were church-cultural gatherings outside the church and monastery precincts, mainly in urban cultural centres (Đoković 2016: 214). Contrary to expectations, the total number of Serbian composers of Orthodox choral music during the last three decades was nevertheless rather small; the whole process of revival of this music genre was marked by occasional performances with limited cultural influence. Even the fact that among them the majority were not academically trained composers – being opera sing1 Some among others are: association, hint, evocation, reinterpretation, reminiscence, quote, repetition with variations, ‘seen but in a different way’, ‘synthetic’ and other eclecticisms, paraphrase and ‘referential paraphrase’, then revival, remaking and reductionism. 110

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ers, ethnomusicologist and music theorists – in a way witnesses to the general “episodic” position of the genre (Veselinović-Hofman 1998: 17). Composers from the ‘first line’ of contemporary music obviously did not recognise Orthodox Church choral music as part of their own, important, musical heritage. The case with authors generally interested in the Serbian historical past and in Orthodox culture, such as Ljubica Marić (1909–2003) or Rajko Maksimović (1935) still remains on the ‘other’ side of functional church choral music: although they composed a great deal of vocal music, most notably Maksimović’s a cappella works based often on the Church Slavonic language, they never tried to produce music for actual Orthodox Church ritual. This situation was a result of many discontinuities, externally or internally enforced devastations, the process of the forgetting of the roots of native culture, thanks to which many important artistic elements, contents and aesthetic paths were sacrificed (Jovanović 1998: 30). On the other hand, the crisis in Serbian Church art – though much less in fresco and icon painting than in architecture and music – derives from heterogeneous standards in all criteria in Church life as well as in society (Jovanović 1998: 34). Furthermore, the Church disassociated itself from the “spirit of time”, even though especially in turbulent periods the “building has to be renovated both from outside and inside with a strong commitment to basic values” (Jovanović 2011: 30). As Deacon Marko Ilić has summarised, “the Church should stop copying itself, because people can easily feel if something has been prepared for them recently or if it is from yesterday” (ibid.). This opinion is very close to the ideas of Stamatis Skliris, the modern icon painter and theologian, who claims that every Orthodox believer has to go with the spirit of time, though never modelling his life totally according to it. Only by doing so he will be in the position of considering his fellow men in a realistic framework of life and developing the benefits of culture (Skliris 2005: 493). In the case of the revival of Serbian Orthodox choral music the whole ‘process’ shows similar characteristics: a neoromantic style with strong neo-Mokranjac2 and neo-Russian orientation,3 ‘original’ music without quotations of Serbian chant, modal tonality, mostly homophonic style with non-imitative polyphonic elements, strongly emphasised dramatic concert approach. As a rare contrast to the general mentioned rules, Dimitrije Golemović (b. 1954), in his Liturgija Pređeosvećenih Darova [Liturgy of the Presanctified 2 Stevan Stojanović Mokranjac (1856–1914), the most popular Serbian composer, was also a conductor, instrumentalist, music pedagogue, folklorist, and music promoter whose works, almost exclusively choral, both sacred (liturgical and for concert use) and secular (based on folk music and also freely composed), represented the highly professional romantic style of Serbian music. His style and aesthetic elements were treated by the composers of the next generations as the cornerstone of national values in music and their artistic usage. 3 The strong and important modern Russian Orthodox choral school started with the works of Pyotr I. Tchaikovsky (Liturgy of St John Chrysostom from 1878 and All-Night Vigil from 1882) followed by the composers of the new Russian choral school such as Alexander Kastal’sky, Pavel Chesnokov, Alexander Grechaninov, Sergei Rachmaninoff and many others being very productive up to the Russian Revolution in 1917. 111

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Gifts] (1998) quotes a few ‘appropriate’ Serbian melodies, while the majority of single liturgical pieces by Miodrag Govedarica (b. 1950) can be successfully used for church services. In this paper I shall discuss the works of four composers – the already-mentioned Dimitrije Golemović and Miodrag Govedarica, as well as Milorad Marinković (b. 1976) and Svetislav Božić (b. 1954). Beside the fact that there are not too many other creative musicians working in this artistic field, these composers may be recognised as the most popular authors, their music being often performed by both amateur and professional choirs; I could add that I myself have conducted some of them. I will present the main features of their works by using a combined research methodology. This analytical approach will be complemented with verbal material from interviews I conducted with those composers.4 They were asked five questions that are relevant for this paper: (1) How do you understand the role of the contemporary composer of church choral music? (2) What is your relation with chant tradition – Serbian or any other? (3) What do you think about contemporary techniques of composition and the genre of church music: as parallel or interweaving plans? (4) How do you understand the process of refining the composer’s approach: besides the spiritual element, what are the concrete steps to be taken with regard to contemporary liturgical artistic expression? (5) How do you see the future of this genre – closer to simple or more complex concepts? Some of their statements, as will be seen, are not completely concordant with the analytical insight into their music, which means that the field is open for future discussion.

The Revival of Orthodox Choral Music: Works of Golemović, Govedarica, Marinković and Božić In his Liturgija pređeosvećenih darova, Dimitrije Golemović, as a well-known Serbian ethnomusicologist as well as a composer, brings a new principle of harmonisation of chant that derives from traditional two-voice folk singing practice. The process of setting this rarely used liturgical text was initiated by the late bishop of Šumadija, Sava Vuković (1930–2001), who also sang to the composer some of the melodies which he used in this work. The main elements in this music could be summarised as: (1) The influence of the style of Stevan Mokranjac (diatonic harmony, the treatment of chant and choral orchestration); (2) The presence of Serbian Chant (Vkusite i vidite [O Taste and See], 8th Mode; Da ispravit sja [Let my Prayer], 5th Mode; Ninja sili nebesnija [Now the Heavenly Powers], 6th Mode); and (3) The presence of the Russian choral tradition (Otche nash [Our Father], Svete tikhiy [O Joyful 4 The interviews with Govedarica, Marinković and Božić, which I conducted by e-mail in March 2013, and which I use here, were realised as part of a more extensive research project in contemporary church music with which I have been dealing in recent years (see Đaković 2013a, 2013b, 2013c). 112

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Light] very close to the version by Dvoretsky, and Blagosloveno imya Gospodne [Blessed Be the Name of the Lord]) (Perković 2000: 128). The essential compositional approach is based on different choral arrangements of the melodies used, which ‘leads’ the music from archaic unison with or without the pedal tone (or ison), through singing in triads to slightly dissonant meetings of different choral groups using familiar models of folk cadences. The highest dramatic musical moment occurs in the hymn Ninja sili nebesnija (6th Mode), where the quoted florid melody, mostly rubato in character and with echo effects, brings the whole atmosphere to its climax on the words “Lo, the King of Glory Enters”. A kind of general dramatic decrescendo is effected by the Communion Hymn Vkusite i vidite (8th Mode), based on the syllabic version of this melody sung by Bishop Sava. Instead of making a personal synthesis of different styles which could lead to idiomatic units of original quality, Golemović’s eclectic approach leaves different elements side by side, not quite assimilated into a whole. It seems that the concept of mechanical combination of few stylistic sources does not always assure a persuasive ‘postmodern alibi’ for the piece. Miodrag Govedarica, having been for decades a member of different Belgrade amateur choirs and a professional singer in the Belgrade Opera Chorus, shows, as a composer of Orthodox choral music, a typical, rather conservative approach from the “inside”. His explanation of his own creative relationship with the chant tradition is contained in the following words: “Chant, as well as folk melodies, through their very rich and florid vocal lines, establish a multi-tonal identity through hidden harmonies, whose presence it is possible to feel or hear. Poetically speaking, the chant melody represents the dawn of harmonic light, just as rain produces the spectrum of the colours of the rainbow” (Đaković 2013a).

While he believes that “contemporary church choral music has to seek for new forms according to the present time”, the process of refining the composer’s approach, according to him, “must not abandon the melodic element which is the main artistic support for prayer and their ‘meeting’ on the metaphysical level”. Consequently, he claims: “Modernisation of this kind of music I see only through rational innovation of harmonisation that supports that crucial aspect, melody” (ibid.). His creative approach, however, is rather an eclectic version of a free Russian homophonic style in combination with a Mokranjac-influenced use of polyphony. There are no direct quotations of Serbian chant, though some melodic lines are reminiscent of folk melodic style. The main principle of traditional tonality (oscillation between the major scale and its relative minor) is enriched by modal scales, while the level of motivic similarities is sometimes close to mannerism. The choral lines are without extreme movement, while the sensitive use of dynamics is appropriate for the music’s liturgical purpose. Govedarica’s first Liturgija sv. Jovana Zlatoustog [Liturgy of St John Chrysostom] (1996–1999) is actually a collection of previously-composed separate liturgical pieces. The most popular part is the Communion Hymn Tjelo Hristovo [The 113

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Body of Christ]. A unique Orthodox choral “pearl”, this short composition is built from a first modal half (“Tjelo Hristovo primate, istočnika besmertnago vkusite”) and a major second half (“Vkusite i vidite jako blag Gospod”), offering a perfect balance between quasi-authentic harmonisation of the original melody and effectiveness in the simplicity of its musical structure. The short alternative Coda with powerful chords should be used only in concert performances. The only composer in the generation from the mid–1970s who shows any kind of continuity with Orthodox Church music tradition is Milorad Marinković. He shows a different approach from the older composers whose education during the socialist period excluded local Christian musical elements (Serbian chant, local music-ritual practice, liturgical structure etc.) and whose direct connection with this genre was only historical, through performances of the sacred music of Mokranjac, Bortnyansky, Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff. For Marinković, an “attempt to establish stylistic communication with the present liturgical expression of the Church by newly-written music is the most difficult task facing the contemporary composer” (Đaković 2013b). The creative work of such an individual is seen by him in several following aspects: “The basic orientation comes from the composer’s relation with the living chanting tradition, including his own knowledge of singing. He has to have very strong opinions about the stylistic and technical elements that are objectively useful in the field of Orthodox choral music. To make the selection of criteria by which he communicates with earlier masters and allows them to influence his own work. Also important is the way he synchronises his own approach with the style and spirit of the practical way of praying in church and society” (ibid.).

Marinković addresses different traditions of chanting, but claims that he always draws from the local tradition as his starting creative point: “I give preference to Serbian chanting practice, through which I try to communicate with all other Orthodox traditions. If I change its profile on account of the influences of other chanting models, I do it from the ‘inside’, trying not to act violently” (ibid.). He emphasises the need of a practical “return” to actual liturgy as a basic element. He demonstrates this by showing interest in new arrangements of the troparion melodies. Marinković concentrates on the most appropriate harmonies, delicate use of polyphony and the purely melodic quality of every choral line, all encompassed within a classical music language. His “own interest”, as he believes, “is much more in the natural rules that exist in chant melodies” than in contemporary techniques of composition: “The process of a long melodic evolution with many different melismas according to the formulas can be used in every composition, written in many types of tonal systems and fixed in any kind of score through different means of notation” (ibid.). However, unlike composers of the older generation, he does not hesitate to borrow elements from some of the most significant composers of the twentieth century – Igor Stravinsky and Krzysztof Penderecki. Stravinsky’s Mass and Penderecki’s St Luke Passion find some echoes in Marinković’s often very dra114

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matic Liturgija sv. Jovana Zlatoustog [Liturgy of St John Chrysostom] (2001). Being obviously music from the early phase of the composer’s work, the general conception follows a recognisable dramatic concert style. Although in recent years Marinković has become much more involved with Serbian chant and with a kind of ‘simplification’ of his whole approach, he still insists on the possibility of a very dramatic sound, since he understands the Liturgy “as a central event in man’s life and though it is a prayer it has to involve an honest cry from this ‘vale of tears’, because often there is no other musical genre to manifest it properly” (ibid.). Marinković’s comments on the future of composed church music reveal his opinion that composer has to focus on both ‘inner’ qualities of chanting and acceptability of his work the context of church culture: “The essence of any concept for me is a kind of supressed model of creation. It is something that arrives from the ‘outside’. We should turn out full attention to the ‘inside’: the qualities of chant and its melodic and harmonic capacities. The “outside” framework or concept can be simple or very complex – that is not what matters. On other hand, we should never forget that church music has to be accepted by the people as an important element of church culture as a whole. As always in art, simplicity is a challenge and it is never easy to achieve, which in the end defines it as a rather complex thing” (ibid.).

While the majority of composers such as Dimitrije Golemović, Milorad Marinković, Miodrag Govedarica, Milorad Kuzmanović (1932–1996) and Miloš Raičković (b. 1956) have generally one representative sacred work (a Liturgy or Opelo [Funeral service]) with a few shorter pieces, Svetislav Božić has composed much more music according to the traditional hymnographic cycles: two settings of the Liturgija sv. Jovana Zlatoustog [Liturgy of St John Chrysostom] for mixed choir (1993, 2001), Opelo [Funeral Service] (1994), Svenoćno bdenije [All-Night Vigil] (1995), Strasna sedmica [Passion Week] (1997) and Serbijo iže jesi / Hilandarski palimpsest / quasi Opelo [Serbia, That Art / Chilandar Palimpsest / Quasi Opelo] (2000).5 The other substantial part of his output is based on ancient and modern spiritual poetry (mediaeval, eighteenth-century and contemporary authors with a strong national orientation), often really paraliturgical in conception: for instance, the Božanstvena liturgija [Divine Liturgy] and Duhovna lira [The Spiritual Lyre], based on sacred poetry by St Bishop Nikolaj Velimirović. A typical example of this idea is the composition Serbijo iže jesi / Hilandarski palimpsest / quasi Opelo, in which the initial artistic point undergoes through a process of ritualisation: each written poem plays the role of an important hymnographical unit of the funeral service.6 5 The compositional work of Svetislav Božić is followed by theoretical writings aesthetically and artistically strongly connected with this kind of creative production. See Božić 1979; 1987. 6 The poet Rajko Petrov Nogo gives the following explanation: “The basic and the oldest element is the canonical text of the Orthodox Funeral service and its life in art music. Every hymnographical part has its counterpart in written poetry, as a contemporary 115

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Some concrete characteristics of Božić’s neoromantic music are: the relatively non-canonical treatment of text through the use of many divisions and repetitions, the large dimensions of some of the hymns, the insistence on tonal lability in favour of increased artistic expression. In his Svenoćno bdenije the structural and stylistic influence of Rachmaninoff ’s setting is more than evident, from the selection of the hymns to the treatment of the soloist. A general Russian influence can be heard through almost the whole composition (especially in its modal/tonal orientation), while some small quasi-Serbian chant elements can be recognised only in certain details. In speaking about his own works, Svetislav Božić does not mention Russian influences and claims that he has “never used any melody or formula from the heritage of Serbian chant”. Instead, he stresses: “[…] my starting point is from the unchanging liturgical texts to which I add melody, harmony, metric and formal elements of my own expression, and from what I feel as a collective memory that has survived in spite of everything and still sounds actively fresh. Sometimes academic circles overlook that joyful aspect as a sign of our national spirituality, instead suffering through the consequences of forced artistic battles” (Đaković 2013c).

Composing church music today is perceived by Božić as a “delicate task”, since the composer has to act as a creative person with a special feeling for the present time and its obvious and hidden variations, hinting at changes in the sphere of everyday life which can be very complex and painful”. Being “an innovative artist” is not an imperative, says Božić: “There are many active places in which one can add one’s own discreet contribution that moves ‘the known’ slightly in a new direction. […] Over-using modernism very often shows a lack of peace in a composer’s soul, full of spiritual contradictions” (ibid.). However, contemplating possible relations between contemporary compositional techniques and the genre of church music, Božić does not want to “place one kind of solution above any other”. Instead, he emphasises that he “would not insist on very often unnecessary analyses”, since the genre has a special, metaphysical meaning in the creative world: “Through church music a composer does not ‘fight’ for his place as in the case of secular hierarchy. This music is a kind of necessity of his being and for all others that care for it in a certain moment.” Accordingly, he understands the process of refining the composer’s approach, bearing in mind both creation in silence and the relation to performers who are important mediators in the transmission of the composer’s message. In this context, Božić stresses that, “[t]he process of refining inner creativity has to be undertaken by the composer himself in silence, with his spiritual models, as well as with the professional brotherhood (choirs, singers, conductors) which in front of his eyes and ears make his world possible and special. They also function as a way of checking the work he has been doing alone, as a tool for makecho of the unique, everlasting prayer. Performance of this piece should take place in the open air, such as a church without a roof. The poetic verses take the function of the litanies intoned by the priest, and then the choir sings and repeats the same text.” 116

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ing the music alive at the moment when his prayers are shared with other people” (ibid.).

When Svetislav Božić summaries his own creative approach, he speaks in the same way about both secular and sacred texts which inspired him to write his music. These statements convey the typical poetic exaggeration, full of strong emotions and romantic metaphors, whether he emphasises national feelings and/or religiosity: “[…] four pieces (Serbia, Liturgija, Opelo, Svenoćno bdenije) make up the ‘four parts’ of one’s life, in which the spiritual tradition of Serbian folklore and art music come together as the reason for its existence [...]. Destroying pride and vanity through the knowledge that one who belongs only to himself at the end belongs to no-one and nowhere [...]. With the funeral service we do not bury life and thought, but give more power to ideas of survival [...] we overcome our sins and forgetfulness of all we have done, we are now doing and will do in the future […]” (ibid.).

The final criterion for the talented and fully professionally skilled composer will be the level of his connection with the spirit of the people gathered in the name of Christ, with the special style of Church music dictated by the temple, liturgical time, the fact of passing human life, by the great silent after all events have ceased. Church music has to remain what it always has been: a kind of medicine for the soul, a joyful sadness that unites all things in good spirit and maintains life itself. We do not create church music, we just come back to it” (ibid.).

Conclusion Quite different from the situation in the 1920s and 1930s, when the majority of active Serbian composers composed Orthodox choral music – from simple harmonisation in the manner of the nineteenth century, through the romantic-classical way of Stevan Mokranjac, to highly westernised models, such as Miloje Milojević’s work (post-romanticism, expressionism) and even some experimental cases (Milenko Živković), the previously-mentioned discontinuity through the socialist period led to the absolutely ‘episodic’ character of this genre at the turning point between two millenia. While older Serbian composers quite successfully condensed the musical values of Serbian chant creating idiomatic works with their own vocabulary, or highly creative combinations of Serbian, Russian and Western choral elements never losing the fundamental traces of tradition, the dominant compositional approach of composers active in the postsocialist period has been, with few exceptions, pure and simple eclecticism. Most often losing the crucial constructive connection with Serbian chant and showing a low level of knowledge of inner liturgical dramatisation and the absence of an homogeneous musical language which could be recognised as contemporary even in the broadest postmodern sense, those authors have not solved the main aesthetic dilemma: instead of keeping the tradition 117

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alive (only) by using the “old” elements, they have never understood how to make a creative rediscovery of everlasting liturgical-artistic creativity. It is a kind of orientation towards specific traditional cultures through which one might take an ancient coffin, but without finding the real content hidden in it – as if we are dealing with the external robe of love, without love itself which can give the reason for and meaning of its existence (Skliris 2005: 496). Though believing in the words of Albert van der Schoot that “every reconstruction is (always) a new construction and the idea of authenticity in practice is more often result of understanding than the result of implicit creating” (Šot [Schoot] 1997: 28–29), at the end of this paper it is important to stress the necessity of working in the field of religious art in which aesthetic perspective is just one side of the problem. New church music should not be only a creative modern (or more often, postmodern) object that has the potential to delight us from the artistic point of view itself, but, far more importantly, a lively reminder of the spiritual reality above us.

References BOŽIĆ, Svetislav (1979) Modalna harmonija u delima kompozitora XIX i XX veka [Modal harmony in works of nineteenth- and twentieth-century composers], unpublished Magister degree thesis, Belgrade: Univerzitet umetnosti u Beogradu, Fakultet muzičke umetnosti [in Cyrillic]. BOŽIĆ, Svetislav (1987) Formalne i lestvično-tetrahordalne karakteristike stihire Gospodi vozvah u Osmoglasniku Stevana Mokranjca [Formal and scale-tetrachordal characteristics of the stichera Gospodi Vozvah in the Octechos by Stevan Mokranjac], unpublished habilitation, Belgrade: Univerzitet umetnosti u Beogradu, Fakultet muzičke umetnosti [in Cyrillic]. BIGOVIĆ, Radovan (2000) “Demokratija i pravoslavlje” [Democracy and orthodoxy], in Milan Vukomanović and Nemanja Krajčinović (eds.) Crkva, država i civilno društvo [Church, state and civil society], Belgrade: Centar za demokratiju, 41–45. ĐAKOVIĆ, Bogdan (2013a) Interview with the composer Miodrag Govedarica, March 2013 (unpublished). ĐAKOVIĆ, Bogdan (2013b) Interview with the composer Milorad Marinković, March 2013 (unpublished). ĐAKOVIĆ, Bogdan (2013c) Interview with the composer Svetislav Božić, March 2013 (unpublished). ĐOKOVIĆ, Predrag (2016) Uticaj evropskog pokreta za ranu muziku na izvođačku praksu u Srbiji [Influences of the European Early Music Movement on performing practice in Serbia], unpublished PhD thesis, Belgrade: Univerzitet umetnosti u Beogradu, Fakultet muzičke umetnosti [in Cyrillic]. 118

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GULYANITSKAYA, N. S. (2002) Poetika muzïkal’noy kompozitsii. Teoreticheskie aspektï ruskoy muzïki XX veka [Poetics of musical composition. Theoretical aspects of Russian music of the twentieth century], Moscow: Yazïki slavyanskoy kul’turï. JOVANOVIĆ, Zoran M. (1998) Društvo umetnika Zograf [The Zograf society of artists], Belgrade: J. M. Vasiljević [in Cyrillic]. ЈOVANOVIĆ, Zoran M. (2011) Vizantina u savremenoj srpskoj umetnosti [Influences of Byzantium in contemporary Serbian art], Belgrade: Službeni glasnik [in Cyrillic]. KULJIĆ, Todor (2006) Kultura sećanja – teorijska objašnjenja upotrebe prošlosti [Cultural memory – theoretical explanations of the uses of the past], Belgrade: Čigoja štampa. PERKOVIĆ, Ivana (2000) “Dimitrije Golemović’s Setting of the Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts”, New Sound 16: 125–128. PRODANOV KRAJIŠNIK, Ira (2007) Muzika između ideologije i religije [Music between ideology and religion], Novi Sad: Stylos and Zavod za kulture Vojvodine. SKLIRIS, Stamatis (2005) U ogledalu i zagonetki [In mirror and riddle], translated from Greek by Maksim Vasiljević, Belgrade: Pravoslavni bogoslovski fakultet [in Cyrillic]. ŠOT, Albert van der [Schoot, Albert van der] (1997) “Rekonstrukcija i autentičnost muzičkog stila“ [Reconstruction and authenticity of musical style], in Miško Šuvaković (ed.) Izuzetnost i sapostojanje, Belgrade: Fakultet muzičke umetnosti: 24–29. VESELINOVIĆ-HOFMAN, Mirjana (1997) Fragmenti o muzičkoj postmoderni [Fragments on musical postmodernism], Novi Sad: Matica srpska.

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After the End of the World. On Music in Hans Jürgen Syberberg’s Café Zilm Dalibor Davidović (Zagreb) “Because I desire to reveal myself, to stop being too easy a riddle for you to solve” (Gombrowicz 2012: 44). Entering the square from the southern side, I immediately found what I was looking for: a scaffold construction made of metal planks partially covered by plastic sheeting. Since I approached it laterally, I could see something like a marquee inside, like those which can be found on city squares during Christmas time. The front of the marquee was not visible. At the plastic sheeting there was a printed photograph of an old building, possibly from the nineteenth century, which had the inscription “Café Zilm” on the facade. The front door in the photograph had been replaced with a real wooden front door in front of which stood a chalkboard with the following inscription: “Today, on Friday October 13 from 4 PM on coffee and cake - homemade! At 7 PM: Live! For and with Marlies Hamann (94) Songs for singing along. The Café Zilm is heated.” Inside the marquee there were some round tables with table cloths made of white damask and small flower arrangements. The carpet, the chandelier and the elegant chairs gave an impression of a certain age. Next to the entrance there was a table with the different sorts of cakes, a coffee machine and the accessories. I introduced myself to the hosts and we sat at one of the tables. That evening the music was announced, and the programme itself was dedicated 121

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to Marlies Hamann, whose name I was until that moment unfamiliar with. Before her appearance a young female singer, accompanied by two female musicians playing violin and accordion, performed some songs. I recognised just Der Mond ist aufgegangen, a simple strophic song which belongs to the repertory familiar to children in Germany, or it at least did in the past. Even in her nineties Marlies Hamann was a lady full of verve. In accordance with the programme, which included songs for singing along, she raised her hands and the visitors started to sing. It was obvious that they were familiar with the songs, and they seemed to enjoy performing them, not just because these simple pieces were something they shared, but also because the songs reminded them on their own childhood. It was as if they finally found a place where they could revisit the nursery rhymes learned in the early childhood without being ridiculed. After a couple of songs, a more informal social gathering followed. When Marlies Hamann decided to leave, she received a standing ovation. The inscription on the chalkboard was an invitation directed to anyone. And yet the visitors were mostly the citizens of Demmin, a town in the German federal state of Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania, which was once part of the German Democratic Republic. It seemed that they came to the marquee in order to meet the old café again, even if they just heard of it from the older members of their families. The Café Zilm is in fact part of the personal histories of the citizens of Demmin. Named after the family who owned it, the Café Zilm was situated at the corner of the main square and was a favourite meeting place. It also shared the destiny of the town, which was terribly devastated on 1 May 1945, after the retreating Wehrmacht forces had blown up the bridges over the rivers, thus blocking the Red Army’s advance. Soviet forces looted and burned down the town, and committed rape and executions. Numerous inhabitants, especially women and refugees, then killed themselves, with many families doing so together.1 After the war the new socialist authorities built a block of residential buildings on the northern side of the main square, intended to be used by the new inhabitants. Yet, the place on the corner, the place of Café Zilm, remained empty, even after the end of the GDR. It remained covered with grass until today. The scaffold construction was erected on that place from 29 September until 15 October 2017. After the end of the Second World War the events which took place in 1945 in Demmin were covered with a veil of silence. They were an undesirable subject because their public discussion could be dangerous for the relations between the GDR and the USSR, relations officially called a friendship.2 But the children’s songs, were they unwanted as well? It is unlikely that the music sung that evening in the marquee had also once sounded in the Café Zilm. If there 1 For the recollections by some Demmin citizens of the events between 30 April and 4 May 1945, the day on which the fire could finally be put out, see Buske 1995. Pages 12 and 13 contain reproductions of the photographs of the main square taken from the tower of St. Bartholomew’s church before and after the fire. It is visible that only ashes remained of the building in which Café Zilm was located. 2 On the official interpretation of the events in Demmin during the times of the GDR cf. ibid: 15. 122

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was any music in the old café, the children’s songs were hardly a favourite repertory. Why did they find their place in the marquee at the main square? The evening was announced not just “with” but also “for” Marlies Hamann. The songs were sung in her honour, and she conducted them with an elegance that suggested she had always done so. And that was the case indeed: that evening Marlies Hamann took her former role of the music teacher in the primary school once again. But the scaffold construction and the marquee attracted not just the visitors from Demmin. Because of them also the author of these lines came to the town, if for another reason.3 While the citizens of Demmin considered the marquee to be the place, where one could give wings to one’s own memories or at least one could learn something about the subjects long kept secret, for me it was a work of art named by its author, Hans Jürgen Syberbergg, as an “installation” (Syberberg 2017a). In order to prepare myself for the visit I had to familiarise myself with the artist’s former work, reading his writings and watching his films. Thus, when I came to Demmin, I already knew some important things. He was born in 1935 in the nearby village Nossendorf. Immediately after the Second World War his native house and the estate of his father has been expropriated by the new socialist authorities, and his experiences in the secondary school in Rostock were decisive for his artistic path.4 In 1953 he fled first to West Berlin and from there to Munich, yet the allusions to his homeland appeared in his works since the early seventies. He could visit Nossendorf again only after the fall of the inner German border, and in 2001 he finally succeeded in buying back his native house in Nossendorf: the renovation of the house stands since that time at the centre of his large-scale work The Nossendorf Project,5 of which the “installation” Café Zilm was just a part. I came to Demmin with some kind of knowledge of Syberberg’s artistic path. To have a knowledge of it meant to know the reasons why his work was the way it was. For example, I knew that in some of his former works the children’s songs had already appeared. Some of the songs performed in the Café Zilm thus could be heard in his film titled Die Nacht, coauthored with the actress Edith Clever, the only person who appeared before the camera in that film. Die Nacht is a fourpart film consisting of two quite long black-and-white parts, each preceded by a shorter one in colour. At one moment of the last, fourth part we see the actress in a close-up singing a song Der Mond ist aufgegangen. Her eyes are closed and her face lies on her right hand, while her uplifted left hand descends gradually. As the song progresses, her face releases itself from the supporting hand in order to move to the other side. With the gradual movement of the camera her whole body becomes visible. She bows down, makes a circle, and returns to the original posture, with her head now resting on her left hand. At the end of the song she opens her eyes. After that she takes the scattered items from the floor one after 3 My visit took place from 13 to 15 October 2017 thanks to the research grant by the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. 4 Some of the artists’ memories of this period can be found in Syberberg 2010. I would like to thank Annegret Körber for bringing this text to my attention. 5 For more on The Nossendorf Project cf. Longchamp 2003: 131 et seqq. 123

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the other, the teddy bear, chain clock and the ring, in order to lay them down at the floor again singing a number of songs, as if she were in trance. Thus we hear, one after the other: Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht; Nun ruhen alle Wälder; Weißt du wieviel Sternlein stehen; Schlaf ’, Kindchen, schlaf, but also: Dona nobis pacem; Abendstille überall; Alles schweiget; Nun danket alle Gott; Wer hat die schönsten Schäfchen; Kindlein mein, schlaf jetzt ein, and finally Schlafe, schlafe, holder süßer Knabe. As a kind of echo, the actress repeats just the beginnings of the songs Dona nobis pacem and Alles schweiget reciting alternately some verses we heard in the former scenes of the film. Finally, we hear some tones of Dona nobis pacem again until the face of the actress disappears behind the raised mat. Yet, that scene was not the only one in Syberberg’s film Die Nacht in which children’s songs could be heard. With one such song the fourth, final part of the film begins. At that moment the actress is shown in a close-up, with her eyes closed and her head resting on her right hand. She sings a song Schlafe, mein Prinzchen, schlaf ein, but she pronounces clearly only some of the words, substituting the others with the syllables “la la” or “ta ra ra”, or just mumbling the respective part of the melody. But the word “Dünensand”, dune sand, was clearly recognisable. That lullaby, addressed to a “little prince”, creates a nocturnal atmosphere, suitable for the evocation of memories. When the song ends the actress opens her eyes and begins to recite. We are told a story about a boy and his daily journey to school, a school in which the map of Pomerania, “a province in the North of Germany in form of a butterfly with the open wings” (Syberberg s.a. [1985]: 117), hangs on the wall. We are told that his “young teacher” came “from far away” and that she “taught him, who was unmusical, the canons of Bach and Mozart” (ibid.). We are told that he “went into the world” after their family house was lost because for him that was “the end of the world” (ibid.). Since that time the music and the poetry that he learned in the school became his “artificial homeland” and he “swore to himself to bring everything back to the altar of childhood” (ibid.). From that moment it becomes clear that the film we are seeing is exactly such an endeavour and that the story about the boy, recounted in the third person singular, actually gathers the author’s own memories. What follows in the film are his memories concerning the night time. We are told that after supper he would go to bed, while his parents would stay awake. Since the night was usually silent, he could hear the fragments of his parent’s conversation, the mooing of cows or the noises made by mice. Finally, his memories of the particular night arise: “In the night before the Russians came, in 1945, on the 1 May, the forest was suddenly caught in flames, exploding on the horison of childhood. The forest dark and silent, as in the fairy tales. It was the forest which he often went through, fast, during the night and in the early morning, in darkness, in the sled or carriage, to the distant railway station, towards the trains, which would take him in summer to the Ore Mountains, or to the relatives in Schwerin, or once to Hamburg, when the bombs were falling, or to Berlin. But he noticed that the forest was a storage place for ammunition or a military production plant, with the captive Russians, a place caught in the 124

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dark red flames, rumbling all night. As long as it was possible to see. The horison on fire, the childhood, the trees and the animals and the whole land, and the nearby town of his early days, all of this burned and the thousands of corpses floated in the bloody red river, in the river, in which he always bathed. The familiar walls and doors and the windows exploded, the gardens and parks in flames, the familiar smell of the house disappeared, the haylage was flooded, the horse stalls were empty, the storks left the stall roofs, and the paths and the stones in the courtyard, the wooden carriage and the homemade harness, nothing was like it was before. The village was not a village and the world was not a world anymore. In one night” (ibid: 119).

Coming to the Café Zilm, I had in mind that already Die Nacht was a kind of autobiography and that the children’s songs, which could be heard in that film, but also the “canons” of Bach and Mozart, were the music of Syberberg’s childhood. The music, which he brought with himself after the “end of the world” and which became since that time his “artificial homeland”, something similar to the most precious things that refugees and exiles take with them, which give them a point of orientation wherever they are. However, I did not know who Marlies Hamann was, whom I saw that evening for the first time.6 For more than two weeks the Café Zilm opened its door each afternoon, offering the visitors coffee and homemade cakes and a special programme each evening. Since I visited it for the last three days, the evening dedicated to Marlies Hamann was the first one I attended. The next day the visitors could see the premiere of Syberberg’s film Für Café Zilm and on the last evening another of his films, titled Café Zilm 2017 Best of, was screened. Both films shared the character of a revue. While in the second film some memorable moments of the previous days were collected, in Für Café Zilm some sequences taken from other films were put together, beginning with a fragment of Syberberg’s own film Karl May from 1974. What followed was a sequence from Luis Buñuel’s Viridiana and a short silent film made in 1940 by Syberberg’s father. The last two sequences were focused on music. The first of them contained the movements Dies irae and Rex tremendae from Syberberg’s film Requiem mit dem Finger gelesen, originally made for his installation Cave of Memory which was presented in 1997 at the exhibition Documenta X.7 The second sequence was the recording of Bach’s Ciaccona in D minor for violin solo, performed at the concert titled Praying for Palmyra, given by the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra from St. Petersburg under Valery Gergiev in May 2016 in the Roman amphitheatre of the ancient city, a few months after the Palmyra offensive. But what could the film biography of Karl May, a German writer best known for his adventure novels, the scene from Viridiana, in which the group of paupers breaks into the house of the protagonist’s uncle Jorge, the film which shows some scenes from the streets of Demmin before the Second World War, 6 Unfortunately, also for the last time, since Marlies Hamann passed away during the writing of this study. 7 For the context in which this film was originally presented see “Hans Jürgen Syberberg: Cave of Memory, 1997” in Joly 1997: 311. 125

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and the performances of Mozart’s and Bach’s pieces all have in common? The viewer familiar with Syberberg’s previous work would immediately understand that the selected film sequences were not put together just by chance. He would recognise that every sequence relates somehow to that horrible night evoked in the film Die Nacht. Thus the short film made by Syberberg’s father could be a testimony that the world before the end existed at all, preceded by the words spoken by the figure of Karl May in the selected scene as a “vision of the catastrophe” (Syberberg 2017h). The music of Mozart and Bach, to which Syberberg was initiated by his school teacher Marlies Hamann, was the artist’s “artificial homeland”, another remnant of the world before its end. The scene from Palmyra, in which the Russian musician performed Bach, referred to the connection between “Bach”, “war” and the “Russians”. Finally, music also plays a decisive role in the sequence from Viridiana, giving it the character of a carnivalesque reversal. Handel’s Hallelujah, a soundtrack of this twisted Last Supper, appeared here as diegetic music, since at the beginning of the scene we see one of the paupers taking the record from its cover and putting it to the gramophone. But the references to the “end of the world” were not restricted to the film Syberberg showed on the penultimate evening. It was evoked at the very beginning of the Café Zilm programme through the screening of Martin Farkas’ film Über Leben in Demmin from 2017. The memories of today’s citizens of Demmin on that fateful night in 1945, recorded in Farkas’ film, found their echo a few days after in the memoir of the writer Karl Schlösser on his own childhood in Demmin, read by the author himself (cf. Syberberg 2017e). The town Demmin and the surrounding area was the subject of another semantic line. Thus in the opening credits of Fritz Lang’s film Frau im Mond, screened on one of the evenings, Hermann Oberth as a “scientific advisor” (Syberberg 2017c). Once an enthusiastic reader of Jules Verne’s novel De la terre à la lune, Oberth was a physician who participated during the Second World War in the German space programme in Peenemünde Army Research Centre, not far away from Demmin, and whose pupil Wernher von Braun after the war played a decisive role in the Moon landing of the US spacecraft Apollo. The Trebel, along with the Peene, a river which flows through Demmin, was the subject of Martin Succow’s film Floßfahrt auf der Trebel from 2016. The reminiscences of the “Russians” were presented through the interpretations by the Russian artists of the classical “German” works to which Syberberg was initiated in the school, like Goethe’s Faust, which could be seen in the film version made by Alexander Sokurov, and Bach’s Ciaccona from the concert held in Palmyra. A part of this semantic line was also the screening of Andrey Tarkovskiy’s Andrey Rublyov, a portrayal of the artist experiencing the “inferno” which occurred when the “Tatars invaded the town [...], burned it down and violated women” (Syberberg 2017d). Not by chance were two other films screened in the Café Zilm, Willy Birgel’s Reitet für Deutschland, made in the time of war, and the film The Salt of the Earth by Wim Wenders and Juliano Ribeiro Salgado, a portrait of the photographer Sebastião Salgado, whose work documents decades of conflicts, wars and suffering and 126

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who “at the end of his life as a famous old man [...] returned to his father’s house, in order to plant millions of trees in the jungle” (Syberberg 2017f) – a fate which resembles the lifepath of Syberberg himself. But the Café Zilm was not a place where the visitors could come just to attend the prepared programme. Besides the singing along of the songs they learned in their own childhood, it also provoked discussions, to which the pupils of the Demmin school were invited, while the screening of the concert from Palmyra was attended by some refugees from war-devastated Syria and who had found asylum in Demmin (Syberberg 2017g). What were the subjects of the discussions? What was addressed, according to the artist himself, were “many whys” (Syberberg 2017b). Why were there so many dead that night? Why did they have to die? Why did the victims include mothers and children? Why was the town burned down? Was the violence that night just the answer to another violence, the national socialist one, which preceded the bloody events? Did one violence justify the other? Why was there a total silence about those events for such a long time? How would reconciliation be possible? In the Café Zilm the memories of the citizens of Demmin could be expressed, the memories which during the times of the GDR could be transmitted just as a whisper in the family circle and after the end of the socialist state were used by the far-right political parties for their own purposes. Addressed by the programme, the visitors of the Café Zilm came together in conversation. They participated in the Café Zilm in search of the answers to many whys. The process was somehow curative, since the verbal expression of the once repressed content gave that content a form, a limitation. It became something that could be faced as an object and thus did not present a danger any more. In that sense, to participate in the Café Zilm meant to acquire some kind of knowledge of the fateful events. Even if the participation was just a search for such a knowledge, it implied that some kind of knowledge should be its goal. But I also came to Demmin with some kind of knowledge. Since I was familiar with many of Syberberg’s previous works, I could recognise in the Café Zilm some of their elements, like the tendency to leave the author of the work uncredited (cf. Olsen 2005: 366) or to move from the format of the film to the format of site-specific art, a tendency which could be found at first in the installation-form treatment of the artist’s own films (cf. Groys 2008: 16), for example in their multiple screenings at the same time,8 but also decisively in the artist’s activities during the turbulent time immediately after the fall of the Berlin Wall, when the idea to “reconstruct the village of the childhood” (Syberberg 1990: 188) appeared for the first time, leading to the articulation of The Nossendorf Project. Furthermore, I could recognise the references to the motive mentioned in his film Die Nacht as the “end of the world”. I understood finally why the pieces of Bach and Mozart, or the children’s songs, found their place in the Café Zilm again, after their appearance in many of Syberberg’s works beginning with his film San Domingo from 1970, in which we hear the protagonist Michi singing the following verses: 8

One of them was described in Syberberg 1984: 233 et seq. 127

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“Fly, maybug, fly! Your father is at war, Your mother is in Pomerania, Pomerania is burned down.“ I was aware that the reminiscences of “Bach”, “war” and “Russians” came together already in Die Nacht, since in the black-and-white parts of the film the recording of Svyatoslav Richter’s performance of The Well-Tempered Clavier can be heard. Since the fragments of Mozart’s Requiem returned in some of Syberberg’s works after his move from the format of the film, it was no surprise to hear again a portion of this piece in the Café Zilm. But I was also aware that the music pieces, which make up Syberberg’s “artificial homeland”, were canonical for him not just as the point of orientation that references his works anew, but also in the sense of their compositional principle. Here the word “canon” should not be taken in the usual sense of the musical technique of strict imitation, but as a name for every compositional procedure based on the simultaneity of many different lines, a name which in the context of Syberberg’s work could also be replaced by terms like counterpoint or fugue.9 I was aware that this musical principle, which appeared in Syberberg’s work from early on, made it possible for him to create such works that should resist the reduction to just one meaning or some definite knowledge. I remembered that in Die Nacht the Bach’s cycle of the preludes and fugues, reproduced from the beginning to the end, appeared as a whole, creating the distance from the reminiscences evoked by the pictures and words. The music seemed to touch the pictures and words, to belong to them, but at the same time resisted to be reduced to them. Suspending the possibility of definite meaning, the work nonetheless opened the possibility to search for it at the same time. After all, the programme of the Café Zilm was structured as a kind of fugue, with the distinct semantic lines built up of the memories of the fateful night in 1945 (Farkas, Schlösser), of the references to the town Demmin and its region as it existed in the past and today (Lang, Succow), of the reminiscences of the “Russians” (Tarkovskiy, Sokurov, concert in Palmyra) etc. The programme of the Café Zilm even ended with a kind of stretto, in which the fragments of the previous evenings followed each other, beginning with the recording of the song performed on the first evening by the young singer Jennifer Hartwig, which was followed by the fragment of the reading of Karl Schlösser’s memoir and the scene of Marlies Hamann’s conducting the performance of the children’s song. Also the last sequence of that stretto was dedicated to the music teacher. We saw her in front of the café saying goodbye. The camera followed her as she walked slowly away until her figure disappeared. In contrast to the other visitors who came to the Café Zilm with the idea of acquiring some kind of knowledge, for me the visit to the Café Zilm was 9 The “fugue” is a term which appears in many of the artist’s writings referring to the “musical” compositional principle of his own works. As an early example cf. Syberberg 1976: 70. Both “counterpoint” and “fugue” are used in Olsen 2005 as terms for Syberberg’s compositional procedures. For the double meaning of “fugue” in Syberberg’s work see Davidović 2018: 108 et seq. 128

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a chance to have my knowledge confirmed. For the others it seemed to be of less importance how they acquired their knowledge then the question of what they learned of, whereas for me it was more important to find out which traces the experiences of that fateful night left on Syberberg’s works than to know every detail of the historical events themselves. But it was not so important that they wanted to find out something about the events from the past, while my interest was related to Syberberg’s works themselves. More important was the fact that we both expected of the Café Zilm some sort of knowledge, something defined and final. But was such a reduction of art to the source of knowledge not actually the central problem of Syberberg’s work in general? When Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, trying to define the essential trait of Syberberg’s work, mentioned the artist’s preoccupation with the “possibility of art as such” (Lacoue-Labarthe 1997: 484), his argument should be understood as having two different meanings. Syberberg preoccupied himself with the possibility of art as such because he experienced that art could have fatal consequences. The continuous confrontation with the subject of National Socialism in his works of art as well as in his writings followed that insight. While in his works of art issues of this sort were noticeable from the beginning, but rather indirectly, for example in his interest in the artists whose lives and careers were damaged by National Socialism, like the Austrian Jewish actor Fritz Kortner, the protagonist of two of Syberberg’s very first films, the subject of National Socialism appeared in his writings gradually, and perhaps most intensively in his contribution to the catalogue of the exhibition of the “realist tendencies” between the World Wars (cf. Syberberg 1980a). In contrast to the other texts in the catalogue, which consisted of erudite essays on artistic phenomena in different countries over the period considered, Syberberg’s contribution was astonishing because for him art was not reducible to some kind of object, and whereas the task of the scholar would be just to describe or to classify such objects according to their subject, form, style or to the context of their production, Syberberg considered art to be a shaping of everything that exists. That definition of art found its expression in National Socialism. “The distinctive art of the Third Reich was not to be found in the traditional disciplines like literature, sculpture, painting, architecture [...]. The will to artistic expression identified itself with the interest of the State and with the will to power as well as to its representation. The State itself was understood as a total work of art including the propaganda, extermination machinery and the war” (ibid: 378).

But to shape everything that exists as art was not possible before art was considered to be its essence. If art is namely considered to be the essence of everything that exists, then everything that exists is considered to aspire to the state of art. To treat everything that exists as art means to confirm it in its essence, to harmonise it with its innermost nature. Yet, it does not mean that everything that exists equals art. When the essence of everything that exists is defined as art, this definition has a certain consequence: it namely divides everything that exists into one sphere, which is considered to be in accordance 129

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with its essence, and into another one, in which this is supposedly not the case. The striving of everything that exists to the state of art, that is to say to its innermost nature, means at the same time to dismiss everything that is considered not to be in accordance with it. Hence the monstrosity of National Socialism, if under National Socialism one understands an attempt to realise the State itself as a total work of art. The violence towards the sphere considered not to be in accordance with the essence of everything that exists was prepared in the very definition of art as the essence of everything that exists. Even if National Socialism was something limited, a historical phenomenon, the possibility to take art as the essence of everything that exists remains. This is the reason, according to Syberberg’s argument, why one has to remain vigilant and to mistrust the definition of art as the essence of everything that exists. Moreover, one has to mistrust the definition of art itself, because the definition of art as an essence of everything that exists implies that art is essentially defined through something “higher” than art itself. In striving to be in accordance with its innermost nature, art has to dismiss everything that is considered not to be in accordance with it. But since the essence of art is considered to be something “higher” than art itself, this striving has some kind of finality. In order to fulfil its own essence, art has to retreat and to let that “higher” instance show itself, that “higher” instance about which some kind of knowledge can be obtained. Thus art, defined as something “higher” than art itself, finds its fulfilment in the obtaining of some kind of knowledge. At the same time, that definition of art brings the very existence of art into danger since it presupposes that art finds its fulfilment in something beyond art. Taught by the example of National Socialism, in which art was expected to be something “higher” than art itself, for example an instruction for some kind of action or an indication of belonging (an indication that divided art into “genuine” and “degenerate”), Syberberg considered art to be deeply problematic, something that cannot be continued as before. And not just by the example of National Socialism. The lexicon of the invectives used by the West German film critics at the time referring to his works (cf. Syberberg 1976: 143 et seqq.) showed that essentially the same definition of art could be continued in other terms, but always with fatal consequences for art itself. It was as if the West German film critics at the time, for whom only politicised art was “genuine” and had the right to exist, reminded the refugee from the East of his own school years in the GDR during the Stalinist times.10 But art, defined as something “higher” given through something “lower”, is never just a connection between the two. The “higher” and the “lower” appear as such thanks to the circumstance that they appear at all. Just because of the undecidability, whether there will be art at all, can art appear. It is preceded by that undecidability that remains unthought in the definition of art as something “higher” given through something “lower”, but was always already implied. That undecidability cannot be noticed as such, because it is not some10 On the other hand, the gesture of Syberberg to mistrust the idea of “politicised” art was easily recognisable from abroad as an indication of his experience of living in the GDR. Cf. Syberberg 1976: 307. 130

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thing noticeable at all, neither a presence nor an absence or emptiness, which also could be taken into account, just like any other being. But if there is always already at work something more than just striving towards something “higher” than art itself, art can never reach its own definition, it can never be at one with itself. Even when art occurs as an instruction for some kind of action, an indication of belonging, or simply as a propaganda, it remains to be at odds with itself. In searching for the “possibility of art as such”, Syberberg’s work is thus paradoxical. On the one hand, the concept of art is for Syberberg essentially problematic, since it can always open the possibility of a catastrophe anew. Therefore, it is important to keep art at a distance, to put art into question, to prevent anyone becoming enchanted by its siren song. On the other hand, since art can never be at one with itself, it can also open the possibility of avoiding the very catastrophe it would provoke. From his beginnings Syberberg moved between this double meaning of the “possibility of art as such”. The double meaning, which makes it impossible to know what art actually is. It is as if art were something indeterminate, in-between, neither the striving towards something “higher” than art itself, nor it’s the actual impossibility of art obtaining its goal. The paradoxical nature of Syberberg’s art was the result of his obligation to both meanings implied in the “possibility of art as such”, even in the cases in which it seemed that one side outweighed the other, for example in his film Die Nacht, in which the “frontal projections”11 and the dolls, the very means used in his previous works in order to prevent art from turning into the source of definite knowledge or instruction for some kind of action, were explicitly removed. Like his previous films, Die Nacht dealt with the catastrophe, with the “end of the world”, but it renounced the “musical” (“contrapuntal”, “fugue-like”) procedures and the means which would suspend the striving towards the final meaning. After using them for some time, in the film Die Nacht Syberberg rejected them in order to prevent them from becoming something instantly recognisable, predictable and calculable, about which some kind of knowledge would be possible. He could decide to move since he considered art to be always already immune to its own transformation into something else and hence there was no need for the particularly “musical” procedures. But in the film Die Nacht the pictures and the recital on the “end of the world” proceeded together with the recording of the Bach’s preludes and fugues. Instead of fragmenting the cycle and adapting its parts to the spoken text, Syberberg seemed to put his work completely into the hands of music, as if this would once again prevent his art from being turned into something else. Yet, the film format was still something preconditioned, about which some kind of knowledge could be won. Having this in mind, Syberberg tried to neutralise this danger by moving his art from the setting of the movie theatre. Although his Documenta work Cave of Memory consisted of a certain number of film projections arranged in space, it took place outside of the movie thea11 The “frontal projection” is a film technique that makes it possible to treat the presented subject “contrapuntally”, through the simultaneity of different pictures. On the concept and technique of the “frontal projection” cf. Syberberg 1980b: 52. 131

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tre, leaving the visitors to find their own ways through the arrangement. The striving towards something final seemed to be suspended through the opening of the work to the dimension of space, not to mention the multitude of film projections at the same time. But the gallery setting in which Cave of Memory was exhibited still implied something predictable, since the very entry into the gallery suggested that the matters which occurred there were art. The danger of reducing art to some kind of knowledge appeared again. What would remain of art if it also relinquished the idea of its determination through the context in which it occurs? In order to prevent his own art from being reduced to something else, Syberberg also left the art institutions like galleries and theatres and took a path into the unknown. On the one hand, he moved his art to some locations in physical space, but such locations that would not suggest that the matters occurring there were necessarily art. On the other hand, he let his art enter the vast land of the internet, welcomed it enthusiastically as a place beyond control (cf. Syberberg 1995: 22), including the control of whether the matters occurring there were considered art or not. Thus the Café Zilm took place at the town square. Another part of The Nossendorf Project happened or is happening permanently since the early 2000s at locations in Nossendorf or Demmin, sometimes with video links to other locations, for example to the Pompidou Centre in Paris (cf. Longchamp 2003). Once again Syberberg followed his obligation to both meanings implied in the “possibility of art as such” at the same time. But he took another direction this time and let his art come to meet its other, following the insight that the only way to prevent his art from being turned into something else would be to become as similar as possible to it, to let nothing stand out as its particular trait, since every particularity would make his art recognisable and would open the possibility of reducing it to some kind of knowledge. In doing so, Syberberg’s art seemed to achieve a point at which it could not be distinguished from nonart any more. It tried to eliminate the danger of becoming something else, calling into question its own existence. The strange thing about the Café Zilm was exactly that the visitors could not know what it actually was. It could be an improvised café in which homemade cakes could be tasted. Or it could be a place in which the long supressed subject could be publicly discussed. Or a place in which the songs from one’s own childhood could be sung. For some visitors, including the author of these lines, the Café Zilm was the place at which some kind of knowledge could be obtained. Happening at the town square, at a place which didn’t suggest that the matters which occurred there were necessarily art, the Café Zilm seemed to propose the impossibility of knowing whether the actual happening was art or not as its very subject. This impossibility could not be eliminated through the knowledge obtained in the marquee, even less through the reading of learned studies on Syberberg’s art, or the abundant writings of Syberberg himself, since his own writings also move between two poles, the view of his own art as something “higher” than art itself (mostly as some sort of a collective psychotherapy), on the one hand,

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and confidence in the forces of art to resist any attempt to reduce it to something else, on the other. When art, trying to prevent its own turning into something else, becomes unrecognisable as art, when one does not know whether one attends an art work or not, everything can appear as art, even the renovation of one’s own childhood home. Since Syberberg’s family house had been nationalised immediately after the war and remained inaccessible for the former refugee from the East, he could for years only dream about it, trying to make it present for a few moments if only as a vision, as for example in his film Die Nacht. At the end of the GDR’s existence the house was devastated, since it had been used for years as a warehouse and the courtyard around it was covered with concrete. Art could thus also appear in Syberberg’s care of the places of his childhood, Nossendorf and Demmin, as well as his preoccupation with the collection of everything that could bear witness to his own life and the life of his associates before the “end of the world”. In that period, in which every one of his actions were (and are) just parts of The Nossendorf Project, his art became increasingly personal. It was as if his art were nothing more than the collection of the traces of the past and the recording of his everyday activities, whether they were meetings, short trips, readings, music heard on the radio or news found on the internet. But that obsessive collecting of fragments of his own life and the recording of everyday life, that continuous revealing of himself, was at the same time what Witold Gombrowicz, another author of a comprehensive diary, talked about when he said that he wanted to write about himself in order to stop being too easy a riddle for somebody to solve. Just because of the idea of art as something that can never be at one with itself, just because of the undecidability which precluded the appearance of something as art, could for him the writing about himself be both revelatory and its opposite at the same time. Similarly, where Syberberg, especially in his recent actions, seems to be the most personal, where his actions look like the bare recording of everyday banalities or the nostalgic attempts to bring back lost paradise (be this paradise his own childhood or be it the idea of art, before it was occupied by the National Socialism), his works are at the same time the most enigmatic. Even if he was from the beginning driven by the memories of the world before its “end”, he “betrayed” (García Düttmann 2018: 87) them by converting them into something about which one could not have final knowledge. It was as if there was at work an “oblivion which appears under the mask of anamnesis” (Marquard 2003: 105). And not just his own memories. Allowing the memories of others of the fateful night in 1945 to be expressed publicly, Syberberg’s Café Zilm not only exposed them to the risk of being reduced to an instruction for some kind of action, especially a political one, but at the same time also prevented them from being reduced in that way. From the beginning Syberberg also searched in music for an instance which could protect film, or art in general, from its reduction to something else, even though he was aware that music itself could be reduced to something else pret133

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ty well, an idea which manifested itself in his long-time confrontation with Richard Wagner (cf. Olsen 2005; Vaget 2017). Even in The Nossendorf Project Syberberg tried to bring his own art under the protection of music. Thus in the Café Zilm the music of Syberberg’s childhood – pieces of Bach, Mozart, and children’s songs – found its place once again, but also the structure of the action itself followed the model of the fugue. Another of Syberberg’s actions from the same period consisted of the acquisition of the organ for the church in Nossendorf, which had to be renovated beforehand (cf. Syberberg 2019). In an unnamed action which took place on 5 May 2018 in St Bartholomew’s church in Demmin (cf. Syberberg 2018), the recording of which was titled Demminer Requiem, Syberberg’s art appeared as a memorial service held on the anniversary of the fateful events in 1945. Or as a concert, since the service included two Mozart’s pieces, Ave verum corpus and the Requiem performed by the church choir from Demmin and the Prussian Chamber Orchestra. It seemed that Syberberg finally reached the point at which the difference between his own art and Mozart’s Requiem, to which he referred so many times before, disappeared. But did Syberberg in these recent works really succeed in trying to eliminate every predictability from his art? Did he really neutralise the danger of reducing his art to some kind of knowledge? In his search for that, his art left the art institutions and became indistinguishable from non-art. Whether it would appear as art or not depended on the abyss of undecidability. But in that case it seemed to be taken for granted that the danger of reducing art to some sort of knowledge could be neutralised through the making of a particular artwork which would be resistant to such temptations. In order to place the undecidability of the appearance of art as the very subject of the artwork, the undecidability had to be turned into something, namely into an absence or a possibility. Even the event like the Café Zilm, which one does not know whether it was a work of art or not, had to be something. And that means that some kind of knowledge of it remained possible, be it the most elusive kind. But the turn of the undecidability into something allowed the rupture between the two to show itself at the same time, preserving thus “contrapuntally”, if only inadvertently, the idea of art as such.

References BUSKE, Norbert (1995) Das Kriegsende in Demmin 1945. Berichte, Erinnerungen, Dokumente, Schwerin: Helms. DAVIDOVIĆ, Dalibor (2018) “Filmfuge”, in Antonio Baldassarre et al. (eds.) Music Cultures in Sounds, Words and Images. Essays in Honor of Zdravko Blažeković, Wien: Hollitzer, 79–111. GARCÍA DÜTTMANN, Alexander (2018) Love Machine. Der Ursprung des Kunstwerks, Konstanz: Konstanz University Press. 134

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GOMBROWICZ, Witold (2012) Diary, transl. by Lillian Vallee, New Haven and London: Yale University Press. GROYS, Boris (2008) “Orte des Films”, in Hans Jürgen Syberberg et al. (eds.) Syberberg. Film nach dem Film, Nürnberg: Verlag für moderne Kunst, 10–17. JOLY, Françoise (ed.) (1997) Documenta X. Short Guide / Kurzfűhrer, Ostfildern: Cantz. LACOUE-LABARTHE, Philippe (1997) “Syberberg. Über Deutschland nach Hitler”, in Catherine David et al. (eds.) Politics – Poetics. Das Buch zur documenta X, Ostfildern – Ruit: Cantz, 480–484. LONGCHAMP, Christian (ed.) (2003) Syberberg / Paris / Nossendorf, Paris: Éditions Centre Pompidou – Yellow Now. MARQUARD, Odo (2003) Aesthetica und Anaesthetica. Philosophische Überlegungen, München: Fink. OLSEN, Solveig (2005) Hans Jürgen Syberberg and His Film of Wagner’s Parsifal, Lanham, Boulder, New York, Toronto and Oxford: University Press of America. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (1976) Syberbergs Filmbuch, München: Nymphenburger Verlagshandlung. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (1980a) “Hitler artiste de l’État ou l’avant-garde méphistophélique du XXe siècle”, in Gérard Régnier (ed.) Les Réalismes 1919-1939, Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 378–383. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (1980b) “Le métier de cinéaste. Entretien inédit avec Serge Daney et Bernard Sobel”, in Serge Daney et al. (eds.) Syberberg (=special issue of Cahiers du cinéma), Paris: Editions de l’Etoile, 51–69. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (1984) Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget. Neue Notizen aus Deutschland, Zürich: Diogenes. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (s.a. [1985]) Die Nacht, unpublished manuscript in possession of the author. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (1990) Vom Unglück und Glück der Kunst in Deutschland nach dem letzten Kriege, München: Matthes & Seitz. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (1995) Das Rechte – tun, München: Benedikt Maria Kronenbitter Verlag. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (2010) “Nach dem Krieg”, in Schulverein des Innerstädtischen Gymnasiums (ed.) 80 Jahre Schulen am Goetheplatz 1930-2010. Vergangenheit, Gegenwart, Zukunft, Rostock: Schule am Goetheplatz, 22–23. SYBERBERG, Hans Jürgen (2017a) Café Zilm Installation, Official Page of H. J. Syberberg, 135

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PART TWO

Festivals and Institutions: Strategies of Existence and Survival

CHAPTER 8

On Missed Opportunities: The International Review of Composers in Belgrade and the “Postsocialist Condition” Jelena Janković-Beguš and Ivana Medić (Belgrade) In this article we observe the history of the International Review of Composers in Belgrade,1 the most enduring annual festival of contemporary art music in Serbia, founded in 1992. We have borrowed the syntagm ‘postsocialist condition’ from the title of the book edited by Aleš Erjavec (Erjavec 2003).2 1 The name of the festival in Serbian – Međunarodna tribina kompozitora – has been translated to English variously. We have opted to use the most common translation, the International Review of Composers, although in the existing literature alternative translations can be found, e.g. International Composers Review, or even International Tribune of Composers. Another correct translation would be the International Rostrum of Composers. The same applies to alternative translations of the name Udruženje kompozitora Srbije – The Composers’ Association of Serbia. In quotations, we used published English translations (cf. References) where they were available, which is why these alternative translations appear occasionally (resulting from the work of various translators). It should also be noted that the first two editions of the festival, held in Novi Sad and Sremski Karlovci respectively, did not have the adjective ‘international’ in their title – the festival was called simply the Review of Composers – although they were actually international in character. The third Review, organised for the first time in Belgrade (where it has remained ever since) had the subtitle the International Review of Composers and this version of writing (with both title and subtitle) was preserved until the fifth edition. Since the sixth edition, the adjective is to be found in the title and it remains so until today. Nevertheless, the website of the Composers’ Association of Serbia still enlists it as the ‘Review of Composers’ [Tribina kompozitora], (see Online sources of the International Review of Composers 1992–2019). Colloquially, the festival is called ‘The Review’ [Tribina] and here the same abbreviated title will be used occasionally. 2 However, we do not use the syntagm ‘postsocialist condition’ in the same way as Erjavec, because he equates ‘postsocialism’ with ‘late socialism’ placing it in an earlier timeframe, i.e. the last two decades of the twentieth century (see Erjavec 2003: 3), when indeed the majority of European ‘Eastern Bloc’ countries entered – and most of them completed – their transition, the notion of which will be elaborated in this chapter. However, this was not the case with Serbia, for the reasons that will be clarified later. 139

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It is a fact, indeed, that the International Review of Composers was founded during the period examined in that book (i.e. the last two decades of the twentieth century). There are important paragraphs in Erjavec’s analysis which can serve as an explanation for the emergence of the International Review of Composers: speaking about the “importance of national sentiments and the significance ascribed to culture, especially to national culture” (ibid: 13) in the observed countries (including the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia /SFRY/), he claims that: “[i]n this environment, nation and culture are inextricably linked. It is politics that links them and that has caused art and culture to play such a significant role in the 1980s and early 1990s, enabling writers to become heads of state; painters and poets, ambassadors; and sociology professors, city mayors and foreign ministers, just as in 1918–20 or in the years following 1945. Within this context, culture denotes ‘high culture’—that is, what artists, writers, musicians, and scholars produce, sometimes for fairly narrow specialist audiences and sometimes for broader publics [cf. Verdery 1991: 12]. It is in this sense that the notion of culture is employed in this book, because in this transitional period of late socialism, culture still possessed this particular role and position” (Erjavec 2003: 14).

Certain remnants of that ‘postsocialist condition’ can still be felt in Serbia, nearly two decades later. Why is it so? In our previous analyses of the phenomenon of ‘postsocialist transition’ (Janković 2006; Janković 2008a; Janković 2008b; Medić and Janković-Beguš 2016) we argued that the ultimate goal of transition is European integration (i.e. EU membership); and since Serbia is yet to join the European Union, the country is still stuck in limbo, i.e. in a transitory ‘nowhereland’ where it has spent the last twenty years. It is unlikely that this situation will change anytime soon. Having been involved personally with the Review in various professional capacities – beginning in the late 1990s when, as students of musicology, we both contributed to the Bulletin of the Review – we have witnessed its ups and downs first-hand. Most importantly, Jelena Janković-Beguš was a part of the production team for several years, while she was employed by the co-producer of the festival (Jugokoncert), between 2002 and 2008.3 Janković-Beguš also included the analyses of the Review in her aforementioned papers written during the same period (Janković 2006; Janković 2008a; Janković 2008b). On the other hand, for the past three years (2018–2020) Ivana Medić has been a member of the Committee appointed by the Serbian Ministry of Culture and Information to select projects for funding in the field of music, where she has gained knowledge regarding the circumstances and restrictions surrounding the selection process, as well as the criteria employed by the Committee. Furthermore, over the past six years Medić has carried out thorough research of the Serbian composers’ diaspora (Medić 2014a; 2014b; 2015; 2019; 2020a; Nevertheless, Erjavec’s observation that postsocialism can be seen as “the proclamation of the end of socialism from within socialism itself ” (ibid.) is very significant for the general understanding of this phenomenon. 3 The only exception was the year 2004, due to a sabbatical. 140

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2020b), as a sort of ‘parallel history’ of Serbian contemporary music creativity, bringing to light the fact that, as an increasing number of Serbian composers have left the country during the past three decades (some of them leaving the profession of a composer of art music as well), this ‘brain drain’ has led to a decrease in the scope and quality of contemporary music production in ‘mainland’ Serbia. We will return to this issue towards the end of this chapter. Because of this long-standing insiders’ experience with the Review, and in order to avoid a perspective which would be too personal, the methodology of research that we have chosen is based on the reception of the festival in specialised musicological and humanistics journals (most notably New Sound4 and Treći program, from the 1990s onwards, Muzički talas occasionally and, only recently, the INSAM Journal). These particular periodicals were chosen because of the type of reviews published there, in which the entire yearly edition of the festival is analysed from the point of view of one author-musicologist (the reviewers, naturally, changed over time), often observing the festival in a wider socio-cultural context. Certain important ‘breaking points’ are also observed through the prism of journalists’ and music critics’ texts published in reputable Serbian daily newspapers, notably Politika, which has been recognised as exemplary for music criticism (e.g. Premate 2007: 136). The only book dedicated to the Review (that contains scholarly articles as well as reprints of reports, concert programmes and other primary sources) was published in 2007 to mark its fifteen-year jubilee (Mikić and Ilić 2007), perhaps also signalling the loss of interest in this festival in the next decade. This publication is also based on the reception of the Review in its first decade-and-a-half, and it remains a valuable collection of texts, as a testimony to a certain moment in the evolution of the festival.5 Finally, the abundant online sources of the International Review of Composers (1992–2019) have served as a valuable data, especially concerning the latest crisis point in 2014 and the polemics surrounding it (including letters of support to the festival which are not published elsewhere). It should be made clear that, unsurprisingly (and in a small country such as Serbia – inevitably), many reviewers whose texts are discussed in this article were not impartial in their observations of the Review – as a matter of fact, 4 The relationship between the Review and the journal New Sound/Novi zvuk, founded in 1993 i.e. one year after the festival, was supervised by Mirjana Veselinović-Hofman, the long standing Editor-in-Chief of the journal. She was also Head of the Department of Musicology at the Faculty of Music in Belgrade, and wife of the composer Srđan Hofman, who was Dean of the Faculty of Music and one of the founders of the Review. Veselinović-Hofman noted that the Review became the ‘topic of interest’ for the journal from its first edition, because they shared the same goal of a continuous and multidimensional presentation of Serbian contemporary music in the context of global music and musicology. She also stressed the importance of the texts published in the New Sound for the dissemination of Serbian contemporary musical creativity, including the pieces first performed within the Review (Veselinović-Hofman 2007: 95, 97). 5 More recently, the musicologist Adriana Sabo, herself the daughter of a female composer, Anica Sabo, wrote a master paper about the presence of female composers at the Review (Sabo 2012), which offers an interesting and unique scientific approach to this festival. 141

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they expressed their personal and professional biases in a more or less obvious fashion. Regardless of their underlying motivation(s), these biased opinions and evaluations actually allow for a more vivid comparison and confrontation of various attitudes concerning the festival’s desired concept and content. The first part of the title of this chapter reflects the general hypothesis, which is that at the beginning of the twenty–first century – coinciding with the onset of the postsocialist transition in Serbia – the International Review of Composers missed out on several opportunities to become a national festival of contemporary music: not in the sense of being exclusively devoted to domestic music production, but in the sense of being recognised as a priority for funding by the Ministry of Culture (and other funding bodies) in Serbia, which would have enabled it to grow in size and reputation, both domestically and internationally. As we are about to show, the Review has not even become a city festival in the same sense of having stable structural funding by the local public administration. Instead, during the past two decades, the Review has been nothing but a festival of a profession, as defined by Milena DragićevićŠešić: it is a festival organised by certain artistic unions or associations whose main purpose is the evaluation of artistic merits and professional development (Dragićević-Šešić 2008: 16). Of course, the Review has always been, first and foremost, the festival of the profession of academic composers, by virtue of being established by the Composers Association of Serbia, and more specifically, by its classical music section. However, the initial ambitions that shaped the first editions of the festival were much bigger, as the Review was intended to be a substitute for the earlier, Yugoslav, festivals held in Croatia, which were no longer welcoming composers from Serbia because of the wars that followed the break-up of Yugoslavia in 1991. Here we argue that the International Review of Composers’ general focus on musical compositions i.e. individual works actually prevented the festival from fully embracing the complex changes (economical, cultural and social) brought about by the postsocialist transition in Serbia. In fact, this inner weakness of the festival was lucidly observed by musicologists such as Bojana Cvejić and Ksenija Stevanović at the outset of the period in question (e.g. Cvejić 2002; Stevanović 2002, 2003); yet, the general profile of the festival has never been changed – although there have been certain, relatively unsuccessful attempts. The early editions of the Review were shaped by the protagonists’ desire to ‘escape’, at least metaphorically, into their creations, from the horrors of the worst decade in recent Serbian history (the 1990s). But even though this ‘escapist’ stance was no longer needed in the new political circumstances of the 2000s, the festival remained somewhat ‘closed’ in itself, in its elitist and ‘academic’ approach to the presentation of contemporary music and, as such, it failed to impose itself as a ‘cultural force’ on the new, transitional – i.e. international – positioning of the Serbian society. The goal of this chapter is, thus, to examine the ‘breaking points’ in the history of the festival and to determine its ‘phases’ or ‘stages’ of development so far, leading to its present state and status in Serbia (and beyond). Since we are currently at the end of another decade, and the Review is approaching its 142

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thirtieth anniversary, it seems that the time is right to observe its present ‘state of affairs’, to analyse its recent transformations and tribulations, and to make cautious predictions regarding the future of this festival. Also, we aim to answer the pressing question: what is the right measure of dependence and independence for a festival founded by a professional art association, but which survives almost exclusively by relying on public funds?

A Bit of History The ensuing discussion serves to highlight the hypothesis that the International Review of Composers was envisioned to be a festival of national significance right from the outset, and that it was expected to draw substantial support from the Ministry of Culture, although its founder was a professional association whose members publicly expressed their critical attitude towards Slobodan Milošević’s regime and its policies. In the Introduction to their 2007 monograph, Vesna Mikić and Ivana Ilić observed that: “the last fifteen years bear a considerable specific weight in the historical, political, social and cultural sense, having in mind our joint wanderings, ascents, falls, departures, returns, searches, defeats and wins – including our move from a single party towards a multiparty system; our journey from the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, via the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, the State Union of Serbia and Montenegro, to the Republic of Serbia; our transition from the socialist self-governing towards market oriented capitalism; our challenges embodied in wars, sanctions, isolation, bombing, protests; and our handling of extreme circumstances” (Mikić and Ilić 2007: 9).

The International Review of Composers thus came to life and began to develop at the most difficult and turbulent period in the recent history of Serbia. The festival was founded immediately after the ‘beginning of the end’ of the SFRY, and with a particular purpose: as a Serbian ‘replacement’ for the Music Biennale Zagreb [Muzički biennale Zagreb], founded in 1961, and the ReviewofYugoslav Music [Jugoslovenska muzička tribina] in Opatija, founded in 1964 – both held in Croatia. Namely, the disintegration of Yugoslavia, which had begun in June 1991 with the declaration of independence of Slovenia, and the subsequent armed conflicts between former federal republics, left Serbian composers without the opportunity to measure their work against the creative outputs of their peers from other cultural settings. Thus, the Composers’ Association of Serbia felt the need to establish a new festival of contemporary music, which would showcase and put into perspective the accomplishments of recent Serbian art music.6 6 A similar situation happened with the aforementioned journal New Sound/Novi zvuk, which was established as a successor of the Yugoslav music journal Zvuk (Sound), whose headquarters had been in Zagreb prior to the breakup of the country. The founder and long-standing Editor-in-Chief of New Sound/Novi zvuk, Mirjana Veselinović-Hofman, had previously been a member of the editorial board of the Zagreb-based Zvuk. 143

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The creation of the Review was initiated by the distinguished Serbian composer Ivana Stefanović, who wrote the project proposal entitled “Sremski Karlovci – the Old and the New Center of Serbian Culture” on 18 September 1991. Interestingly, it was Ivana Stefanović’s father, the aesthetician and music writer Pavle Stefanović (1901–1985), who was one of the initiators of the Review of Yugoslav Music in Opatija (see Kotevska 2017: 209–215). Ivana Stefanović revealed in a text that she wrote in 2009, at a particularly vulnerable moment for the Belgrade-based festival, that she indeed saw the ‘Serbian’ Review as a continuation of the earlier, Yugoslav one,7 citing the ‘nearly half-a-century tradition of the Review’ (Stefanović 2009).8 The first paragraph of Ivana Stefanović’s 1991 proposal reads as follows: “In order to fill the void once inhabited by the ReviewofYugoslav Music in Opatija, I suggest the formation of a festival of new Serbian music [our italics]. The festival would present only the latest production, new pieces selected by the expert committees and individuals, thus enabling the highest quality and attractiveness of this event” (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 13).

This clear purpose of the new festival was confirmed by the composer Milan Mihajlović, who was elected the first president of the festival council and who was also president of the Composers’ Association of Serbia at the time, in his opening address of the first Review: “Had the times been different, at the moment of creation of a new festival of contemporary music, I would have told you that I was happy and proud to be given the honour to open the first Review of Composers Sremski Karlovci – Novi Sad. Tonight, however, I cannot say that, because I am not happy about the fact that for us there are no longer the other festivals where, in a manner similar to this, we used to gather together for decades. But since things are as they are, […] I am happy that we have gathered here in the name of art which is, perhaps, the only one which can keep us together, in the dignity of living” (cf. ibid: 23).

In the same speech, Mihajlović unambiguously speaks of the “festival which is expected to satisfy many of our unsatisfied creative needs.” In line with Ivana Stefanović’s initial proposal, the first two Reviews took place in Sremski Karlovci and Novi Sad, “envisaged as a music workshop or colony of a kind” according to Mihajlović (cf. ibid: 23). However, since its third edition, the festival moved – permanently – to Belgrade, where the Composers’ Association of 7 For a thorough discussion of the final days of the ‘Yugoslav’ festival in Opatija and its ‘successor’ festivals established both in Croatia and Serbia, see Marinković 2018, esp. 830–859. 8 This desired ‘continuity’ was later confirmed by Ivan Brkljačić, composer and selector of the Review from 2007–2015: “The International Review of Composers demonstrates its significance on the basis of several quite important phenomena. In the first place, by virtue of being a natural continuation of the former Yugoslavia’s broadly conceived Forum of Musical Creativity, which was held every year, starting from the early 1960s, in Opatija (in what is now Croatia), the Review stands on quite firm foundations” (Brkljačić 2016: 131). It must be said that the Croatian Composers’Society also observes the Forum of Musical Creativity in its uninterrupted continuity on their home soil, see e.g. Međunarodna glazbena tribina. 40 godina. Opatija – Pula (Krpan 2003). 144

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Serbia is based. Also, the motivation behind the change of location could probably be found in the fact that the Sava Center, an important venue in Belgrade, was the co-organiser of the Review’s early editions, therefore it made sense to use its infrastructural capacities as well – indeed, the Sava Center served as the ‘parent hall’ of the festival for several years (concluding with the fifth edition in 1996). Since its inception, the Review became a ‘hybrid’ festival that merged the concepts of both the Opatija festival, which had previously served as a mere ‘fair’ or ‘overview’ of the recent production of Yugoslav composers (cf. Marinković 2018: 811–813), and of the Zagreb Biennale, which offered a carefully curated selection of ‘the best’ Yugoslav pieces, presented alongside the works of the most distinguished representatives of European and global avant-garde (cf. ibid: 802–805). This ‘hybrid’ conception became ‘the Achilles tendon’ of the new festival, since it never managed to offer either a comprehensive overview of the recent output of Serbian composers or a truly world-class selection of global contemporary art music – let alone to enable a comparison between them. Yet, it is important to note that the Review was ambitiously conceived as a festival of national relevance and importance, both in the sense of a confirmation of national identity, and as a publicly supported festival, with the Ministry of Culture as its ‘patron’ and main funding body. This is revealed in the numerous expressions of gratitude directed towards the Ministry of Culture and other public funding bodies (such as the Secretariat for Culture of the City of Belgrade, as a local administration) in the opening addresses of the Review in the first decade of the festival. For instance, while opening the first Review of Composers, Milan Mihajlović stressed that “[t]he Ministry of Culture of Serbia, Belgrade City Secretariat for Culture and sponsors helped us to realise the Review of Composers within the boundaries of professional dignity” (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 23). In his opening address for the fifth Review, Mihajlović emphasised that “[t]he Composers’ Association of Serbia, as a founder and producer, could not have been successful in this endeavour without the support and understanding of important institutions – above all the Ministry of Culture, without whose five-year patronage the Review would not even exist” (cf. ibid: 49). In the same address, Mihajlović pointed out the “diligent and, in our circumstances, exhausting work on the creation and organization of the project which has, despite everything, persisted and even surpassed its initial boundaries”, growing to become the “biggest festival of its kind in our country” (ibid.). Despite the eleven concerts of symphonic, chamber, soloist and electro-acoustic music that formed the programme of the fifth Review, Mihajlović was still unsatisfied because “this year’s Review fulfilled the conditions to become a large international festival of contemporary music [our italics]. Unfortunately, because of the unenviable financial situation that we are all dealing with, no less than four attractive concerts had to be omitted and many other artists ‘left’ for some happier times” (ibid.). These paragraphs testify to the ambitions of the Composers’ Association of Serbia, whose members set out to create, at 145

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such unfavourable times, a big and important festival stage for the promotion of contemporary music creativity and performance. At the same time, we should also observe that the Review was conceived as a ‘place for escapism,’ an ‘oasis’ of beauty and ‘sanity’ amidst the turmoil of the 1990s. This is clearly read from various interpretative texts which contributed to ‘set’ the programme concept and overall ‘tone’ of the festival in its first decade. Among them, the text written by Zorica Premate after the first Review9 is the most illustrative, as it can be interpreted as a ‘manifesto of escapism’ of sorts, while, at the same time, it also affirms the musical work as the main focus of the first Review, which has had a lasting effect on the festival as a whole: “At a time of disrupted communications, when we are grabbing the last remains of personality and wrapping ourselves into SELVES, out of fear that we would otherwise continue living in the only dimension of physical survival, fully aware of the fact that the highest products of spirituality no longer have any meaning and relevance in the time which surrounds and swallows us, namely at the time which is both ‘post’ Yugoslav and ‘now’ apocalyptical and ‘before’ who-knows-what – something wonderful is still happening. Something that defies the laws of spooky gravity which ghettoises, marginalises and annihilates the creative thought. […] ‘Music has happened’ in the antimusical, cacophonic and deafened time, here and now. The stylistical framework of the Composers’ Review is marked by postmodernism, as a general sensibility of the time at which […] various generations of Serbian composers have met. But, perhaps, one of the main characteristics of the pieces performed is their sound beauty, which is not devoid of critical strength, yet it bears the feelings of nostalgia, exhaustion, disappointment, ironic implications, rejection of the reality, focusing on the self. Longing for beauty as a means of self-defence, they hurled towards establishing harmony of a higher order with their music [...], playing with the sound remnants of various cultures, even the popular and populist ones. Thus, they reaffirmed the notion of a work as a self-contained entity, a creative achievement which only secondarily corresponds to its time, turning its disgusted face away from it. [...] Even those pieces from the Review whose titles and precautiously suggested contents demonstrate a mild interest in the reality, did so from the position of аn ‘arranged beauty’, ‘beautified parallel reality’, the reality which, today, must be ‘make-believe,’ or fictional, or mechanically dismembered in order to enable the author to create anything at all. Giving up on the idea that art could change the world, this music is realised predominantly through its aestheticism and exhibitionism of the compositional-technical supremacy, hardly needed even in its own time, which has created other fetishes, cults and myths for itself. The composers confronted the erosion of positive spiritual powers of their time with nobility, refinement and affirmation of the individual’s humanity, of the creator 9 Even though the issue of the Treći program journal is listed as being published in 1991, the text was indeed published after the first Review, which took place in spring 1992. This is due to the fact that, during the 1990s, the financing of the journal was irregular and uncertain; hence the publication of some issues was delayed. 146

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who ‘measures all things’ and owns himself with superiority, thanks to his music” (Premate 1991: 32–35).

Apart from setting the tone for understanding the Review as a phenomenon firmly rooted in the ‘postsocialist condition’, the same text by Premate is valuable for a number of other observations. First of all, she points to the fact that Serbian music never had a chance in earlier Yugoslav and international festivals to “face itself so openly”, which is a pertinent conclusion given the fact that, for example, Serbian music had been largely underrepresented at the Music Biennial Zagreb throughout the decades of its existence.10 Secondly, Premate claims that Serbian music reached “one of its peaks, the incandescence of its creative potentials embodied within the framework of the overwhelming postmodernity.” She rightfully observed that postmodernism, as a “mature art movement” is “perhaps already on the border of its own canonisation as a certain academism of style in a narrower sense” and she praised the high quality of music produced in Serbia within this stylistic framework. Finally, she noted that the Review affirmed the art of music performance in Serbia as well (cf. ibid: 35) – and indeed, in the years following its first edition, the Review demonstrated an increasing ambition and, in some editions, practically a shift of focus, from the composers and their oeuvres towards the performers, showcasing the best music ensembles not just from Serbia, but also from Europe and other parts of the world. However, as we are about to show, the financial means allocated to the festival were never abundant enough to fully satisfy the appetites of its producers and artistic directors. The escapist stance of the Review’s editions during its first decade is confirmed by numerous other texts. For instance, concerning the second edition of the Review, Dragana Stojanović [Novičić] observed: “Generally speaking, quotations or at least certain reminders of the ‘old’ authors were very characteristic of the music that we heard at the Review. […] Perhaps this movement towards the bright moments of the past represented an attempt to seek escape from the horrors of the moment” (Stojanović 1993: 131–132). Opening the fourth Review in 1995, Milan Mihajlović called it “an oasis of peace, understanding, and friendship” (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 24). Following the ill-fated year of 1999 when the Review had to be cancelled due to the ongoing bombing of Serbia by the NATO forces, the festival resumed in 2000.11 Milena Medić noted that “[t]he last International Review of Composers in this decade, century and millennium […] was in its sound structure marked by a specific ‘look back,’ both in the sense of the composers’ and the performers’ conceptions” (Medić 2000: 131), thus reaffirming its ‘postmodern’ and ‘postsocialist’ character. However, the words of the composer and academician Dejan 10 See Milin 2018, especially p. 368 and further. 11 In fact, only one concert took place on 21 May 1999 at the Kolarac Hall at 4 PM. The programme was performed by the Belgrade Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Vladimir Milić, and it consisted of four pieces by Serbian female composers (see Osma tribina kompozitora /Osujećena/ 1999). 147

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Despić, heard at the opening of the festival on 26 May 2000, point to another feeling which marked the later part of the 1990s in Serbia: “The International Review of Composers was founded exactly eight years ago, at a time we do not like to remember, but we cannot, and should not, forget. The events which happened in the following years resulted in the fact that organizing and realizing this festival was always, more or less, under the shadow of a threat that it would be thwarted by something – until last spring it was indeed thwarted, in the cruellest manner – with bombs! […] Mića Popović called art ‘the last defence of a nation’. […] Admittedly, it would be cosy, but only seemingly safe, to hide with it in our ‘ivory tower’, pretending (or fooling ourselves) that what is happening around us is none of our concern. This Review should not be seen as such a hideaway! On the contrary, it represents our active response of a kind to this surrounding – our resistance to its ugliness, greed and recklessness, to its false values and even more false idols […]” (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 25).

Despić, thus, emphasises the notion of resistance as an embedded quality of the Review, as the key word which reflected the dissatisfaction of the Serbs with a decade of isolation, poverty and conflicts under Slobodan Milošević’s autocratic rule. In other words, the Review could no longer be seen as a ‘hideaway’, as Despić rightfully observed. Instead, it had to assume a more active role at the end of the century which would lead Serbia into a profound and far-reaching political change and trigger the onset of the postsocialist transition.12 However, as we will now show, the Review did not succeed in adapting to new socio-economic circumstances in the new millennium.

The Year 2001: The New Beginning (or Not) Following the civil uprising which led to the democratic changes in Serbia in October 2000, the future seemed bright for the country and its culture in the new millennium. A well-known Serbian actor Branislav Lečić was appointed Minister of Culture in January 2001, and the Secretariat for Culture of the City of Belgrade was to be led for four years by Tatjana Tanja Petrović (1967–2013), musicologist, music journalist and alumna of the Faculty of Music in Belgrade. Again, it was Milan Mihajlović who was given the honour, as the director of 12 In an earlier article we defined (following Švob-Đokić 2004) postsocialist transition as a cluster of comprehensive political, economic and social changes characteristic for the postsocialist societies of Central, Eastern and South-eastern Europe, striving (with more or less success) towards capitalism. Two defining characteristics of postsocialist transition are (1) abandonment of the centralised, governmentally regulated and planned production in favour of the market-oriented mode, with public property privatised, and (2) striving towards a successful international integration. Since the processes of privatisation of public property and of changing foreign politics to align with the agenda to eventually join the European Union only began in earnest at the turn of the millennium i.e. after the Socialist Party of Serbia was removed from power, we consider that moment as the onset of the postsocialist transition in Serbia (Medić and Janković-Beguš 2016: 320–321). 148

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the Review, to open its festive tenth edition in May 2001 – “the tenth altogether but the first in a free, democratic Serbia […] Nine years passed before our wishes and dreams became a reality” (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 25). His optimism for the future of the festival was unambiguously expressed on this occasion, including the observation that, compared to the previous decade in which the festival persisted despite the unfavourable circumstances, “today, the situation is very different. It can be observed, first of all, in full support of our patrons – the Ministry of Culture and City Secretariat for Culture, and then our co-organiser Jugokoncert and our sponsors, and especially the Polish Ministry of Culture” (ibid.). The changes on the political scene in Serbia created conditions for a huge impetus for the development of the art scene in Serbia, because the public authorities were no longer perceived by the majority of artists and their associations as ‘enemies’. However, the answer to the question of how the Review fared in this redistribution of power in Serbia is – surprisingly – not too well; and in the following years the festival would very soon face its biggest crisis yet (excluding the year 1999). What happened? The impending crisis of the Review was already lucidly observed in the year of its jubilee by the young music critic, musicologist Bojana Cvejić; her words clearly support our previously expressed argument of the international character of the postsocialist transition: “Even though the opening ceremony articulated once again the initial postulates of the festival ‘of music art which knows no boundaries’, which in the new political situation quite specifically implies the widening of space for communication and exchange between cultures, this Review presented much fewer works and authors from abroad than in the previous editions – only a handful of pieces, mostly chosen by the guest performers” (Cvejić 2001: 133).

Speaking about the newly introduced ‘audience awards’, Cvejić raised the important question of the raison d’être of this festival which, she felt, did not lie in the ‘popular vote’ but – elsewhere: “If the awards are needed at all, then the informed opinion of a jury would be more relevant, at least as a counterbalance to the popular vote. The question of [the] wider popularity of contemporary music (compared to the mainstream classical and popular music) was not solved even by bigger music cultures with [a] longer tradition of contemporary music festivals, and [a] similar lack of mass interest for contemporary music is evident in other disciplinary practices as well. Instead of ‘popularisation’, the question of [the] concept of the International Review of Composers, of its interests, goals and possibilities should be asked. […] Or perhaps the only festival of contemporary music in Serbia and Vojvodina could and should, by virtue of its programme policy, assume the active role in the creation of a musical ‘landscape’? Should it not strive to move not only ‘beside’ the production, but ‘ahead’ of it, to set the frameworks by means of rethinking, on one hand, various concepts and cultures of music, and on the other, by establishing the connections with the world thanks to the import of fashions, trends, technologies as tools of 149

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thinking – in other words, to act at least a little bit like a trend-setter? Even though material conditions still do not allow for a speedy networking into global maps, there are ways to create a more informative programme, of a better quality, smaller in scope and without the need to satisfy the formal ‘decor’ of a big festival. If there is still no chance to present the most prominent or, simply put, the most expensive actualities from all over the world, could these modest means be invested in thematically conceived retrospectives or in presenting the authors and ensembles of educational importance for young composers, musicologists, musicians et al.? […]” (ibid: 135–136).

Cvejić’s observation that the ‘popularisation’ of the festival was less important than the question of its concept seems particularly pertinent and farsighted. The underrepresentation of foreign authors, unfortunately, carried on into the next, eleventh Review, held in 2002. The Academician Vlastimir Trajković (1947–2017), a member of the Artistic Council (i.e. selection board, which was reintroduced the previous year), tried to explain their decision in the following way: “When, at the beginning of the year, the members of the Artistic Council were faced with the ‘mountain’ of two hundred and fifty scores, divided into two exact halves – 125 scores of Serbian and Montenegrin composers and the same number of foreign authors’ pieces – they were, at the same time, happy because of the response to the open call (especially from abroad) – but also aware […] of the responsibility to make priorities from such an abundance to pick up what is ‘really best,’ regardless of whether it is ‘domestic’ or ‘foreign’. […] […] the selection means, in a great number of cases, a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ referring to whether the piece will be performed at all, especially concerning the pieces of younger and, thus, less affirmed authors […]. Therefore, the job of the Artistic Council was to create a list of ideal priorities. However, it does not always mean that all of it will be heard at the Review. Financial and technical-organisational circumstances put this other ‘pole’ (the pole of ‘reality’) – in the relation ‘from ideal to realistic’. However, it is still valuable to have a signpost to direct us to where we should spend more, and where less, of our energy and scarce resources” (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 64).

Apparently, the ‘quality’ of music scores was postulated as the main criterion in the selection of pieces to be performed, guided by the knowledge and affinities of members of the Artistic Council.13 However, as Vlastimir Trajković stressed in the address quoted above, the financial resources at the disposal of the Composers Association of Serbia were “ridiculously low” and he lamented that “[t]o organise the International Review of Composers in the circumstances where the money is not secured or allocated at least a year in advance borderlines a futile effort which cannot lead to ‘entry into the world’ – but not because [the] Serbian art of music composition is weak or provincially backward” (ibid.). In other words, the Artistic Council and the director of the Re13 The Artistic Council in 2001 and 2002 consisted of three composers, all of them professors at the Faculty of Music in Belgrade (Isidora Žebeljan, Milan Mihajlović and Vlastimir Trajković) and two musicologists (Ivana Trišić and Zorica Premate). 150

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view decided to carry on the legacy of the Review’s initial concept, completely ignoring other possibilities such as the one suggested by Cvejić the year before. They apparently decided to set their ‘filters’ in such a way to keep as many pieces of Serbian composers as possible (provided they satisfied the criterion of ‘quality’), probably because they felt that the ‘scarce resources’ should best be spent on presenting Serbian composers with an opportunity to have their works performed for the audience. Moreover, in her opening address, Isidora Žebeljan (1967–1920) confirmed that the Artistic Council saw the music in the ‘essentialist’ manner as “the most abstract and most sublime of all arts”, focusing on the “discovery of music pieces which will remain, even in the distant future, examples of one moment of exaltation of the human spirit” (cf. ibid: 26). Not surprisingly, the critical overviews of the eleventh edition of the festival once again stressed the weakness of the ‘international’ dimension of the Review, while they also criticised the ‘rejection of ideology’ and the supposed ‘autonomy’ of music presented at the Review, with its single-minded focus on a musical work. As observed by Ksenija Stevanović (who, at the time, was a member of the youngest generation of Serbian musicologists and music critics): “The Review should fulfil its educative, informative and propaganda role – show the present-day trend, provide information and present domestic creative output to the audience. The expectations of the Review are, therefore, too high, and so is the disappointment in this event. Simply speaking, for those interested in contemporary music trends, the Review is neither sufficiently informative, nor up-to-date [...] […] this year’s 11th International Review of Composers was a self-centred, self-satisfied and solitary event. Why? The foreign production was extremely under-represented and of little relevance for one to gain an impression about the endeavours, directions and ’vogues’ in the world. That is why domestic production and its achievements were highlighted. Domestic production, thus, presented itself in full scope […]. Let us focus then on domestic production, […] the real measure of academism here and its presumptions. […] where is the ideology of these works and, if it exists, what kind of ideology is it? It exists precisely in […] their authors’ position that this is music without references, that at issue are works of the most elevated and most formal art, which fascinates, but leaves no room for explanation. Our Academism/Neoclassicism, which, at this year’s Review, could be placed in a broader time perspective [...] […] the festival was auto-reflexive […]. There was no opportunity for comparison, for looking at a broader context, for re-evaluation. […] Our music production has shown itself to be insufficiently interested in what is happening in the outside world, but, nevertheless, stable, consistent, and value-wise sure in its look toward the Parnassian heights of often distant musical styles” (Stevanović 2002: 72–74, 78).

In our opinion, Stevanović rightfully observed that even recent creative output of the ‘postmodern’ Serbian composers (such as Zoran Erić) was nothing else but ‘academism of the highest level’ (ibid: 74) because it assumed the same ‘l’art pour l’art’ stance, characterised by self-adoration and withdrawal from the 151

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understanding of music as a social practice. Although this poetic approach was, perhaps, justified during the previous decade of wars, sanctions and civil conflicts, it no longer made sense at the time of the proclaimed ‘victory’ of the Review’s political ideals. This ‘defeatist’ position of the Composers’ Association of Serbia was, again, lucidly observed (and criticised) by Bojana Cvejić: This year too, the International Review of Composers followed the paved road in presenting contemporary music by focusing on a chosen composition – a musical work […] since concept, as a criterion of choice, was missing. […] The lack of programme guidelines in presenting tendencies of the contemporary music today, both here and globally […] is an expression of the lack of awareness that [the] criteria, contexts or environment of a musical piece are precisely factors that condition the understanding of contemporary or new music (Cvejić 2002: 14–15).

Even though in later years there were attempts to create some sort of a more solid ‘framework’ or concept, notably by the selector Ivan Brkljačić (between 2007 and 2015), they did not succeed in changing the focal topic of the festival, i.e. the musical work per se. In 2002, Cvejić singled out certain concerts as “successful steps towards profiling the programme politics of the festival” – namely, the concerts of two foreign pianists, Véronique Pélisséro and Joanna MacGregor, as well as the portrait-concert of Zoran Erić, as “the place where both the programme idea and criteria that the International Review of Composers should pursue, finally overlapped” (ibid: 16, 18). She continued: “[The] deservedly raucous response of the audience at Erić’s concert denied the initial assumptions with which Isidora Žebeljan opened the eleventh Review. Highlighting the composers’ mission to ‘sacrifice the usual way of life to the idea of being a composer’, Žebeljan placed herself among the supporters of the traditionalist–modernist autonomy, who are trying in vain to prove the particularity and exceptionality of music (‘the most abstract and most sublime of all arts,’ Žebeljan claims). At the time when even in the music production itself the binary divide high–popular is being overcome, any composer’s withdrawal into a narrow closedness of a guild, failing to acknowledge the sociality of all gests – including the gest of exclusion from the society – is reactionary and it contributes even more to the marginalisation of contemporary music in our country. It is the stance which Boulez described as a mechanism of enjoying one’s own irrelevance, the glee of a victim who has willingly abdicated, given up on a challenge to fight for its place within the culture. […] Thus, it is even more crucial to rethink the responsibility of choice, the concept of the festival and the need to redefine its programme policy […] Within festivals of new music, the selection of contemporary sound is created and, what is even more important, contemporary music is ‘placed’ and, therefore, enabled in the society. Therefore, perhaps it would be the most ‘objective’ to give up on the judgement of a composition as a piece of art without the context from which it originated […]. The festival could represent a map, with a focus on currently relevant and instructive tendencies and trends of contemporary music practice, instead of a catalogue of works without any context or interpretation. Thus, the creator of the 152

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festival, the listener from the audience, and the composer as an author, would all meet, united in the same role – that of listening to the differences between musics as cultures of the world” (ibid: 19).

The criticism of the Review was not unjust because the very next year – 2003 – brought the first crisis in the new millennium, with the so-called ‘zip’ edition of the festival, organised despite many difficulties with the aim to fulfil “the imperative of continuity of the only festival of contemporary music in Belgrade”, according to the Artistic Council (cf. Mikić and Ilić 2007: 72). It must be said that the spring of 2003 in Serbia was, once again, tragic because of the assassination of Prime Minister Zoran Đinđić (on 12 March), immediately followed by the declaration of a state of emergency in the country. However, these events should not be seen as the main reason behind the crisis of the Review, because the available funds and framework for its twelfth edition were known at least several months earlier, as it was confirmed by the Artistic Council whose members, nevertheless, proceeded to fulfil their task: “The initial plan was to have seven concerts, which included guest performances of three foreign ensembles and four concerts of selected pieces; however, the restricted budget only allowed us the arrival of one ensemble, as well as two concerts with only 26 works. Realistically reflecting the financial capacities and the social and cultural interest in contemporary music in this country, this year’s Review. zip is tiny, but its conception is such that two programme modalities are separated. One, that favours the concept of promoting actual tendencies in global contemporary music and performance, and the second one, which institutionalises the principle of [the] selection of received recent foreign and domestic musical works. Therefore, it seems that this Review is really the key one, because it asks the question of the future identity of this manifestation, and not just the conditions of its organisation. It points to the necessity of separating two vital, yet different interests of the wider music and cultural public: the stimulation and promotion of contemporary domestic creation (rostrum) and [the] presentation of selected trends and concepts of art music in the world (festival). Hence, rostrum and festival. Within the same manifestation or not? We would like to use [the] twelfth Review.zip to initiate the institutional resolution of this issue” (cf. ibid: 72–73).

In her critical overview of the twelfth Review.zip, musicologist Marija Masnikosa (also serving as a member of the Artistic Council) twice referred to that edition of the festival as a ‘breaking point’, stressing several important ‘novelties’: notably the prevalence of the young(est) generation of Serbian composers in the programme (“This was the Review of composers in their twenties and thirties!”),14 and, more importantly, its ‘truly international’ character (“what we wished for in its previous editions finally happened – more interna14 Interestingly, this edition of the Review also had the youngest Artistic Council thus far, with the average age of its members being thirty-two years! Bojana Cvejić, as its youngest member, was only twenty-seven years old at the time, while the other members were musicologists Marija Masnikosa (forty-one) and Jelena Novak (twenty-nine), and composer Svetlana Savić (thirty-two). 153

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tional than domestic compositions were performed at the Review”). However, she also pointed out the ‘lack of atmosphere’ surrounding the festival, i.e. the lack of interest and a certain ambivalence of the audience concerning the festival’s ‘survival’ and its possible acquiring of a novel identity (all cf. Masnikosa 2003: 93). The positives and negatives of the ‘new’ programme concept were, once again, aptly summed up by Ksenija Stevanović in her critical overview: “The Twelfth International Review of Composers flew faster than in previous years, but it was also a more coherent event, possibly due to its density and the selection of events, I hope that the ensuing Reviews will continue to move the possibilities of the domestic music scene and that they will foster an even better acquaintance of our public with global currents. Of course, the uncertainty and an increasing marginalization of such events is obvious in this case. This Review was more than aware of that” (Stevanović 2003: 28).

It was clear that something had to change, in order to ensure the continuation of the festival. In 2004, it was decided that, for the first time, the festival would be moved from mid-May to the end of October, most likely in order to give the Composers’ Association of Serbia more ‘manoeuvre space’. The Review has subsequently continued to take place in autumn (alternating between September, October and November), pushing itself into one of the busiest periods in the cultural calendar of Belgrade, which has, for decades, been occupied by several big art festivals, founded (and funded) by the City – the Belgrade Music Festival (BEMUS), October Salon, Belgrade Book Fair, Belgrade International Theatre Festival (BITEF), Belgrade Jazz Festival, and in recent years also many more independent art events of varying size. Add to the equation the beginning of the concert and theatre seasons, and it becomes clear that for a small, independent festival such as the Review it was increasingly difficult to make an impact. Speaking of the crisis of the Review at the beginning of the new millennium, certain other circumstances must be pointed out as well. First of all, Ivana Stefanović, as the initiator of the Review, was appointed President of the Artistic Council of the BEMUS, arguably the biggest and the oldest art music festival in Serbia (founded in 1969), and she remained in that position until 2006. During her mandate, the BEMUS reached its peak both in terms of programme scope and annual budget in its recent history. The executive producer of the BEMUS, the Jugokoncert agency, which was at the time also the co-producer of the Review, had its priorities clearly set, in favour of the BEMUS; and the same can be said of the City of Belgrade’s Secretariat for Culture as the public funding body behind the majority of festivals. It is interesting to observe how Ivana Stefanović’s affinity with contemporary art music shaped the Belgrade Music Festival’s programme, with a number of commissions and premieres of new Serbian compositions (see Janković 2003: 61–64; Medić and Janković–Beguš 2016: 317–329). Furthermore, Stefanović carried out the largest part of her mandate from afar because she lived in Ankara from 2001–2005, being the wife of Zoran 154

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Popović, the Ambassador of Serbia and Montenegro to Turkey. Coincidentally, another influential member of the ‘initiative board’ of the Review, composer Srđan Hofman, was appointed the Ambassador to the South African Republic (serving there from 2002–2006), while another doyen of the Review’s various governing bodies, musicologist Ana Kotevska, spent the years 2000–2004 in Paris as the wife of Radomir Diklić, the Ambassador to France.15 The evidence of the Review’s decline during their absence from Serbia could be only circumstantial; however, it is important to observe the real political and personal influence that these professionals had in Serbia post-2000. Today, the observed absence (perhaps even abstinence) from the Review of its highly positioned ‘pioneers’ in the years following the democratic changes in Serbia can be assessed as a heavy loss. Thus, at the beginning of the millennium, the Review was left in the hands of undoubtedly well-meaning and motivated, but less influential composers and musicologists, to guide it through the ever-changing political and economic circumstances. In her assessments of three consecutive festival editions (between 2004 and 2006), musicologist Ivana Stamatović [Ilić] expressed growing concerns over its future: the tone of her texts gradually shifts from defensive and frustrated (in 2004 and 2005) to disappointed, resigned and somewhat withdrawn in 2006. She begins her text about the thirteenth Review (held in 2004) in the following way: “In the past several years, organising the International Review of Composers, as the, until recently, only festival of contemporary art music in our country, has proven in many ways to be a mission impossible and a challenge which no longer refers merely to issues of profession, but also walking the tightrope of a scandalously small budget that is uncertain almost to the last moment. Financial limitations not only influence the content, concept and duration of the Review, but also call into question the very holding of this festival. […] With numerous compromises that were non-artistic in character, it fulfilled the imperative of its own continuity, which now seems to be even more seriously threatened” (Stamatović 2005: 76).

Stamatović did observe the “truly international character” of the festival’s thirteenth edition as a positive thing (almost twice as many foreign compositions as domestic ones were performed); but she rightfully pointed out that “it was still not enough to get an adequate impression of current trends in global music. The question is whether the received works represented an appropriate sample in terms of number and quality to provide the Art Council with greater and freer ‘manoeuvring space’,” highlighting that “the works of certain foreign composers [...] appear to have become regulars of the Review’s programme” (ibid.). She was also alarmed by the absence of older, more prominent Serbian composers, from the Review’s programme – a trend already observed during the previous, twelfth Review – and she wondered about the reasons for their low productivity: 15 From 2008 to 2012 Diklić was also appointed the Ambassador of Serbia to Belgium. 155

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“[It] can also point to the vicious circle in which domestic production has found itself: if there are not enough opportunities for (good) performances, if there are no appropriate institutional incentives and support, what then is the fate of contemporary Serbian music? The Art Council of the Review provided a partial solution for encouraging domestic production by re-establishing the institution of commission, this time intended for the Slavko Osterc trio. Ivan Brkljačić was entrusted with the task and it was the right choice” (ibid: 77).

Unfortunately, the commissioning of new pieces by Serbian composers would last only for another year. Stamatović’s final lament that “All these observations […] are overarched by a concern that is least of all professional, yet it seems crucial – the fate of this festival on the sidelines of the cultural policy” (ibid: 78) carried on into the next year, where she assessed the fourteenth Review in a similar, albeit even harsher, tone: “[I]t seems that the production of most of those [Serbian composers] whose work is primarily oriented towards our country is at a low ebb. There is no doubt that such a situation is influenced by completely understandable external factors such as the low financial profitability of compositional work, rare opportunities for performing or inadequate performances. Refusing to search for the reasons behind the – for some authors partial, for others complete – withdrawal from the contemporary music scene in our country ‘only’ in those external factors, we wonder: what is the minimal incentive for creative work for a composer in Serbia today? How can we create conditions that would make composing what we believe it has always been: an act motivated by strong internal personal motives and needs? Has the time come – despite the indisputable dedication and creative efforts of all those who founded the Review, inherited it with all its positive and negative heritage and developed it up to the present – to rethink the festival itself in accordance with the said facts? […] [T]his year’s International Review of Composers is not very different from its several previous editions. This […] is exactly where we perceive one of the greatest crisis points of this festival. […] The exacerbated financial and organizational circumstances of its existence are inevitably also reflected on the qualitative factors of its status and reputation not only in the wider national culture, but also in the narrower circle of the music profession, leaving it very little possibility for ‘manoeuvre’. […] The very fact that this year it was held for the first time in the acoustically inadequately insulated cinema auditorium of the Belgrade Cultural Centre – which was clearly a compromise made for financial reasons – with a regular countersubject consisting of the clamour of the audience and on a stage that was often too small to accommodate all the musicians, which undoubtedly had a negative effect on their performing achievements, is a symbolic testimony to the difficulties, interruptions, noises and inadequacies on the very scene of contemporary art music in our country” (Stamatović 2006: 107–110).

The culmination of this period of acute crisis and survival, which we can, from a present point of view, identify as the first missed opportunity for the 156

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Review to become a part of the ‘festival establishment’ – is highlighted by Stamatović’s ‘loss of illusions’ and the following conclusion: “It seems a good deal of time will pass until a recognizable, specific and autonomous profile of the International Tribune of Composers is developed. In a set of circumstances which in the history of this festival were most frequently neither of [an] artistic nor of [a] professional nature, we are aware of the fact that is to be a difficult process” (Stamatović 2007: 130).

The New Phase: Ivan Brkljačić’s Years (2007–2015) In 2007, composer Ivan Brkljačić, a former student of Srđan Hofman, took over as the new Selector of the Review. Only thirty years old at the time and without significant professional and personal gravitas and influence, Brkljačić still attempted to address some of the criticism directed at the Review in previous years, and offered a clear thematic concept for each edition of the festival that he supervised (Table 8.1): Table 8.1 Thematic concepts of the International Review of Composers during the period of Ivan Brkljačić’s artistic direction YEAR

EDITION

2007

16th

2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013

17 18th 19th 20th 21st 22nd

2014

23rd

2015

24th

th

TITLE (ENGLISH) No title (Retrospective of the first 15 years of the Review) New Miniatures The Echoes of Space Music and Theatre Splendour of the Voice Musical Construction Site Step into the Unusual In the light of the Mokranjac Award Jubilee Music Box

TITLE (SERBIAN) Bez naslova (Retrospektiva prvih 15 godina Tribine) Nove minijature Odjeci prostora Muzika i pozorište U slavu glasa Muzičko gradilište Iskorak u neobično U znaku jubileja nagrade Mokranjac Muzička kutija

Reflecting on his years as the selector, Brkljačić admitted that he had seen it as a challenge (and a moral duty) to accept the difficult task of ‘saving’ the Review from further deterioration: “I realised that if we allowed the Review to expire, establishing a new one would cost us much more and would be much more difficult than preserving the existing Review, whatever its condition at the time. [...] I knew that destroying something in an instant was always a possibility, whereas building entailed willpower, time, good organisation, and, inevitably, money. I realised that someone had to step up for the common good, […]. I decided to take on collective responsibility myself and agreed to act 157

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from then on as the Review’s artistic programme selector. I immediately sketched out the next Review, to be held six months from that moment” (Brkljačić 2016: 134).

It is interesting to see that in the first year of his tenure, when he was expected to offer an innovative and rejuvenated concept of the Review, the thirty-year old selector instead opted for a retrospective of the previous fifteen editions – obviously unwilling (or unable) to make a break with the past. In the foreword to the Programme Bulletin of the sixteenth Review, held from 23–27 November 2007, he justified such a conception in the following terms: “[…] Over the past fifteen years the Review has survived a lot – several wars, governments, one cancellation, and even one revolution. There have been different approaches to the program concept of the festival. […] However, all this time it has remained true to its original concept, and that is the gathering of the best composers from the country and from abroad and presenting their best pieces composed within the three-year framework. […] Putting together the program of this year’s retrospective Review, I wanted to draw attention back to the local creative potential. Also, I wanted to remind us about the wonderful colleagues who – for various reasons – do not work in our country anymore, but whose music should be perceived as our own. […] (Brkljačić 2007).

The next year’s edition of the festival, held between 19 and 25 November 2008, was apparently more ambitious, and it was dedicated solely to miniatures for various performing ensembles. A total of one hundred and eight works were performed: ninety-two in the official programme and an additional sixteen in the ‘bonus’ programme; among those, sixty-three pieces were by foreign composers (cf. Nikolić 2009: 86). The critics’ reviews of such a programme were largely negative: for example, Marija Nikolić remarked: “[…] In spite of the very good organization by the Composers’ Association of Serbia and Jugokoncert, this year, as well as in a few previous ones, there were no accompanying programmes in the form of round tables, interviews with the artists, bulletins or workshops. […] Guided by the thought that quantity does not necessarily turn into quality, we cannot shake the impression that, for an event of relatively modest financial and organizational capacities, the programme was too extensive, and that some works did not meet the basic quality standards assumed by a review of this kind. Adding the fact that within spacious programme concepts some miniatures lasted even as long as 15 minutes, the basic idea of the Review occasionally seemed betrayed” (Nikolić 2009: 91).

Biljana Srećković [Leković] was similarly unimpressed: “The achieved effect is opposite to the original one, aimed at conceptual unification, because such an understanding of miniatures resulted in confrontations of mutually incompatible, distant and divergent models, genres

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and poetics, which in turn complicated their reception, hence the attempt to strengthen the programme orientation was not successful […] Based on the presentation of works by Serbian composers and their comparison with foreign works one might say that our music production develops in line with global music academism […] […] did we witness core conceptual and programmatic changes in comparison to previous Reviews? If we expected a departure, an insight into the practice of contemporary music that erases the boundaries between the composers’ blueprint and the performers’ active participation, or those works that open new realms of sound, then the Review did not fully fulfil the goals that it had set for itself ” (Srećković 2008: 513, 517, 518).

It should be stressed that such unfavourable assessments were not reserved only for the International Review of Composers; namely, in her thorough 2008 analysis of the festival offer of the Serbian capital city, Milena DragićevićŠešić explicitly stated that “Belgrade does not have an authentic festival offer that would make it stand out in the cultural and tourist map of Europe and the world. Although festivals such as FEST or BITEF have long traditions and reputations, they cannot match similar events in the rest of the world. Such a situation is a consequence of the long-standing isolation of the city, the poor image of the entire country and the dissolution of the cultural market” (Dragićević-Šešić 2008: 18). Still, Jelena Janković [Beguš] stressed certain positives of the Review’s attempts at transformation, such as establishing new partnerships (notably with the National Bank of Serbia whose new building in Slavija Square in Belgrade was to be used as a ‘parent concert hall’ of the festival for several years) and efforts at the dissemination of the Review’s results abroad (Janković 2008: 36). Unfortunately, a new crisis for the Review loomed just around the corner; namely, in 2009, the City of Belgrade decided to withdraw its support, opting to directly (co)finance only those festivals founded by the city itself (such as BEMUS, BITEF or FEST), while the majority of independent events were relegated to the jurisdiction of the city municipalities – hence, the Review was to be ‘fostered’ by the municipality of Stari Grad [Old Town]. In her impassioned protest article published in the daily paper Politika (quoted in the introduction of this chapter), Ivana Stefanović emphasised that: “[t]he International Review of Composers is an event of great cultural importance for the reputation and image of the country of Serbia, and its relevance, therefore, greatly surpasses the jurisdiction of any city municipality. […] Really the ‘right moment’ for Ivana Avžner, the city manager for culture, to sign the aforementioned thank you note for the successful collaboration thus far and despatch the Review to the care of the municipality. And yet, it was the right moment for the Review to truly change its position, but in the opposite direction: to evolve, from a renowned city manifestation, into a national one, under the patronage of the Republic” (Stefanović 2009).

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So, by 2009 it was already obvious that the Review had missed its chance(s) to become a festival of national (and international) importance; as a matter of fact, it even lost stable support from the City of Belgrade, and the damage was irreparable. In her conclusion, Stefanović correctly observed that “Serbia is not ready for European cultural criteria, standards and, consequently, integrations, because European Serbia is unthinkable without contemporary culture and art, including music. If this is the case, then I am afraid that the best and the most talented ones will again have to leave the country and become a part of a different cultural identity” (ibid.). The ensuing years have proved her assessment to be correct: namely, as of 2020, Serbia has neither completed its postsocialist transition, nor joined the European Union, and the ‘brain drain’ has continued, resulting in a fact that nowadays over sixty Serbian composers live and work abroad – a startling number for such a small country (cf. Medić 2020a). While one can easily put the blame for the low status of the Review on the short-sightedness of the Serbian cultural masterminds at that time, we should recall that, throughout Brkljačić’s years, the festival remained unambitious in scope, firmly focused inwards, and reliant on members of its own guild, as testified by the selector’s words from the openings of the nineteenth and twentieth editions of the Review: “Reduced in regard of the size of instrumental ensembles, focused on small groups of performers (solo, duo, trio, quartet), this year’s Review concentrates – much more than was previously the case – on the composer and the work itself, and then on the soloist who instils life in that work. The fact that there are relatively fewer foreign composers than before indicates the existence of a filter, whose purpose is to secure that out of a large number of the scores received, only the very best are performed” (Brkljačić 2010). “In regard to its continuity, the Review remains faithful to its original concept, which is to gather our best composers and present their best pieces” (Brkljačić 2011).

The main novelty of the twenty-first edition of the festival, held in 2012, was the introduction of a new resident ensemble for new music, Gradilište [Construction Site], founded by Neda Hofman-Sretenović and Srđan Sretenović – the daughter and son-in-law of Srđan Hofman and Mirjana Veselinović-Hofman. This novelty did little to obscure “the complete absence of foreign performers and ensembles” (Miladinović Prica 2012: 222). The critic Ivana Miladinović Prica also observed “the conspicuous absence of the mature post-modernist poetics of Serbian authors” (ibid.), thus, strongly suggesting that the Review was no longer relevant or stimulating to the established composers, but only to the younger and middle generations. Despite the efforts of the Composers Association of Serbia and Ivan Brkljačić, it was not long until the Review received another nearly fatal blow in 2014, when the organisers of the Festival went into an ‘open war’ with the Ministry of Culture, i.e. the minister Ivan Tasovac (who, be it said in passing, was a promising pianist in his youth).16 Namely, the festival failed to gain any 16 The website of the Composers’ Association of Serbia displays a number of original docu160

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financial support from the independent Committee appointed by the Ministry of Culture to select projects for funding based on an open call. The Composers Association of Serbia tried to mobilise the cultural establishment, which initiated the polemic in the daily newspaper Politika in March 2014. The most ‘notorious’ was the article penned by Aleksandra Anja Đorđević (Trišić et. al 2014), a renowned freelance composer and member of the Committee of the Ministry, who tried to justify this decision based on the Committee’s dissatisfaction with the proposed concept of the festival. The Committee apparently saw it as yet another retrospective – this time of all works by Serbian composers who had received the Stevan Mokranjac Award. From the Association’s point of view, it seemed logical that in the year of the centenary of Stevan Mokranjac’s death they would centre the Review around the recognition which bears the name of the ‘father’ of Serbian art music, and which had been established twenty years earlier by the Composers’ Association of Serbia with the financial support of the Ministry of Culture.17 However, this supposedly ‘failsafe’ approach to programming did not fare well with the Committee, who, according to Đorđević, felt that the Review was simply not contemporary (or not relevant) enough: “Are you certain that the Review is the only place where we have an overview of the contemporary creation?! I am not, and I know why. Academic [music] is not the only contemporary music! […] what about the festivals Ring Ring, Interzone, Resonate, etc.? These festivals deal with contemporary music in a much more innovative way. Did our contemporary composers establish themselves thanks to the Review, or are the ‘roads to success’ entirely different? I say that they are different” (ibid.).

Đorđević’s criticism of the inherent academism of the Review as its greatest weakness does not seem unjust. It must be said that the Stevan Mokranjac Award recognises only the works of academic composers from Serbia; also, the inquest into the recipients of this award reveals that there were multiple winners among the most prominent members of the festival’s governing bodies (the same can be said of the awards which were presented in the first decade of the Review, until 1998). In any case, the Composers’ Association of Serbia received many letters of support written by prominent Serbian and foreign composers and their associations, as well as the performers and ensembles who had had a long history of collaboration with the Review. Some of the commentators directed their criticism at the Minister Tasovac himself; for example, the doyen of Serbian avant-garde music Vladan Radovanović was directly critical of the Minister Tasovac (ibid.), ments related to this polemic, including the letters of support of Serbian and foreign individuals and institutions, several articles published in the media, etc. The polemic is entitled “This year’s Review written off by the Ministry of Culture” (Trišić et. al 2014). 17 Anja Đorđević was also the recipient of the Stevan Mokranjac Award in 2003, for her chamber opera Narcis i Eho [Narcissus and Echo]. This piece was indeed included in the proposed programme of the Review, but only as a reproduction from a DVD (as well as the other two operas which had received the award: Zora D. by Isidora Žebeljan and Mileva by Aleksandra Vrebalov). 161

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‘adding oil to the fire’18, but there were also more pragmatic ones such as Dušan Bavdek, the composer and influential cultural worker from Slovenia, who observed that: “As a consequence of the economic crisis in several European countries, we are dealing with great difficulty with the budget cuts intended for cultural projects. However, to cut entirely the support to a festival such as the Review of Composers is beyond my comprehension. Why did the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Serbia estimate that the festival which has successfully and efficiently served its mission, which has established its audience and a solid international reputation, does not deserve any support? Why close one of its important cultural windows into the world? I believe that the said decision, which may have as a consequence the end of the festival, is tragically short-sighted and damaging” (ibid.).

Even more illustrative is the comparison made by the members of the Composers’ Association of (North) Macedonia (SOCOM), another former Yugoslav country which is still dealing with the postsocialist transition. They noted that the Macedonian president was the patron of the Review’s Macedonian ‘equivalent’ – the Days of Macedonian Music – and that their festival was financed for the most part by the Macedonian Ministry of Culture. They continued: “Even in economically stronger countries and the most developed cultural environments, the form of music creativity which is presented by the Review of Composers, Days of Macedonian Music, Warsaw Autumn, Gaudeamus and many other festivals across Europe and the world necessitates the country’s support. Withdrawal of this support does not reflect only the lack of basic sensitivity for the importance of a particular segment of music culture without which a cultural map of a certain people would not be complete, but it also has as a consequence crippling not only of the present, but also of the future of the same people” (ibid.).

These international letters of support actually highlighted the perception of the Review’s profile, of its differentia specifica which was, apparently, equally well perceptible from abroad as well as in the country: as a festival of a profession it has clearly established itself both domestically and internationally; yet, beyond the profession, it has apparently failed to prove its relevance for Serbian culture and society in general.

18 Interestingly, the Ministry of Culture did allocate funds for the Stevan Mokranjac Award in 2014 – awarded to none other than Vladan Radovanović, for his piece Sideral. 162

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Epilogue The Review of Composers and its founder have so far proven their persistency, and the festival has continued with its annual editions. Ivan Brkljačić co-selected the twenty-third Review (in 2015) with the composer and musicologist Branka Popović, who has subsequently taken over as the selector of the festival programme. Stepping away from Brkljačić’s more or less successful attempts to ‘solidify’ the programme concept of the festival, Popović has opted for a much vaguer and less defined content, and her ‘opening addresses’ reflect this rather ‘withdrawn’ curatorial stance. It can be observed that the authors of recent critical overviews, belonging to the youngest generation of Serbian musicologists, demonstrate the same lack of concern for the programme concept, accepting the eclectic plurality of the Review’s yearly editions as a ‘given’ and apparently being more interested in ‘quantitative’ than ‘qualitative’ aspects of the festival: “Overall, the 27th International Review of Composers can be considered a successful one thanks to its repertoire, which was comprised from pieces written by composers of diverse generations and stylistic orientations, allowing the Belgrade audience to hear the latest achievements of Serbian and foreign contemporary music” (Spaić 2018: 100).

However, certain more ‘seasoned’ music writers such as Smiljka Isaković, notorious for her unapologetic style and quarrelsome tone, observed that the Review has become increasingly – or perhaps that it has always been – a ‘family affair,’ i.e. a festival of a small, privileged ‘clique’ of composers who have, for years, benefited from various opportunities presented to them thanks to their personal and political influence (Isaković 2018).19 If we now reassess the entire history of the International Review of Composers, it can be segmented into three periods. The first one, dubbed ‘the war years’ (1992–2000), introduced the Review as a national festival, both in the sense of showcasing national art music production, and in relying on the support of the national funding bodies. Due to the fact that, at the time, Serbia was not an independent country, but still a part of the confederal union with Montenegro (Federal Republic of Yugoslavia), the Review (rightfully?) aspired to the status of a successor of the earlier Yugoslav festival in Opatija. Yet, even at the moment of its inception, the Review missed the first chance to establish itself either as a comprehensive overview of the entire recent (Serbian, Yugoslav) production, or as a relevant European festival, opting instead for a ‘hybrid’ concept – neither here nor there. The second ‘transitional’ phase (2001–2006) coincided with the onset of the economic transition in the post-Milošević Serbia (Yugoslavia), but also set the stage for the first major crisis of the festival, and its second missed chance. Namely, despite the initial sweep and support in 2001, the Review did 19 The ‘tacit knowledge’ of close familial ties between a number of renowned Serbian academic composers and musicologists has been humorously ‘re-enacted’ in the text written by Jelena Janković-Beguš and devoted to the study of her identical twin sister Ivana Medić’s musicological and performing practice (cf. Janković-Beguš 2016). 163

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not succeed in becoming a festival relevant for the broader public, failing to develop a new audience, whether local or international. This was mainly due to its restrictive and insufficiently attractive concept, but also due to the fact that some of its key protagonists (Stefanović, Hofman, Veselinović-Hofman and Kotevska) spent those decisive years abroad; and, in the case of Stefanović, they also put their professional and political experience and influence in the service of another, ‘more important’ festival – BEMUS. The third, ‘stagnant’ phase (from 2007 to the present) has witnessed some attempts at rejuvenating the Review; yet these efforts were undermined by a progressive loss of support, first from the City of Belgrade (from 2009 onwards), and then also from the Ministry of Culture (2014), resulting in the second, almost fatal crisis. Although the organisers managed to overcome the challenges (and even regain the support of the Ministry of Culture), the Review missed yet another chance to establish itself as anything but the festival of the profession of academic composers. While Ivan Brkljačić, during his tenure as a selector (2007–2015), at least tried to envision certain main themes for annual editions of the festival that he supervised, his successor Branka Popović seems to have accepted the ‘mixed-bag’ concept of the Review as a given. Unless some major changes are introduced in the near future, it is likely that the International Review of Composers will continue to survive as a mere festival of the profession, without aspirations to catch up with the Zagreb Biennale, or any other European festivals that it had initially aimed to emulate – or even surpass.

References BRKLJAČIĆ, Ivan (2007) “Reč selektora” [A Word from the selector], Programme Bulletin of the Sixteenth Review of Composers, 23–27 November 2007, Online sources of the Review of Composers (1992–2019), Composers’ Association of Serbia, BRKLJAČIĆ, Ivan (2010) “Reč selektora” [A Word from the selector], Online sources of the Review of Composers (1992–2019), Composers’ Association of Serbia, BRKLJAČIĆ, Ivan (2011) “Reč selektora” [A Word from the selector], Online sources of the Review of Composers (1992–2019), Composers’ Association of Serbia, BRKLJAČIĆ, Ivan (2016) “A Personal Perspective: International Review of Composers”, New Sound 48 (II/2016): 131–136. CVEJIĆ, Bojana (2001) “Prikaz Desete međunarodne tribine kompozitora u Beogradu, 25–29. maj 2001. godine” [Overview of the 10th International review of composers in Belgrade, 25–29 May, 2001], Novi zvuk/New Sound (18) 133–136.

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CVEJIĆ, Bojana (2002) “Jedanaesta Međunarodna tribina kompozitora: pragmatičke perspective” [11th International Review of Composers: pragmatic perspectives], Treći program 115–116 (3/4): 14–19. DRAGIĆEVIĆ-ŠEŠIĆ, Milena (2008) “Festivali: od slavlja u zajednici do savremenog spektakla – uticaji kulturnih politika” [Festivals: from a community celebration to a contemporary spectacle – influences of cultural policies], in Simon Grabovac (ed.) Dijalog o festivalima [Dialogue on festivals], Novi Sad: Kulturni centar Novog Sada, 13–25. ERJAVEC, Aleš (ed.) (2003) Postmodernism and the Postsocialist Condition: Politicized Art in Late Socialism. Berkeley: University of California Press. JANKOVIĆ, Jelena (2003) “Nova muzika na 32. BEMUS-u” [New music at the 32nd BEMUS] Novi Zvuk/New Sound 21: 130–132. JANKOVIĆ, Jelena (2006) Place of the Classical Music Festivals in a Transitional Society, unpublished MPhil thesis, Belgrade: University of Arts, Interdisciplinary postgraduate studies: Cultural management and cultural policy. JANKOVIĆ, Jelena (2008a) “Festivali umetničke muzike u Srbiji – izazovi za 21. vek” [Festivals of art music in Serbia – the challenges for the twenty-first century], in Simon Grabovac (ed.) Dijalog o festivalima [Dialogue on festivals], Novi Sad: Kulturni centar Novog Sada, 27–46. JANKOVIĆ, Jelena (2008b) “Festivals as an Investment for the Future of the Serbian Society”, Culture Management/Zarządzanie Kulturą 1: 64–72. JANKOVIĆ-BEGUŠ, Jelena (2016) “Play, Ivana, Play! Constructing a Hybrid Identity ‘Betwixt and Between’ Musicology and Music Performance”, in Žarko Cvejić, Andrija Filipović and Ana Petrov (eds.) Beyond the Crisis in Humanities: Transdisciplinary Transformations of Contemporary Discourses on Art and Culture, Belgrade: Faculty of Media and Communication, 61–67. ISAKOVIĆ, Smiljka (2018) “Ko će kome, ako ne svoj svome” [Each to his/her own], Pečat, 12 October 2018, KOTEVSKA, Ana (2017) Isečci sa kraja veka. Muzičke kritike i (ne)kritičko mišljenje (1992–1996) [Excerpts from the end of the century. Musical reviews and (non)critical thinking (1992–1996)], Beograd: CLIO. KRPAN, Erika (ed.) (2003) Međunarodna glazbena tribina. 40 godina. Opatija – Pula. [International music festival. Forty-years anniversary. Opatija – Pula], Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo skladatelja. MARINKOVIĆ, Miloš (2018) “Nove kulturalno-festivalske perspektive u Hrvatskoj i Srbiji kao rezultat društveno-političke transformacije muzičkog festivala u SFRJ (Od Jugoslavenske muzičke tribine, preko Tribine muzičkog stvaralaštva Jugoslavije, do Glazbene tribine Opatija/Međunarodne glazbene tribine i 165

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Međunarodne tribine kompozitora)” [New cultural and festival perspectives in Croatia and in Serbia resulting from the socio-political transformation of music festivals in the SRFY (from the Yugoslav Music Review, to the Music Review Opatia/International Music Festival and International Review of Composers)], in Vesna Mikić and Dragana Stojanović-Novičić (eds.), Wunderkammer / Their Masters’ Voice – Zbornik master radova studenata muzikologije, Beograd: Univerzitet umetnosti u Beogradu, Fakultet muzičke umetnosti, Katedra za muzikologiju, 795–887. MASNIKOSA, Marija (2003) “Prikaz 12. Međunarodne tribine kompozitora.zip” [12th International Review of Composers.zip], Novi Zvuk 22: 90–93. MEDIĆ, Ivana (2014a) “Music of the Lost Generation: Serbian Émigré Composers”, in Melita Milin and Jim Samson (eds.) Serbian Music: Yugoslav Contexts, Belgrade: Institute of Musicology SASA, 143–164. MEDIĆ, Ivana (2014b) “ArHai’s Balkan Folktronica: Serbian Ethno Music Reimagined for British Market,” Muzikologija/Musicology 17: 115–127. MEDIĆ, Ivana (2015) “Amerika je drugi svet: razgovor sa Natašom Bogojević” [America is a different world: a conversation with Nataša Bogojević], Muzički talas 44 (XXI): 20–27. MEDIĆ, Ivana and Jelena Janković-Beguš (2016) “The Works Commissioned by Belgrade Music Festival (BEMUS) 2002–2013: Contemporary Music Creation in a Transitional Society”, in Mirjana Veselinović-Hofman et al. (eds.), Music: Transitions/Continuities, Belgrade: Faculty of Music, 317–329. MEDIĆ, Ivana (2019) “Muzika izgubljene generacije: ‘Američka priča’ Vuka Kulenovića” [Music of the lost generation: Vuk Kulenović’s ‘American story’], Zbornik Matice srpske za scenske umetnosti i muziku 60: 139–156. MEDIĆ, Ivana (2020a) Paralelne istorije – Savremena srpska umetnička muzika u dijaspori [Parallel histories. Contemporary Serbian art music in the diaspora], Belgrade: Institute of Musicology SASA. MEDIĆ, Ivana (2020b) “Ex-Centric Identities in Eastern Europe: The Curious Case of Snežana Nešić”, in Ákos Windhager (ed.) A Political or a Cultural Project? Contemporary Discourse on Central European Identity, Budapest: Magyar Művészeti Akadémia andMűvészetelméleti és Módszertani Kutatóintézet, 63-73. MEDIĆ, Milena (2000) “Deveta Međunarodna tribina kompozitora, 26–31. maj 2000” [9th International Review of Composers, 26–31 May, 2000], Novi Zvuk/ New Sound 16: 131–134. MIKIĆ, Vesna and Ivana Ilić (eds.) (2007) ...under (re)construction – Međunarodna tribina kompozitora 1992–2007 [...under (re)construction – International Review of Composers 1992–2007], Beograd: Udruženje kompozitora Srbije. 166

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MILADINOVIĆ Prica, Ivana (2012) “The 21st International Review of Composers – Musical Construction Site”, New Sound 40 (2): 221–227. MILIN, Melita (2018) “Muzički bijenale Zagreb i srpska muzička scena: jugoslovenski period” [Music Biennale Zagreb and the Serbian music scene: The Yugoslav period], in Antonio Baldassare and Tatjana Marković (eds.) Music Cultures in Sounds, Words and Images: Essays in Honor of Zdravko Blažeković, Vienna: Hollitzer Verlag, 359–383. NIKOLIĆ, Marija (2009) “New Miniatures. 17th International Review of Composers. Belgrade, 19–25 November 2008”, New Sound 33 (1): 86–91. Online sources of the International Review of Composers (1992–2019), Composers’ Association of Serbia, Osma tribina kompozitora (Osujećena) [Eighth Review of Composers (Thwarted)] (1999) Online sources of the Review of Composers (1992–2019), Composers’ Association of Serbia PREMATE, Zorica (1991) “Prva Međunarodna tribina kompozitora Sremski Karlovci – Novi Sad 21–24. V ’92” [First International Review of Composers Sremski Karlovci – Novi Sad 21–24 May 1992], Treći program 90–91 (3/4): 31–35. PREMATE, Zorica (2007) “Tribina i mediji – ukratko” [The Review and mass media – in short], in Vesna Mikić and Ivana Ilić (eds.) ...under (re)construction – Međunarodna tribina kompozitora 1992–2007 [...under (re)construction – International Review of Composers 1992–2007], Beograd: Udruženje kompozitora Srbije, 135–136. SABO, Adriana (2012) “Međunarodna tribina kompozitorki? Mogući pogled na položaj kompozitorki u okviru domaće muzičke scene” [The International Review of Female Composers? A possible view of the position of female composers within the Serbian music scene], unpublished MA thesis, Belgrade: Univerzitet umetnosti u Beogradu, Fakultet muzičke umetnosti, Katedra za muzikologiju. SPAIĆ, Maša (2018) “Review of the 27th International Review of Composers, Belgrade, Serbia, 4–8 October 2018”, INSAM Journal of Contemporary Music, Art and Technology 1 (1): 97–100. SREĆKOVIĆ, Biljana (2008) “17. Međunarodna tribina kompozitora – Nove minijature” [17th International Review of Composers – new miniatures], Treći program 139–140 (3/4): 512–518. STAMATOVIĆ, Ivana (2005) “The 13th International Review of Composers (Belgrade, October 25–29, 2004),” Novi zvuk/New Sound 25: 76–78. STAMATOVIĆ, Ivana (2006) “The 14th International Review of Composers (Belgrade, October 27th-31st, 2005)”, Novi zvuk/New Sound 27: 107–110.

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STAMATOVIĆ, Ivana (2007) “The 15th International Tribune of Composers, Belgrade, November 18–21, 2006”, Novi zvuk/ New Sound 29: 127–130. STEFANOVIĆ, Ivana (2009) “Međunarodna tribina kao ‘Opštinsko dete’” [The international Review as a ‘Municipal child’], Politika, 20 March 2009, STEVANOVIĆ, Ksenija (2002) “Pandora’s Music Box: 11th International Review of Composers in Belgrade,” Novi zvuk/New Sound 20: 72–78. STEVANOVIĆ, Ksenija (2003) “12. Međunarodna tribina kompozitora” [12th International Review of Composers], Treći program 117–118 (1/2): 24–28. STOJANOVIĆ, Dragana (1993) “Druga Tribina kompozitora Sremski Karlovci – Novi Sad” [Second Review of Composers Sremski Karlovci – Novi Sad], Novi zvuk/New Sound 2: 129–132. ŠVOB-ĐOKIĆ, Nada (ed.) (2004) Cultural Transitions in Southeastern Europe, Zagreb: Institute for International Relations. TRIŠIĆ, Ivana et al. (2014) “Ovogodišnja međunarodna Tribina kompozitora otpisana od strane Ministarstva kulture” [This year’s Review written off by the Ministry of Culture], Online sources of the Review of Composers (1992–2019), Composers’ Association of Serbia VESELINOVIĆ-HOFMAN, Mirjana (2007) “Međunarodna tribina kompozitora i časopis Novi Zvuk: korelacija vidova predstavljanja srpske savremene muzike” [The International Review of Composers and the New Sound magazine: Correlation of the ways of presentation of Serbian contemporary music], in Vesna Mikić and Ivana Ilić (eds.), ...under (re)construction – Međunarodna tribina kompozitora 1992–2007 [...under (re)construction – International Review of Composers 1992–2007], Belgrade: Udruženje kompozitora Srbije, 95–97.

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CHAPTER 9

Festival/isation of Art Music – the Collapse or Recreation of Sarajevo Concert Life Fatima Hadžić (Sarajevo)

The 1992–1995 war in Bosnia and Herzegovina resulted in abrupt and radical changes in the socio-political context that were manifested as a distinctive transition in the post-war period – a socio-economic transition from the socialism of the Yugoslav type to the market economy of capitalism, i.e. a transition from an authoritarian political system to a formal civil democracy – with far-reaching consequences for culture and arts. In line with these changes, the current art music scene also differs from the pre-war one in many ways. These changes include the so-called festivalisation, a notion that is well known in recent research in social studies and humanities as useful for the analysis and understanding of the current concert life in Sarajevo.

Festival/isation – Definition of Terms The term festival pertains to diverse events of a sacred or profane, private or public character. We distinguish festivals that are held regularly, every year attended by a regular audience, from festivals that are organised on a one-time basis. Some festivals have formal (primarily financial) support from governing structures while others are a completely private enterprise (Belghazi 2006: 98). In terms of content, festivals can be nostalgic revivals, providing the means for the survival of the most archaic customs, or they can introduce innovation, promoting speculative and experimental phenomena in the arts (Falassi 1967: 1). Though occasional events, festivals have a permanent and important impact on the public image of a city and lead to far-reaching economic, social and political effects. Consequently, they are a phenomenon that have been the subject of a wide range of discussions in different disciplines (Getz and Page 2016: 606–607). 169

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Festivalisation is a process through which a cultural activity that used to be part of the regular, ongoing season is shaped so as to form a “new” event. The concept pertains to the increased quantity of festival events on the contemporary cultural scene: “festivalisation, therefore, results, in part, from the ‘explosion’ of festivals, but also from some ‘eventalisation’ of regular, cultural offers. The current situation in the European cultural sector shows an interesting tension between the two phenomena” (Négrier 2014). At present, there are three prevailing perspectives on urban festivals in the social sciences. One perspective views festivals as instruments of economic growth and development; the second considers festivals useful for preserving dominant cultural and political values; the third perspective believes they are important for the development of culture (Belghazi 2006: 97). We will discuss the role of art music festivals in Sarajevo’s cultural scene from these three perspectives.

Festivals as an Instrument of Economic Power Contemporary festivals have outstanding economic potential as a possibility for creating jobs or as a catalyst of city revitalisation. The instrumental character of festivals and the closely related idea that festivals attract tourists and investment, highlight festivals as a functional means for improving and promoting a city’s image (Dicks 2004: 8). The basic premise of this “instrumental” perspective is the idea that festivals are the means of a new global trend in cultural policy focused on marketing cities, thus, turning them into “tourist magnets” and allowing the city’s economic development and renewal, which makes a festival an important economic asset. It highlights the need for public-private partnership and views festivals as a component of the growth of tourism in the low season (Getz and Page 2016). Being aware of the economic advantages of festival events, local communities in Bosnia and Herzegovina (hereinafter Bosnia) included festivals in their recent development strategies. Thus, for instance, the Stari Grad Municipality, one of Sarajevo municipalities that houses a large number of cultural and historical monuments that form part of the city’s tourist offer, lists the support of festival events in the Sarajevo canton, in cooperation with other municipalities and levels of government, in its Strategy of Sustainable Tourism Development (2018–2022). It is one of the projects within the set of measures for developing a tourist chain of value and systematic promotion of the tourist offer (“Strategija održivog razvoja turizma” 2017). The significant role of festivals in tourism development is also described in the Strategy of Tourism Development of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina for the period 2008–2018 (“Strategija razvoja turizma” 2008). The Sarajevo Film Festival is certainly the most profitable festival in this respect.1 Referring to results of an independent study on the economic, cultural 1 Sarajevo Film Festival was initiated by the Obala Art Centre, in 1995, towards the end of the four-year-long siege of Sarajevo. Two decades later, the festival grew into an inter170

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and social effects of the Sarajevo Film Festival, conducted by the British consultancy firm Olsberg SPI and published during the 24th edition of Festival, in 2019, organisers said that during the festival the number of tourists increased, which, in turn, allowed the inflow of BAM 51.6 million and created 1,385 jobs. Besides this, the Sarajevo Film Festival has also had an important effect on the development of the film industry in the region, a positive impact on the international perception of Bosnia, and it creates a strong sense of belonging to the local community among citizens (“Jubilej: 25. Sarajevo Film Festival” 2019). Numerous festivals of various concepts, content, durations, and purposes are part of the Sarajevo tourist offer (“Top ljetni festivali u Sarajevu” 2019; “Sarajevo Calender of Events” n.d.). However, the evident festivalisation of Sarajevo’s cultural life, despite examples of the outstanding impact on the development of tourism and economy, is the subject of increasingly frequent criticism that questions both the very content and quality of events and the ways in which they are funded, particularly in those cases involving budgetary resources. Since the distribution of budgetary resources is the responsibility of ministries, which are headed by elected representatives of political power, the impact of politics is obvious. Thus, the second perspective highlights the instrumentalisation of festivals within official cultural policies aimed at achieving political, rather than cultural, goals.

Festivals as a Means of Political Power The second perspective criticises the instrumentalisation of festivals and other cultural events by governing structures within their cultural policies. In this constellation of relationships, festivals, together with other spectacles, become a means for dominant political forces to maintain the dominant political position. For several years, discussions have been ongoing in the public domain of Bosnia, which, among other things, challenge and criticise the criteria for the distribution of public revenues to individuals and institutions for cultural projects. Funding festivals, i.e. one-time events of any kind, is frequently considered an unnecessary waste of budgetary money that could, and should, be spent on the operation and development of fundamental scientific and cultural institutions. The phenomenon of the festivalisation of culture, particularly the negative side of the multiplication of festivals as primary cultural events in Bosnia today, was discussed by academician Esad Duraković, a member of the Academy of Sciences and Arts of Bosnia and Herzegovina: “Festivalisation of culture […] can be understood as an alibi for total inefficiency or neglect of the ‘basic’ culture and arts. Festivalisation should arrive – I guess it is natural – post festum: as the triumph of previously developed production in all areas, not the other way around” (“Esad Duraković” 2016). national film festival with a special focus on the region of South-East Europe (“About the Festival” 2020). 171

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At a time when institutions of vital significance for the sciences, arts, and culture are barely surviving,2 how the fairly significant resources for the sciences and culture are distributed by the relevant ministries leads to the conclusion that it is not only a poor system or a lack of understanding for the needs of a transition society which needs an additional financial injection, but rather a truly new “cultural policy” that lavishly funds populist cultural events: “Such festivalisation of culture produced its provincialisation and populist cultural events, lavishly rewarded from the treasury which is, in an orgasmic trance, covered by local media. Festivalisation, provincialisation, ethnicisation, clericalisation, and ghettoisation – these are the terms that can most accurately describe the current model of funding culture implemented by political power-wielders. It is for this reason that culture in our country is dying, while a culturally provincial and petty bourgeoisie is growing on its corpse – as a recognisable sign of the identity of the new class of the rich.”3

One of the most vociferous critics of the way in which the budgetary resources intended for culture are distributed, Dino Mustafić, an award-winning theatre and film director, and the artistic director of the International Theatre Festival MESS, founded in 1960 (“About Mess Festival” n.d.), publicly spoke against the years-long reduction of funds for this renowned festival several times: “Our problem is that we do not know how to treat the cultural heritage and cultural capital, which certainly includes this festival. An environment’s attitude toward its past speaks of our life in the present. Unfortunately, we all live this present very fluidly, and this is the biggest problem and trauma of all cultural professionals and festivals. Behind the idea of the de-metropolisation of Sarajevo lies the ethnic concept of culture, which treats Sarajevo-based international festivals as Bosniak. We will never agree with this primitive policy and that is why the HDZ [Hrvatska demokratska zajednica – the Croatian Democratic Union] minister Zora Dujmović brutally retaliated by cutting its budget by 60% over five years” (Šušnjar 2019).

The conflict between Mustafić and Minister Dujmović had its epilogue in the charges filed by the cultural institutions the Obala Art Centar, Scena MESS, the Ballet Foundation for Musical Activities and the Bosnian National Theatre, aimed at proving that budgetary resources were “distributed according to law and normative criteria, which are professional and not nationally 2 The unresolved legal status and the problem of the irregular funding of seven cultural institutions significant for Bosnia (National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina, National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Art Gallery of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Museum of Literature and Theatre Art of Bosnia and Herzegovina, History Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Library for the Blind and Visually Impaired, and the Film Archives of Bosnia and Herzegovina) is the cause of the years-long agony of the fundamental institutions of the cultural history of Bosnia and Herzegovina (“Institucijama kulture od značaja za BiH” 2009). 3 The strongly worded protest resulting from the method of the distribution of funds for cultural projects was launched by representatives of the Writers’ Society of Bosnia and Herzegovina (“Čestitamo vam, grobari bh. kulture!” 2012). 172

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based but rather based on the so-called ethno-national criteria” (Šimić 2018). Minister Dujmović, who heads the relevant ministry, the Ministry of Culture and Sports of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, responded to the public accusations with a statement that funds were distributed pursuant to laws and regulations: “The current distribution of cultural funds which annoys, although only a small number of, cultural professionals, is conducted based on the legal procedure for funds distribution, and only high-quality and significant programmes are funded. One can rightly say that some people cannot digest that there is a culture that is more than recognisable, high-quality and significant beyond Sarajevo as well” (“Zora Dujmović za Dnevnik.ba” 2018).

In 2019, the Sarajevo Municipal Court dismissed the charges against Minister Dujmović (“Kako su etnički kriteriji postali važniji” 2019).

Festivals as a Means of Developing Culture and Arts The third perspective highlights festivals’ impact on the development of culture, i.e. their positive effect that can lead to cultural development. The mere comparison of the number of art music festivals can lead to the conclusion that the role of festivals in the cultural development of Bosnia today is far greater than it was in the past. Indeed, in the time of socialist Yugoslavia, only two festivals whose programme content was based exclusively on art music were organised in Bosnia. These were Sarajevo Evenings of Music [Sarajevske večeri muzike] and Days of Musical Creations of Bosnia and Herzegovina [Dani muzičkog stvaralaštva Bosne i Hercegovine]. Sarajevo Evenings of Music or, more popularly, SVEM, a festival organised by Music Production of Sarajevo Radio and Television, from 1972 to 1990, gathered the best performers from Yugoslavia and abroad, who performed pieces of one composer to whom the festival of that year was devoted.4 Days of Musical Creations of Bosnia and Herzegovina, a festival organised by the Association of Composers of Bosnia and Herzegovina, took place five times (1985–1990). Held in different Bosnian cities, the festival was exclusively devoted to pieces by Bosnian composers, mostly performed by local musicians. The festival also included symposia and round tables on local musical creations (Čavlović 2011: 257–258). These two festivals were high-quality festivals with a clearly profiled concept. However, the small number of art music festi4 The festival of a very high artistic level and significant cultural-educational component was devoted to various composers: Johann Sebastian Bach (1972), Joseph Haydn (1973), Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1974), Josip Slavenski (1975), Antonin Dvořak (1976), Ludwig van Beethoven (1977), Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1978), Franz Liszt (1979), Antonio Vivaldi (1980), Johannes Brahms (1981), Petar Konjović (1982), Jakov Gotovac (1983), Felix Mendelssohn (1984), George Frideric Handel (1985), Camille Saint-Säens (1986), Robert Schumann (1989), Maurice Ravel (1990). In 1987 and 1988 the festival was not organised, and in 1989 it was included in the festival Sarajevo Winter as its central manifestation (Čavlović 2011: 257–258). 173

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vals suggests that festivals still did not play a crucial role in the development of musical life in Bosnia within socialist Yugoslavia, at least as far as art music was concerned. The huge scope of destruction of the entire social infrastructure that Bosnia experienced during the 1992–1995 war included the musical infrastructure as well: “[O]ut of three symphony orchestras in Sarajevo, only one remained – the incomplete Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra; about three hundred musicians left Sarajevo, out of 45 full-time pre-war professors and teaching assistants at the Academy of Music only 18 remained; a network of primary and secondary schools of music was more than halved, etc.” (ibid: 281).

At present, professional musical institutions in Sarajevo include the Academy of Music of the University of Sarajevo, the Opera and Ballet of the National Theatre of Sarajevo and the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra. These institutions, the oldest of their kind in Bosnia, with a significant history and activity that ‘survived’ the most recent war, make up the backbone of musical life in Sarajevo and Bosnia. They are the only (performing) musical institutions to be regularly funded from the budget, to have a well-conceived plan of activity and to have their concert season designed in advance.5 However, repertoires of these institutions cannot satisfy cultural needs that are beyond the framework of standard concert repertoire. Therefore, the launch of some events that offer a different concept seems to be both a supplement to the concert offer and, with a lack of institutional solutions, the only possibility. In 2019, dozens of festivals were organised, with music figuring prominently in the rich festival offer.6 Besides festivals such as the International Festival Sarajevo Winter [Sarajevska zima], launched in 1984 (“O festivalu” n.d.), and Baščaršija Evenings [Baščaršijske noći], launched in 1995 (“Baščaršijske noći” n.d.), both of which nourish art music only as one of their festival contents, a rise of festivals of exclusively art music has also been recorded over the past few years.7

Sonemus The Society Of NEw MUsic Sarajevo [Samostalna Organizacija NovE MUzike Sarajevo] – SONEMUS (Latin: sono, sonare – let’s sound) was founded in 2001 with the aim of performing, promoting and educating in the area of contemporary art music. Its activities are especially focused on South-East Eu5 Even the Academy of Music, primarily an educational institution, has been developing a concert season over the past few years. 6 In the summer season alone, around twenty festivals of diverse content and character take place in Sarajevo (“Top ljetni festivali u Sarajevu” 2019). 7 The overview of festivals does not include those that are no longer organised, such as the Music on the String or the Sarajevo Sonic Studio. 174

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ropean composers’ works that belong to the modernist aesthetic orientation. The SONEMUS Ensemble, composed of experienced musicians, is a constituent part of the association. The number of ensemble members is not constant, which allows it to expand depending on the needs of the piece of music. Ališer Sijarić, composer and professor at the Academy of Music of the University of Sarajevo, in cooperation with Boris Previšić (Switzerland), initiated the work of the Ensemble: “Upon return from my studies in Vienna and after experiences I gained there when I found myself in the situation where the music I was involved in was not represented to the degree that suited me, I got the idea of forming an ensemble for New Music together with a group of people from Sarajevo and other European cities” (Čavlović 2002: 130). In 2015, SONEMUS expanded its activities by establishing the SONEMUS festival, which gets a “new name” every year in line with the basic programme idea: Sonic Boom (2015), Trancegression (2016), DIS/C/LOC/K/ATION (2017), Icarus (2018) and Black Box (2019) (Kaniža 2018). The festival is focused on world premieres of pieces by Bosnian composers. Besides the fact that the festival provides an insight into the up-to-date repertoire of contemporary music with top-class performances by renowned musicians and ensembles, it is a unique opportunity for music students to find their orientation within the profession, which is allowed by various workshops and lectures organised within the festival.

Bosnian International Music Festival The Bosnian International Music Festival (BIMF) first took place in 2005. According to Zemira Masleša, composer and director, the festival is aimed at reviving artistic and academic cooperation, promoting Bosnian cultural heritage, but also “building a new dimension of Sarajevo in the world of classical music, both in Europe and in the broader area” (Sekulić 2017). Several dozen concerts have been held within the festival, featuring international musicians, the most significant being John Corigliano, one of the most celebratedcomposersin America, having won the Pulitzer Prize, a Grammy Award, as well as an Academy Award (“About BIMF” n.d.; “Svečano otvaranje” 2015). In 2010, the Administration of the City of Sarajevo proclaimed the festival a “cultural manifestation significant for the City of Sarajevo” (“Informacija o obilježavanju kulturnih događaja” 2016). However, in 2018, an announcement was posted on the festival’s Facebook profile that BIMF and its director Masleša had filed charges against some institutions: “Criminal charges have been filed with the State Attorney’s Office of Bosnia and Herzegovina against the Academy of Music in Sarajevo, the Sarajevo Chamber Music Festival, Music on the String, the Sarajevo Guitar Festival and many others who committed offenses against BIMF and Zemira Masleša, not only the violation of copyright but also theft of intellectual property” (“Radujmo se!” 2018).

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The assumption is that, except for its proclamatory support, the City of Sarajevo did not provide any other assistance to the BIMF festival (such as regular financial assistance). The BIMF festival management laid the blame for it both on the city administration and on other institutions and festivals, which are not on the list of “significant manifestations of the City of Sarajevo“ but which, according to director Masleša, received the financial support (ibid.). Whatever the essence of this case is, it is evident that, over the past couple of years, this festival has been organised with many difficulties, which in turn resulted in the reduced scope of the programme.

May Music Festivities The May Music Festivities [Majske muzičke svečanosti] was launched by the Academy of Music in Sarajevo, in 2008, to publicly present the art of students and teachers and to allow the appearance of the Academy of Music as an art institution on the local and international cultural scene. The festival has offered several dozen concerts featuring students, teachers and numerous guests from partner music academies from the region and Europe. Performances by students, professors, academic ensembles (string orchestras, symphony orchestras, mixed and women’s choirs, and Etnoakademik Ensemble) are woven into diverse forms of public performance, starting from all-evening recitals, chamber music concerts to mixed genre concerts. The programme’s repertoire is focused on representative artistic achievements that follow world and European trends in the area of musical life (“May Music Festivities” n.d).

Sarajevo Chamber Music Festival The Sarajevo Chamber Music Festival (SCMF) is an international festival that stages concerts of chamber music and an intensive programme of courses in chamber music. The festival was founded in 2011, by American cellist Chris Finckel and Bosnian pianist Dino Mulić, in close cooperation with the Academy of Music in Sarajevo and its dean at the time, Ivan Čavlović. In 2010, the first guest performance, by the Manhattan Quartet and American composer Craig Walsh, who composed a string quartet based on Bosnian folk melodies as a homage to Bosnian culture, was entirely funded by the Embassy of the USA in Bosnia and Herzegovina (“History and Mission” n.d). The main goal was both to make Sarajevo a centre of chamber music and to present world-class chamber music concerts in Sarajevo, whilst also fostering cooperation between musical artists of diverse societies, establishing a chamber music institute for young musicians, and assisting the Academy of Music in Sarajevo in regaining its pre-war status (“About” n.d./b/). As one of the Manhattan Quartet’s member has said: 176

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“To try to answer my question ‘what can we do to help’ I think our primary goals are to strive to produce concerts of the very highest calibre and to uphold the ideals that make our art as vital and expressive as possible. And to attempt to demonstrate the pertinence of classical music in today’s society and the necessity and benefits of a rigorous, complete musical education. We hope to help the Sarajevo Academy gain more visibility in their country and to give the students a sense of Bosnia as a place where positive international attention, collaboration and recognition are possible” (“History and Mission” n.d.).

Sarajevo International Guitar Festival The Sarajevo International Guitar Festival (SIGF) was established in 2011 by the Association of Guitarists in the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, with the desire to advance the art of guitar playing in Bosnia. To date, the festival has arranged over forty-five concerts by the most respectable names in the field of guitar-playing. The festival comprises a competition for young guitarists, as well as an educational component that includes workshops for young guitarists, teachers, and professors, with the participation of lecturers and pedagogues from over twenty European and world countries, workshops that have been attended by over seven hundred young guitarists, teachers, and professors (“Home” n.d.). In 2017, the Sarajevo International Guitar Festival became part of EuroStrings – the European Guitar Festival Collaborative, the first European platform in the field of classical guitar, founded by the Zagreb Guitar Festival, gathering together seventeen classical guitar festivals that organise international guitar competitions and have a professional structure that enables further and professional education of emerging guitarists. In this way, the festival has strengthened its position in the centre of international events in terms of both guitar art and the sustainability of the festival in general (“About” n.d./a/).

Sarajevo Evenings of Music Sarajevo Evenings of Music (SVEM), a festival which was considered one of the highest-quality festivals of this kind in Yugoslavia until the 1990s, was restored after a twenty-two-year long break. The Music Arts Foundation [Fondacija za muzičke umjetnosti] re-started the festival under the same name, announcing the continuation of the festival’s successful activity. Thus, the 18th Sarajevo Evenings of Music, organised in 2012, heralded the continuation of a successful festival tradition, though with a different concept. The first SVEM gathered the best performers from Yugoslavia and the world, who performed pieces by one composer, to whom that year’s festival 177

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was devoted.8 The basic tendency of the present SVEM is to create attractive programmes in the area of art music, primarily standard concert pieces performed by the best visiting musicians, to attract as large an audience as possible. Many renowned world and European soloists performed at the festival, such as double bass player Božo Paradžik, pianists Ivo Pogorelić and Vadim Kholodenko, flautist Emmanuel Pahud, violinists Alena Baeva, Sergey Krilov, etc., as well as symphony orchestras from the region: the RTV Slovenia Symphony Orchestra, the HRT Symphony Orchestra, and the Zagreb Philharmonic Orchestra. The Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra is the permanent orchestra of the festival, while its conductor Samra Gulamović was appointed the festival’s resident conductor (Music Art Foundation n.d.). The Sarajevo Evenings of Music includes an educational component as well. The festival is traditionally opened with a concert of the best students of the Academy of Music of the University of Sarajevo and the best students of academies in the region and Europe (Vienna, Graz, Ljubljana and Zagreb). The festival also incorporates music workshops for students of music academies and final year students of secondary schools of music.

Ballet Fest Sarajevo The Ballet Fest Sarajevo is the only ballet festival in Bosnia. Founded in 2010 by the National Theatre of Sarajevo and the National Theatre Ballet, the festival is held in September every year and lasts for seven days. The festival is devoted to contemporary authorial choreography and is a unique event that brings together the theory and history of ballet. During its ten editions, the festival has hosted many ballet companies and dance artists and organised successful accompanying programmes such as workshops, conferences, exhibitions and professional discussions. Ballet Fest is a unique example of one of the fundamental institutions of arts and culture, the National Theatre of Sarajevo, the only institution with a professional ballet and opera ensemble organising a festival besides its own regular concert season. It is an example of the process of cultural scene festivalisation or, even the other way around, a distinctive ‘eventalisation’ of the existing artistic and cultural content to make them more attractive and visible. It is symptomatic that Ballet Fest, a professional institution that does not have a complete ensemble, even after a few years of existence, has launched its own festival. The founder and director of Ballet Fest, Edina Papo, highlights the festivalisation of arts as a possibility for the revitalisation of ballet art as well: “From my point of view, festivalisation of the arts is very important and needed. It is through the form of a festival that we raise many issues that are bothering us. If you look at the companies and individuals coming from the region and Europe to the festival, the question arises as to what our role is except, of course, that this openness is very attractive to audiences. 8 178

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The festival means that we are not closed and autistic and that we are opening in our world. Festivalisation also raises a painful question: how can we communicate with the rest of the world when we do not have conditions, how is our ballet art developing and what are we doing wrong to lack the complete ensemble after a quarter of a century? Before the war, we had at least fifty artists who lived and worked in this area and, for a while, we were one of the renowned ensembles in former Yugoslavia. It is a festival, it makes you think and wonder whom we can compare ourselves to in the first place” (Abadžija 2018).

Conclusion The perspectives from which festivals are viewed, the political, economic and cultural ones, reflect the complex dynamics of society, and are subject to many interactive socio-economic and political processes. Festivals can be significant for a city’s marketing and, at the same time, an instrument of power, or the demonstration of the power of community, solidarity, and resistance to social control. Festivals are an extremely important part of the musical infrastructure in Bosnia. Moreover, the increasing significance of festivals also determines the characteristics of the art music scene. The festivalisation process has also affected the art music scene. It is a prominent cultural trend characterised by the speed and efficiency of implementing organisers’ short-term goals, as well as the easiest way of using public funds for these purposes. Festivalisation contributes to filling in gaps in Sarajevo’s cultural offer caused by deficiencies in the concept of cultural life. Therefore, art music festivals are mostly a positive phenomenon that has a favourable effect on the quality of the musical scene, by responding to the requirements of cultural demand in the segment that cannot be met by institutional activity at this moment. Festivals organised by institutions such as the Academy of Music of the University of Sarajevo, the National Theatre Ballet, SONEMUS and others are champions of the festivalisation process in the field of art music. Basing festival events on a clear concept and firm artistic criteria is a prerequisite for high-quality festival programmes. On the other hand, the question remains as to whether resources, particularly resources of public funds, should (to a great extent) be used for funding festival events. At a time when fundamental institutions of sciences and culture are barely surviving, is the allocation of taxpayers’ money to the organisation of one-time events such as festivals are by their nature, an unnecessary waste and luxury? Festival culture is a contemporary trend that will be present both on the cultural scene and in cultural policies for a long time. The significance of festival culture increases with the weakening of institutional activity, and it is, therefore, necessary to establish a certain balance between these two ways of organising cultural life, aimed at achieving long-term benefit – the strength179

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ening of the institutions of arts and culture as society’s primary task, and the organisation of serious festival events founded on clearly expressed artistic criteria, aimed at filling in potential gaps in the city’s cultural offer.

References ABADŽIJA, Maja (2018) “Edina Papo: Baletna umjetnost je kao pjena od sapunice” [Edina Papo: Ballet is like lather], Oslobođenje (portal), 20 September 2018, “About” (n.d./a/) EuroStrings – European Guitar Festival Collaborative. Accessed on 10 January 2020, “About” (n.d./b/) Sarajevo Chamber Music Festival and Institute. Accessed on 10 January 2020, “About BIMF” (n.d.) Bosnian International Music Festival (BIMF). Accessed on 5 February 2020, “About the Festival” (2020) Sarajevo Film Festival, 14–21 August 2020, “About Mess Festival” (n.d.) International Theater Festival MESS. Accessed on 10 February 2020, “Baščaršijske noći” [Nights in Baščaršija] (n.d) Bosanski Kulturni Centar. Accessed on 15 January 2020, BELGHAZI, Taieb (2006) “Festivalization of Urban Space in Morocco”, Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 15 (1): 97–107. ČAVLOVIĆ, Ivan (2002) “SONEMUS – između savremenosti i modernosti. Intervju sa Ališerom Sijarićem” [SONEMUS – between the contemporary and the modern. Interview with Ališer Sijarić], Časopis za muzičku kulturu Muzika 20 (1): 130–131. ČAVLOVIĆ, Ivan (2011) Historija muzike u Bosni i Hercegovini [History of music in Bosnia and Hercegovina], Sarajevo: Muzička akademija. “Čestitamo vam, grobari bh. kulture!” [Congratulations, you grave-diggers of B&H culture] (2012) Radiosarajevo.ba (portal), 29 October 2012, DICKS, Bella (2004) Culture on Display. The Production of Contemporary Visitability, Berkshire: Open University Press. “Esad Duraković: Naši nas političari fragmentiraju i sabijaju u nacionalne rezervate” [Esad Duraković: Our politicians divide us and pack us into nation180

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al reservation] (2016) Novinska agencija Patria, 7 October 2016, FALASSI, Alessandro (1967) “Festival: Definition and Morphology” in Alessandro Falassi (ed.) Time Out of Time: Essays on the Festival, Albuquerque: University of Mexico Press, 1–10. GETZ, Donald and Stephen J. Page (2016) “Progress and Prospects for Event Tourism Research”, Tourism Management 52, 593–631. “History and Mission” (n.d.) Sarajevo Chamber Music Festival and Institute. Accessed on 10 January 2020, “Home” (n.d.) Sarajevo International Guitar Festival. Accessed on 10 January 2020, “Informacija o obilježavanju kulturnih događaja od značaja za Grad Sarajevo i četiri gradske općine” [Information on the celebration of cultural events of importance for Sarajevo and four municipalities] (2016) Sarajevo: Federacija Bosne i Hercegovine, Grad Sarajevo, Gradsko vijeće, No. 01-02-181/16, 27 January 2016,

“Institucijama kulture od značaja za BiH prijeti konačni kraj” [Cultural institutions of interest for B&H are threatened by final collapse] (2009) Klix. ba (portal), 20 November 2009, “Jubilej: 25. Sarajevo Film Festival – priča o uspjehu” [Jubilee: 25th Sarajevo Film Festival – a success story] (2019) Business Magazine, 8 August 2019,

“Kako su etnički kriteriji postali važniji od kvaliteta i značaja kulturnih manifestacija” [How ethnic criteria have become more important than quality and relevance of cultural events] (2019) Klix.ba (portal), 9 October 2019,

Kaniža, Rijad (2018) “SONEMUS FEST (2015–2018): from ‘Sonic Boom’ to ‘Icarus’”, INSAM Journal 1 (1): 83–95. “May Music Festivities” (n.d.) Academy of Music in Sarajevo. Accessed on 10 January 2020, Music Art Foundation / Fondacija za muzičke umjetnosti (n.d.). Accessed on 10 January 2020, 181

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NÉGRIER, Emmanuel (2014) “Festivalisation: Patterns and Limits”, in C. Newbold, C. Maughan, J. Jordan and F. Bianchini (eds.) Focus on Festivals: Contemporary European Case Studies and Perspectives, Oxford: Goodfellow, 18–27. “O festivalu” [About the Festival] (n.d.) Internacionalni festival Sarajevo “Sarajevska zima”. Accessed on 15 January 2020, “Radujmo se! Stigla nam je radost! 14. BIMF 2018: Istina.” [Let’s rejoice! Joy has come! 14. BIMF 2018: The Truth] (2018) BIMF: Bosnia International Music Festival, Facebook, 22 August 2018, “Sarajevo Calender of Events” (n.d.) Holiday Bosnia (portal). Accessed on 20 February 2020,

SEKULIĆ, Mirela (2017) “13. nota BIMF-a: Obnavljanje umjetničke saradnje” [13th festival BIMF: restoration of cultural cooperation], Oslobođenje (portal), 8 December, 2017, “Strategija održivog razvoja turizma Općine Stari Grad 2018–2022. Nacrt” [Strategy of sustainable development of tourism in the Stari Grad municipality 2018–2022. A draft] (2017) Sarajevo: Sektor za lokalni razvoj, Općina Stari Grad, December 2017, “Strategija razvoja turizma Federacije Bosne i Hercegovine 2008–2018” [Strategy of tourism development of the Federation of Bosnia & Hercegovina 2008– 2018] (2008) Sarajevo: Federalno ministarstvo okoliša i turizma . “Svečano otvaranje 11. Internacionalnog muzičkog festivala ‘Bosna’ (BIMF) večeras u Vijećnici” [Festive opening of the 11th International music festival “Bosna” (BIMF)] (2015) Sarajevo.ba (portal), 5 June 2015,

“Top ljetni festivali u Sarajevu” [Top summer festivals in Sarajevo] (2019) Destination Sarajevo (portal), 10 June 2019, ŠIMIĆ, Angelina (2018) “Folklor (ni)je važniji od međunarodne kulture” [Folklore is (not) more important than international culture], Oslobođenje (portal), 20 March 2018,

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ŠUŠNJAR, Adis (2019) “Intervju Dino Mustafić: Priča o etničkoj ugroženosti dio je mitologije dejtonske BiH” [Interview with Dino Mustafić: The narrative of ethnic jeopardising is part of the Dayton B&H mythology], Inforadar (portal), 28 September 2019, “Zora Dujmović za Dnevnik.ba: tuže me jer žele vratiti ministarstvo kulture ‘pod svoju rudu’” [Zora Dujmović for Dnevnik.ba: They are prosecuting me because they want to get back hold on the Ministry of Culture] (2018) Dnevnik. ba. (portal), 6 April 2018,

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CHAPTER 10

Socialist and Postsocialist Histories Reflected in the Recent Past of the Bucharest Philharmonic Valentina Sandu-Dediu (Bucharest)

The history of the building of the Romanian Atheneum and of the institution of the Bucharest Philharmonic took shape within the inevitable general context of the history of Romanians, hand in hand with the modernisation of the two Principalities (Wallachia and Moldavia) after the Unification in 1859, the creation of Greater Romania after 1918 (by Union with Transylvania), the effervescence of the interwar period, as well as the avatars of the communist and postcommunist periods. While reading the documents and volumes that have already been published about the Bucharest Philharmonic, we discover the tendencies, trends and mentalities that characterise Romanian culture as a whole: the musical definition of the nation, interwar nationalism, modernisation, synchronicity,1 cosmopolitanism, socialist realism and communist nationalism, adaptation to international musical life. The Philharmonic’s ups and downs are also intertwined with the evolution of the other musical institutions in Bucharest: The Conservatoire (currently the National University of Music), the Society (and after 1945, the Union) of Composers and Musicologists, Radio Romania and the Romanian Opera, be it only because the same personalities of musical life leave traces through several institutions. Some composed, conducted and taught, others wrote chronicles, were soloists and professors, or filled different temporary administrative positions, due to their professional status. How can we write about the Philharmonic today, more than 150 years after its foundation? Research reveals that there is significant documentation covering the period up until World War II on the one hand, on the other hand 1 The concept of synchronicity is important in interwar Romania. The literary critic Eugen Lovinescu launched this concept in order to define the need to imitate, adapt and integrate Western models into national literature (Lovinescu 1925). 185

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there are only sporadic sources that have not been centralised and thus can still form only a fragmented image of the interwar period. Romanian musical historiography abundantly refers to the first hundred years (1868–1968), but the reader of those pages ought to maintain his/her critical spirit awake, so as to amend the ideological slippages of those writings. Most of them date back to the communist decades and are inevitably contaminated with nationalist exaggerations, with phrasings that conformed to the censorship of the time. One can get an overall image at least of the musics performed by consulting the collection of concert programmes in the Philharmonic Library. However, this image has its minuses, as – we know only too well – a concert programme printed before a concert may not coincide with the reality of last minute changes.2

Periods and Labels If in 1865, when the Romanian Atheneum Cultural Society was founded, one were to establish a location for the symbolical beginning of the institution under discussion, as well as for its subsequent history, this should be inevitably tied to the building of the same name, inaugurated in 1888: the Romanian Atheneum. A significant emblem of Bucharest to this day, the Atheneum remains the headquarters of the Philharmonic, whose history is better documented than that of the institution it hosts. There are books and studies on the architecture of the building and even on the famous slogan “give one leu for the Atheneum” (rhyming in Romanian: “dați un leu pentru Ateneu”), which circulated in Bucharest at the end of the nineteenth century to support the fundraising process, on the famous fresco in the Atheneum’s big concert hall (painted by Costin Petrescu and inaugurated in 1938), on the building of the concert organ (installed in 1939), on restorations and repairs (Tatomir 1974, Walcker-Mayer 2008, Preda and Sârbu 2009, Sârbu 2010, Cosma 2015) and, last but not least, on other cultural events, mainly talks given by prominent intellectuals, which took place here (Buluță 1989). Unlike the history of the Atheneum building, the history of the Bucharest Philharmonic should incorporate the story of the artists who designed its strategies or participated actively in the orchestra or the choir, as soloists, conductors, musical secretaries or managers who gave cultural Bucharest its distinct voice. Curiously enough, there is no Philharmonic archive (any longer), so one needs to look for sources on the postwar period elsewhere (since histories of the institution up until 1945 have already been written). The already published materials reveal three different methods: the inclusion of the Philharmonic within the ensemble of Romanian musical life, since it was founded (in 1868) until 1920 (Cosma 1983); a vast and detailed analysis of musical chronicles of the Philharmonic’s concerts between 1920 and 1945, which – 2 The author’s sources for the writing of this chapter were the documents kept in the Bucharest Philharmonic Library. Especially useful were the collections of concert programmes, bulletins, press reviews of concerts and similar documents, especially for the period 1968–2018, when other sources cannot be found. 186

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apart from the understandable subjectivity of musical critics – offers enough information about the repertoire, programmes, the leadership and organisation of the institution (Cosma 2004); finally, a monographic approach to the institution, written on the celebration of 100 years from its foundation, with no specified publisher, which leads us to understanding that the work was commissioned and executed from within (Cosma 1968). Other secondary sources may be consulted, such as monographs of artists involved in the evolution of the Philharmonic. And, in this case, there is abundant information on the institution’s first three historical cycles and sporadic, lacking information on the postwar period. Political, social and cultural instability during World War II and its immediate aftermath determines the succession of several people as leaders of the institution in Bucharest, as well as in other European centres (such as Berlin), between 1944–1953. In fact, conductors Eduard Wachmann, Dimitrie Dinicu, George Georgescu and, recently, Cristian Mandeal led the Philharmonic between fourteen and thirty-eight years, which justifies the historians’ decision to name these historical cycles after their names. There are also other situations in socialist Romania. Let us examine them in turn. The Wachmann Period (1868–1906) corresponds to that accelerated modernisation of Romania (an outcome of the fresh Union of Principalities), with contacts with Western Europe becoming regular after 1860 and with Charles I of the Hohenzollern dynasty (prince between 1866–1881 and king of Romania between 1881–1914) representing the “top” of Westernisation. Romanian elites adopted the modern idea of nation, and artists (especially literary ones) had long passionate talks around taking over (or imitating) Western models (Hitchins 2014: 316). As regards musical institutions, they were expectedly harmonised with the beginnings of professional musical composition, performance and criticism in the nineteenth century. All of these show an effort to constitute a national language adapted to forms of borrowing from European classicism and romanticism (Sandu-Dediu 2017). The composers to whom we owe the first creative impulses of synchronisation with Western models came from foreign artist families (mostly Austrian, settled in the Romanian Principalities at the beginning of the century). One of them was Johannes Andreas Wachmann (1807–1863), the author of the first Romanian vaudeville (Bucharest, 1835). Slightly later, his son Eduard Wachmann (1836–1908), after studying in Vienna and Paris, proved tireless in his efforts to establish the first classical music orchestra in Bucharest’s cultural life. At the beginning, Wachmann resorted to professors and students of the Bucharest Conservatoire (whose director he was at the same time) and he acted thoroughly and consistently, organising a first ample symphony concert in the National Theatre Hall in April 1866. Two years later the Romanian Philharmonic Society was constituted, and, with significant effort, Wachmann managed to maintain a rhythm of four to seven concerts per year. After an unavoidable break caused by the Independence War,3 the concerts conducted by Wachmann were resumed in 1883, being relocated to the Romanian Atheneum’s new hall in 1889 3 This refers to the RomanianPrincipality’s participation in the Russian-Turkish War in 1877–1878. After this war, the country got its independence from theOttoman Empire, together with Serbia and Montenegro. 187

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and reaching number 100 in 1894 and 150 in 1903. Wachmann had a consistent contribution to the cultivation of public taste for classical music: he offered entertainment, but also serious scores, he had flair, ideas and the extraordinary merit of the founding visionary. His period could be described as situated under the sign of founding vocation. The next two conductors who took over the leadership of the Philharmonic were originally cellists and they oriented concert programmes both towards current European trends and towards a better knowledge of Romanian musics. The first of them, Dimitrie Dinicu (1868–1936) had studied in Vienna (like Wachmann). On his return to Bucharest, he founded the first professional string quartet, named Carmen Sylva, and became a professor at the Conservatoire. He took over the leadership of a body structured like the Society of Romanian Philharmonic, now newly titled the Orchestra of the Ministry of Public Instruction, at his funder’s suggestion. The Dinicu period (1906–1920) brings about the consolidation and maturing of the symphony ensemble, as well as a set of adequate educational strategies to win over more and more people in the audience. The following items are to be found on Dinicu’s agenda: collaborating with agents and editors; hosting cycles of historical concerts (at George Enescu’s suggestion), an altogether new initiative at the time; inviting many prominent European artists, who begin to place Bucharest, but also a few Romanian composers-conductors, who were offered the possibility of opening nights at the Atheneum, on the international artistic map. Dinicu always knew how to maintain good communication with an audience still in need of education, so he did not neglect accessible educational programmes, composers’ “medallions” or symphony “integrals”. If I were to put a label to this period, it would be well-tempered innovation. The man who definitely dominated the modern Bucharest musical stage, first of all through his prestige as a conductor, then as a director of the Bucharest Philharmonic and Opera, is George Georgescu (1887–1964). His personal contribution to the institutions is substantial, especially during his interwar terms, the Georgescu period (1920–1945), in tune with the significant synchronising of Romanian culture to European models. Professionalisation and internationalisation would be the correct label for this period, when the Orchestra of the Ministry of Public Instruction comes back to its old title as the Bucharest Philharmonic Society, to mark its restructuring in 1920. This year is an emblematic one, seen by many as the debut of modernity, in tune with what was going on back then in the fresh Greater Romania. Not by chance, this is also when the Society of Romanian Composers is founded, with George Enescu as president and Constantin Brăiloiu as secretary, with the assumed role of giving an impulse to Romanian composition and making it part of the circuit of concert institutions, the Philharmonic being, of course, the first on the list. A disciple of Arthur Nikisch, Georgescu met and admired Richard Strauss, whom he also promoted in Bucharest; he conducted in most of the important centres of the world (for instance, in 1926–27 he stood in for Toscanini in New York) and used his artistic contacts to bring the most prominent of his con188

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temporary musicians to his country. He worked a lot and asked his orchestra and collaborators to also work intensely. He had to face adversities, financial and political difficulties, and his figure remained an emblem in this history of the Bucharest Philharmonic. The Georgescu period is now evoked with the admiration and nostalgia that are usually connected to the Romanian interwar period. This is when the most significant aspects of institutional Europeanisation took place, which the drastic regime change after World War II blew out in such a sudden and tough manner. As expected, George Georgescu was one of the first victims of the transition towards socialist Stalinist Romania. He was suspended from the musical landscape, which was now supposed to educate a new audience, “under the new economic, political and social circumstances created by the democratic-popular regime” (Cosma 1968: 67). Those who had previously been in leading positions were randomly, indiscriminately accused of collaboration with Hitler’s regime. The period of blurred transitions (1944–1953) starts, marked by an important landmark: the transformation of the Philharmonic into a state orchestra (1945), as well as the efforts made by celloist George Cocea (1944–45), musical critic Emanoil Ciomac (1945–1947) and conductor and composer Constantin Silvestri (1947–1953) to adapt to the transformations that were troubling the whole Romanian society. Georgescu came back as a conductor in 1947, and he was also entrusted with a second term as a director (1954–1964), which was also the first in a new cycle in the history of the institution. The Philharmonic was officially hosted by the Romanian Atheneum since 1953 and called the George Enescu Philharmonic (by decisions of the Government of Romania) since 1955: the period of socialist stabilising (1954–1989). In these forty-five years, after George Georgescu, at various intervals, the leadership of the institution was taken by: conductor Mircea Basarab (1964–1969), composer Dumitru Capoianu (1969–1973), violinist Ion Voicu (1973–1982) and conductor Mihai Brediceanu (1982–1990). Those who had been involved actively in founding and leading the institution had always been aware of the need for permanent, consistent financing by the state. Wachmann filed applications for state subventions as early as 1868, with support from Prince Charles. After the Independence War in 1877, Alexandru Odobescu (at the time General Director of Theatres) encouraged Wachmann to reorganise the symphony orchestra, and the conductor required and obtained funds to this end, also from Bucharest Municipality. Since the beginning of his term, Dinicu managed to obtain the promise of the Ministry of Public Instruction to support the orchestra on a coherent, annual basis. As George Georgescu became leader of the institution, financing came from the Prince Charles Cultural Foundation. However, in the early times the Philharmonic fought for financial survival and was forced to interrupt its activity for many years, during wars or because of financial and political crises. It moved its headquarters several times, when the Atheneum building was affected by earthquakes, repairs or wars. In 1922, the decision was made that the same symphony ensemble should function at the same time at the Philharmonic and 189

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at the Opera house, which generated enough problems and discontents until, in 1941, there were two separate orchestras once again. All of these lead to the conclusion that a Philharmonic (like any artistic institution) cannot exist without public money, which conditions the infrastructure vital to its functioning. At the same time, the administration (today’s management) has to also find complementary financial resources, in projects developed with fantasy and, at the same time, realism. But in a totalitarian system like the postwar one in the People’s Republic of Romania (PRR), then of the Socialist Republic of Romania (SRR), the freedom to develop such projects will be strictly limited, from the “centre”. State control over the activity of the institution meant that the director needed to have approval for any idea and gesture. Thus, the financial stability obtained with the proclamation of the Philharmonic as a state institution came with a restrictive ideological baggage that could rarely be avoided. It goes without saying that, after 1990, in the postsocialist period, the financial situation of the Philharmonic changed, not always for the better, but depending on the meandres caused by economic transitions. The undeniable artistic prestige led to the first two directors’ appointment. Pianist Dan Grigore chose to stay in his position as a leader for only several months (1990). Conductor Cristian Mandeal soldiered in for almost two decades (1991–2009), struggling to bring back that professional status specific to a European institution. Since 2010 to this day, the leading position has been occupied not by a musician, but by a cultural manager, Andrei Dimitriu.

Socialist Realism and Communist Nationalism in the History of a State Philharmonic: 1945–1989 In postwar society, everything was “renewed”, following the need to educate a “new” audience, and, for this reason, artistic creation in all its forms had to respect the principles of socialist realism. Gradually, the history of Romanians was rewritten, school text-books were remade so as to stress the dialectic materialist vision and the new cultural genealogies. The history of the Bucharest Philharmonic could not reflect anything else but the new ideologies: in its repertoire, its international activities (tours), in the drastic selection of guests and in the “revolutionary” tone of the introductory texts in concert programmes. The configuration of all these components changed radically in the communist decades, following the ideological waves that affected the whole of Romanian society: the rise and weakening of Stalinism, the principles of socialist realism, the beneficent, but misleading international opening of the sixties, then the increasing toughness of Ceaușescu’s communism, with its characteristic nationalism and the more and more categorical isolation from the rest of the world. August 23, 1944, when Romania became the USSR’s ally, marked the start of a period of “cleansings”, checks and firings of all those who had held leadership positions in institutions. George Georgescu was immediately removed, 190

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and his interim was taken over by George Cocea (the cellist who had been an efficient vice-director since 1941), for a short while. Another transit solution was found in the appointment of Emanoil Ciomac (1890–1962), an acquaintance of George Enescu’s and one of the most important musical critics of the interwar period, who laid the foundations of modern Romanian musicology through his expert professional analytic and aesthetic scrutiny of Wagner’s work (Ciomac 1934). The 1945–46 season of the State Symphony Orchestra was the last to see George Enescu conducting (before he emigrated), and after this the Bucharest Philharmonic was to rely on conducting of Theodor Rogalski (1901–1954) and Constantin Silvestri (1913–1969), up until Rogalski’s death (1954) and Silvestri’s emigration (1958). Between 1947 and 1953, Silvestri, who had been appointed conductor of the institution by Ciomac in 1945, was to become its director: “[…] the authorities acknowledge the fact that he was the most important conductor of his generation, and his unquestionable value could not be ignored. But if the exceptional quality of his concerts was hard to deny against the background of transformation of musical creation into a party propaganda tool, Silvestri’s creations were criticised for their ‘formalism’ and ‘cosmopolitanism’, for their ‘sterile’ modernism etc.” (Voicu-Arnăuțoiu 2013: 47).

The truth is that the doctrine of socialist realism affects more the musical production as such (namely, the composers), and less musical performance, in this last case the ones who dictate the rules being only able to trace firm lines for concert programmes, with no influence on any interpretative style. On 18 July 1947 the Law Concerning the Organisation of State Theatres, Operas and Philharmonics for the Functioning of Public Shows was passed. This law institutionalised the control body of all artistic life, called the Higher Council of Dramatic Literature and Musical Creation. The same year, in October, the Trade Union Congress proclaimed socialist realism the only creation method. After King Michael’s forced abdication on 30 December 1947 and the proclamation of the PRR (the same day), the political direction was clear: the totalitarian state was regimented within the Soviet bloc, the unique mass party was consolidated (the Romanian Workers’ Party, renamed the Romanian Communist Party in 1965), then the PRR’s Constitution was adopted (in 1948), with a judicial system also following the Soviet model. This was also the start of a wave of nationalisations and expropriations, collectivisation, political persecutions and staff file checks, which threw lots of people in prison, as the Securitate (and generally, the Ministry of the Interior) became the main communist control and repression instrument (Deletant 2014a: 408). The Romanian press amply debated the document that concerns the musical community in this context: The Resolution of 10 February 1948, of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the USSR Concerning Music. Matei Socor, president of the new Union of Composers in the PRR (between 1949–1953), follows the principles defined by the Soviet Resolution Concern191

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ing Music. In 1952 he elaborated a local Resolution, meant to be implemented in all musical institutions, including educational and radio ones, as a faithful application of the general principles of Marxist-Leninist aesthetics. The accusations of cosmopolitanism, formalism, impressionism, atonalism, nationalism and mysticism abound, they are all contradictory and confusing, but reach their goal of frightening the musicians’ community and give several opportunistic people the chance to succeed overnight (Sandu-Dediu 2006). If we follow the Philharmonic’s repertoire in the years of the enthusiastic implementation of socialist realism in Romanian musical life, more precisely until Stalin’s death in 1953, first of all we notice the remarkable amount of Russian and Soviet musics. Classics such as Mikhail Glinka, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Alexander Borodin, Mily Balakirev, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, Modest Musorgsky or Alexander Glazunov are there, but so are younger composers such as Dmitry Shostakovich, Sergey Prokofiev, and even the non-Soviet Aleksandr Skryabin, Anton Arensky, Anatoly Liadov, Sergei Rachmaninoff. A couple of times, in 1946, when ideological conditions had not toughened yet, even the music of Igor Stravinsky, perceived as a renegade in the USSR as he had emigrated to France, then the USA, was played. In the name of the Romanian-Soviet friendship, which becomes more prominent starting with the 1948–49 season, composers considered significant for the communist regime are promoted, such as Reyngol’d Glier (with his People’s Friendship Overture). In the same postwar years of socialist realism, the Philharmonic’s seasons reflect on the one hand the flourishing of Soviet musics, on the other hand the gradual disappearance of universal and Romanian sacred musics (no longer fit for the new atheist society). The number of guests (conductors, soloists) from Western Europe goes down visibly, but one may notice the attention given to neighbouring countries, Romania’s friends in the transition to socialism: at the Philharmonic, one may hear performers and composers from Bulgaria, Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia more often. The real ascension is that of Romanian music, in different degrees and manners. Romanian first performances propose titles we no longer remember, and the tight collaboration between the Philharmonic and the Union of Composers is documented by both institutions (Cosma 1995). The programmes contain many vocal-symphony works related to the present or to the glorious history of the Romanian past (as the phrasing went back then): Sub soarele păcii [Under the Sun of Peace], oratory by Hilda Jerea, Balada lui Gheorghe Doja [Gheorghe Doja’s Ballad] by Constantin Palade, Mama [Mother] by Matei Socor, Mierla lui Ilie Pintilie [Ilie Pintilie’s Blackbird] by Anatol Vieru and the vast oratory Tudor Vladimirescu by Gheorghe Dumitrescu. This last piece is launched on a triumphant road of success, becoming a real hit, if only we look at its insistent presence in several Philharmonic seasons of the fifties-seventies. Autochthonous themes of this kind are intertwined in the Philharmonic’s programmes with Soviet musics that reflect socialist realism and, to the extent this was possible, the usual classic-romantic repertoire, since the institution tries to maintain tradition-

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al directions: composers’ portraits or medallions – Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, as well as festivals on given topics. In 1953, Silvestri was – suddenly and without any obvious reason – fired from the position of director of the Philharmonic, where, however, he maintained his position as principal conductor and – a fact that can only be explained by the staff rotation communists practised – he was then appointed director of the Bucharest State Opera. The same year, the State Philharmonic was consolidated by the Decision of the Council of Ministers on 1 October, by which the Romanian Atheneum became its main headquarters, and the complex structure of the institution was used as a model for the other new Philharmonics in other cities in the country. It now comprised a symphony orchestra, an academic choir, a folk orchestra (on 1 November 1953, the Barbu Lăutarul [Barbu the Fiddler] Orchestra of the Institute of Folklore was subordinated to the Philharmonic), a state group of soloists, a string quartet and a literary-musical lectureship. Willingly or not, the Bucharest Philharmonic participated in the propagandistic effort to rehabilitate George Enescu in socialist Romania: by the decision of the Council of Ministers on 4 May 1955 (the date of the composer’s death), the institution took his name. After this, Enescu’s name became associated with the supreme canon of Romanian music (Sandu-Dediu 2018), as happened with Mihai Eminescu in literature and Constantin Brâncuși in visual arts: the three of them became supreme symbols of “Romanian spirituality”, as shown in hundreds of volumes and articles written on their work. A certain distancing of Romania from the USSR became visible gradually after Stalin’s death, and a mere perusal of the Philharmonic’s symphony programmes will show the presence of Soviet music slowly fading away, especially starting with the 1955/56 season, coming close to complete disappearance towards 1960.4 Romanian music is always present in the repertoire, a sign of the increasing nationalist strategy of the communist regime. On the other hand, George Georgescu came back as director of the Philharmonic (1954–1964) and had the chance and the right timing to direct it once again towards the internationalisation of former times. Orchestra tours are resumed (after a decade-long break), at the beginning especially in countries whose regimes called themselves “people’s democracies” and also in some others (1955 – Czechoslovakia; 1956 – Poland; 1957 – Yugoslavia; 1958 – USSR, Finland, Sweden; the GDR – 1961; Bulgaria, Greece and Hungary – 1962; Austria, Italy, England and Belgium – 1963). The George Enescu International Festival was launched in Bucharest in 1958, and the Atheneum became the concert hall favoured by most foreign guests. Ever since, the history of the Philharmonic has been tightly intertwined with the history of the Enescu Festival, whose first five editions (1958–1970) give Bucharest back some of the glamour of the interwar period, when world 4 The last Soviet troops on Romanian territory left in 1958. Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej, the leader of the party and of the country at the time (between 1947 and 1965), remained a thorough Stalinist and strengthened his position of authority after 1955, at the same time refusing to de-Stalinise the Party, however taking a visible distance from Moscow. 193

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famous artists frequently gave concerts in the Atheneum. The audience felt they found a refuge in a world in which, once more, it felt normal that David Oistrakh and Yehudi Menuhin should join George Georgescu as conductors in Bach’s Double Concerto, that Ion Voicu should be soloist in the Concerto No. 2 for Violin by Prokofiev, conducted by Sir John Barbirolli, that Valentin Gheorghiu should play Grieg’s Piano Concerto next to John Pritchard, and Arthur Rubinstein, Beethoven’s Imperial, conducted by Mircea Basarab. Those September weeks reserved to the Enescu Festival still hold a nostalgic, privileged place in the memory of music-lovers who attended them in the 1960s. To this we should add the fame record of the International Enescu Contest, at the time followed vividly by many people, with the lively interest and thrill characteristic to elite competitions. The following directors, Mircea Basarab (1921–1995) and Dumitru Capoianu (1929–2012), benefited (the latter only in part) of the most favourable period of communist Romania: the liberalisation brought about by Nicolae Ceaușescu’s coming to power. “Ceaușescu continued his predecessor Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej’s political lines, which had defined the latter as a national-communist: quick industrialisation, accompanied by autonomy in foreign politics. […] He managed not only to offer the West the opportunity to exploit an apparent breach in the communist bloc, but also to stimulate people’s antipathy towards the Soviet master. Romania was the first country in the Eastern bloc that established diplomatic relations with West Germany in 1967 and who did not break diplomatic relations with Israel after the Six-Day War. Autonomy axiomatically led to greater popularity and, inevitably, to the cultivation of the national feeling” (Deletant 2014a: 439).

This opening towards the West was immediately reflected in artistic life. The ties with Western Europe were resumed through tours of the ensembles of opera and concert institutions in both senses (even though under strict Securitate control). From the point of view of repertoire diversity, the Philharmonic crosses one of the its best periods. Baroque music titles were scheduled and performed which the Bucharest audience had not had the opportunity to listen to very often: in 1967, Mircea Basarab went back to the Philharmonic’s old chamber music group for the baroque and classical repertoire, which led to the cycle of Brandenburg Concertos by Bach in 1968; the season that celebrated the centennial of the institution (1967–68) includes a cycle of operas in concert, which were also new to the audience, such as Pimpinone by Telemann and The Soldier’s Tale by Stravinsky. Looking through the posters of the season that had Mircea Basarab as director, one wishes one had a time machine at one’s disposal, to go back to those Friday or Saturday nights of the Atheneum. In my opinion, the programme strategy was exemplary, with well-known traditional musics (Beethoven coming first, as usual), with popular concerts (waltzes by Johann Strauss), next to vocal-symphony evenings including Johannes Passion, Magnificat, The Mass in B Minor by Bach, the Requiem by Berlioz, the War Requiem by Benjamin 194

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Britten, Paradise and the Peri or Scenes from Goethe’s Faust by Schumann. A more thorough presence of baroque music alternates with the modernity of European composition, in a careful selection, from Debussy to Hindemith, from Béla Bartók to Igor Stravinsky, from Hanns Eisler to Witold Lutosławski. The repertoire illustrates the vast plethora of tendencies that characterised the international concert life of the time, in an effervescence that can rarely be found at any other point in the history of the Philharmonic. The points of attraction do not stop here, but are even more evident in the names of guests on the posters, be they conductors Sir John Barbirolli, Georges Prêtre, Roberto Benzi, Kurt Masur, Gennady Rozhdestvensky, Antal Dorati and Zubin Mehta, or soloists Arthur Rubinstein, David Oistrakh, Wilhelm Kempff, Henryk Szeryng, Van Cliburn, Nikita Magaloff, John Ogdon, Dmitri Bashkirov. This is what the landscape of the Bucharest Philharmonic looks like between 1964–1969, with hindsight, veiled in a luminous aura projected against the rather sombre background of the postwar communist decades. But this image is not without flaws: one may indeed spot a renewed connection of artistic Romania with the world, after Stalinist isolation, but it is a strictly controlled one. Freedom of creation and circulation seems to belong to artists once again, but it is restricted by the party’s vigilant eye, as well as by the Ministry of the Interior. Communist propaganda continues in concert programmes, musical chronicles, studies, articles, books, even if the tone is more nuanced and has left the dross characteristic to socialist realism behind. In the last four years of this period (1969–73), the Philharmonic was led by Dumitru Capoianu, a composer with a solid reputation, especially in the world of film. If we thumb through the concert programmes of this period, the image slightly, but definitely changes towards the new communist nationalist doctrine promoted by the Ceaușescu regime. It is a well-known fact that the document entitled “The July Theses” of 1971 renewed socialist realism, in a covered neo-Stalinist spirit, and launched an offensive against the autonomy of culture (Verdery 1994: 86). Following his visits to North Korea and China in 1971, Ceauşescu was inspired by the model of the Asian communist regime, which he adapted to his own dictatorship. As a result, a new ideological offensive marks the whole Romanian society, with a view to “improving the political and ideological activity of Marxist-Leninist education” (Cosma 1995: 415). This actually led to a degradation of social, material and cultural life which reached the extreme in the eighties. The signs of a growing political pressure multiply, the atmosphere becoming heavier and heavier towards the end of the seventies and in the eighties. Concert programmes record, for example, off-season concerts in 1971–72, offered in honour of the metallurgists of the 23 August and Republica factories (11 October 1971), on the anniversary of the Socialist Republic of Romania (at every end of December, with an exclusively Romanian repertoire), or the concert in honour of the half-centennial of the Union of Communist Youth (19 March 1972) and the one in honour of the national Romanian Communist Party Conference (20 June 1972). 195

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In the remaining time before the 1989 events, the activity of the Bucharest Philharmonic followed the route experienced by all Romanian musical and cultural institutions, more and more drastically guided by the financial austerity and political isolation imposed by the Ceaușescu regime. At the Philharmonic, however, the main positions continue to be occupied by musical personalities appreciated especially for their interpretative careers, such as violinist Ion Voicu (1923–1997). This was not the case with the Union of Composers, the Ciprian Porumbescu Conservatoire and the National Opera House in the capital, where leaders were imposed following political criteria, especially in the eighties. The first symptom of changes can be noticed in the George Enescu Festival, always tightly connected to the Atheneum, and which moves with slow, but definite steps towards an ideological parochialisation. The 1973 episode already sets the tone: it is limited to one week of concerts (ten days in the following editions), the contest disappears (to be re-established only after 1990), and the number of foreign guests goes down significantly. With a few notable exceptions (among which Enescu’s disciple, Yehudi Menuhin and his sister, Hepzibah Menuhin), most of such guests now came from socialist countries with friendly ties with Romania, which reduces the international visibility of the Festival and implicitly of Enescu’s creation. Like the whole of Romanian culture and art, musical composition and performance were wrapped in the nationalist cocoon, isolated from western trends, directions and models. It is true that Romanian scores were consistently promoted, to the point of saturation, especially on the country’s first concert stage; on the other hand, all access out of and into the country was banned. This is why Romanian composers who could have made it into the mainstream of world concert life, certainly having a lot to say to colleagues in the new music area, were kept in a state of semi-obscurity to this day. In turn, a few young Romanian soloists made themselves known on the international stage, many of them only on condition that they leave their country and find refuge in the European west (with no perspectives to return to a regime like Ceaușescu’s, which pronounced them traitors). Others, after prestigious prizes that had launched their careers, decided to stay in Bucharest and maintain a certain standard of performance, in a context that was not always favourable to them. Their international presence was closely coordinated and controlled by ARIA (Agenția Română de Impresariat Artistic) [Romanian Artistic Impresario Agency], which in March 1990 was turned into present-day Artexim and which was in constant collaboration with the Philharmonic, bringing foreign artists to Romania or organising orchestra tours. To come back to the Enescu Festival, the 1976 programme followed the same coordinates: ensembles from outside Romania were to come only from Moscow, Budapest, Belgrade or the GDR. The following edition, in 1979, was already “in the shadow of the Cântarea României [Song to Romania] Contest and Festival” (Cosma 2015: 113). This mass phenomenon invented in 1976 was the musical form imposed by the cultural revolution promoted by the communist state, which continued to put its mark on all local cultural acti196

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vities up until 1989, with an intense organisational and media participation from the Romanian Radio and Television. Occurring annually, in the shape of an inter-county artistic contest, it insistently promoted amateur choirs and other folk ensembles. In the eighties, the aggressiveness of these artistic manifestations made itself noticed in glamorous stagings, on stadiums, in costly TV shows engaging both professional and amateur artists, often favouring the latter and their “popular” musics (a term that referred both to pop culture and to cosmeticised folk culture at the time). In 1979, vague international traces are maintained in the Enescu Festival, and the 1981 programme is dominated by Enescu’s figure, due to his birth centennial. There is no point in going into details about the history of this Festival, which overlaps with the history of the Philharmonic only in part. It is, however, useful as a source of examples for the itinerary of Romanian musical life, now wavering between the (rather impoverished) propagandistic survival of an elite event, which had acquired fame and tradition outside Romania, on the one hand, and the configuration of Cântarea României, a new anti-elitist tribune for the masses, on the other hand. In season programmes, apart from first performances of Romanian music, obviously coordinated by a coherent strategy, there are only sporadic, random novelties, with no strategic claim. The Bucharest audience, conservative by definition, is acquainted with few new musics, timidly squeezed in among dominant classical-romantic sonorities. The affective memory of Philharmonic members, of the audience and the press, place Sergiu Celibidache’s appearances at the Bucharest Philharmonic in an incontestable foreground in 1978 and 1979. Celibidache generously offered several concert nights in an always too small Atheneum concert hall, with rehearsals open to the public. He equally electrified performers and music lovers, who were to evoke his visits for many decades, only to fill up with even more emotion in 1990 (14–17 February), when the conductor brought the Munich Philharmonic to a Bucharest contaminated with post-communist hopes. The eighties (especially the second half) continue and intensify the ideological offensive started by Ceaușescu after the “July Theses” to the point of the absurd. Given that the economic situation had visibly deteriorated, electricity supply is cut a few hours a day; natural gas and other heating resources were drastically economised, so that everybody was suffering from cold in the winter, both at home and in institutions (at the Philharmonic, instrumentalists would play with fingerless gloves on, wearing multiple warm layers under their evening suits). The official cultural climate is defined by its intoxication with Cântarea României on national channels and well-controlled by the Radio and Television, through Elena and Nicolae Ceauşescu’s personality cult, or through the censorship often applied absurdly, which led to memorable avoidance strategies. The access to information and foreign travel were increasingly difficult. The bitter anecdote that circulated among musicians said that the orchestra was told to play more loudly on tours, so as to replace their colleagues who had been left at home (for economic or political reasons). 197

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Under such circumstances, an institution director with, mostly, professional ties to his position, as was conductor Mihai Brediceanu (1920–2005), certainly went through tough times. His term as a Philharmonic director in the eighties bears the sign of the times, among which austerity seems to be merely a euphemistic label. The remaining episodes of the Enescu Festival (1985 and 1988) host fewer and fewer foreign guests. The former celebrated the tenth edition of the Festival, focusing on contemporary local composition, and the latter bore the signs of a double anniversary: the centennial of the Romanian Atheneum and 120 years since the foundation of the Bucharest Philharmonic. During seasons, only ensembles from other Romanian cities came to the Atheneum, and national music continues to be present in the same conditions: either it prefaced (with few exceptions) the weekly symphony concert, or the concert work included in it was Romanian, or it celebrated programmatically (in special programmes) various anniversaries of the motherland and of the party. Foreign guests come mainly from friendly countries, such as Poland, Czechoslovakia, the GDR, Bulgaria, the USSR, Hungary. But the Atheneum stage is very welcoming to Romanian conductors, soloists and ensembles to perform in its symphony and chamber concerts.

The Postsocialist Period and the New Challenges: 1990–2018 The end of December 1989 brought unexpected events to Romania: the fall of Nicolae Ceaușescu and of communism, after massive protests in Timișoara and Bucharest. At the beginning of 1990, an overwhelmingly enthusiastic population acclaims the power takeover by an alliance of reformist communists and well-known dissidents (the Council of the National Salvation Front). But the social dynamic was quick to change as the numerous political parties (the new National Salvation Front, the traditional – National Peasant and National Liberal – Parties and others) were fighting for power, the population engaged in protest movements (University Square in Bucharest) and some of the minorities’ issues became acute. The itinerary of the 1990s and of the 2000s decade are well documented in Romania’s recent history. I mention here only the first report on the last ten years of communism, which showed that “there had been absolutely no investment in health, education and transportation” (Deletant 2014b: 482). Culture is not even mentioned; it probably was somewhere in the shadow of education. Those who lived through the period of transition from communism to a free market, from Ceaușescu’s grey România to the motley postsocialist one will surely remember, among other things, the Mineriads5 triggered by Ion Iliescu’s regime, the setup of the Civic Alliance, the drafting of a new Constitution (December 1991), the sinuous path of reforms and privatisations, the launching of an oligarchy, elections, governments and, more present than ever, corruption. 5 TheMineriads(Romanian:Mineriadă) were a series of violent demonstrations byJiu Valleyminers inBucharestduring the 1990s. There were four episodes in 1990, 1991, and other two later, in 1999. 198

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At the same time, a significant part of the population follows with hope the country’s integration into a “normal” world, the move towards the West, which mainly meant NATO adhesion and EU accession (as late as 2007). The conclusion of historian Dennis Deletant sums up objectively a state of fact which many of us perceived as follows: “Romania’s progress towards political and economic reform since the overthrow of the communist dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu in December 1989 was a hesitant one. It is difficult not to reach the conclusion that the political will to reform was relative, given the various achievements of the governments that came one after another. Events demonstrated that the impulse for reform came rather from the outside than from the inside. The International Monetary Fund, the European Council, the European Union and NATO were the main catalysts of reform, and the need to satisfy the requirements of those institutions to have access to the so-called ‘Euro-Atlantic structures’ stimulated and guided the process of reform in Romania” (Deletant 2014b: 490).

All the Romanian musical institutions engage on a journey of redefinition and retrieval, and the Bucharest Philharmonic is no exception when it comes to adapting to the new perspectives open by a long-awaited freedom – especially with respect to artistic choices, but also in point of foreign travels (tours). All of these came hand in hand with the always volatile funding situation and the difficulties of Romanian legislation. In November 1989, the last Romanian scores with programmatic titles dedicated to the “union”, to “peace”, to the fourteenth Congress of the RCP resounded on the Atheneum stage, to be followed by four consecutive nights of Mozart’s Requiem, conducted by Cristian Mandeal, in memory of the heroes of the Revolution no more than two months later (11–14 January 1990). Then the season seemed to enter normality quickly, and the efforts of Dan Grigore – appointed director of the Philharmonic by the post-revolutionary minister of culture, Andrei Pleșu, in January 1990 – focused on organising Celibidache’s visit to Bucharest and are also dedicated to reintegrating important names of diasporic Romanian musicians in the local concert life. Those concerts that took place on 14–17 February, given by the Munich Philharmonic conducted by Celibidache (who accepted the title of honorary director of the Bucharest Philharmonic) were offered, as mentioned in the concert programme, “to the benefit of the Romanian people and in memory of the sacrifice of the martyr cities”. Two different programmes were featured: one including Verdi, the Overture to The Force of Destiny, Don Juan by Richard Strauss and Symphony No. 1 by Brahms, the other one Symphony No. 7 by Bruckner. Those present in the hall were charmed by unheard-of orchestral sonorities and contaminated by the emotional flux coming from the vocation of making such music, which seemed to announce new horizons, open towards the best of the Western musical stage. Dan Grigore did not take long to bring colleagues from the diaspora to Bucharest, such as Marina Krilovici, Silvia Marcovici, Radu Lupu, Ileana 199

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Cotrubaș, artists with world careers who had not been heard on Romanian stages for a very long time and who answered his invitation promptly. Each such concert was met by the audience with the same joy: they had been waiting for fast essential changes on the musical stage, just as they were expecting quick everyday life miracles after the fall of communism. The 1990 season continues with a few notable novelties consisting in the retrieval of sacred scores, such as the first performance of the Byzantine Easter oratory Patimile și Învierea Domnului [The Passion and Resurrection of Christ] by Paul Constantinescu (1943, rev. 1948), conducted by Cristian Mandeal and scheduled just before Easter. The realities of transition and of the new democracy were not late to appear, as well as trade union voices. Dan Grigore resigned from the position of director in May. After eight interim months, during which the trade union committee of the Philharmonic led the institution, the general director position was occupied by Cristian Mandeal, seconded by pianist and organist Nicolae Licareț (as associate artistic director). Conductor Mandeal was thus forced to accept an administrative position he did not wish to hold, as he was not acquainted with the laws and with economic mechanisms, which could only steal from the time he wanted to dedicate to music. Contaminated, however, by the frenzy and intensity of the times, with a lot of people thinking they would change the country radically, Mandeal accepted and set himself a few leading goals: “First and foremost, I intended to revitalise the Philharmonic orchestra and to foster its artistic level consistently, to the point of reaching the standards of a true European orchestra, fit for a capital city, similar in quality and significance with any institution of its kind. I also wanted to restore the Philharmonic Chamber Orchestra, a small elite ensemble that had been long missing from Bucharest’s cultural scenery. Finally, I wanted to start a huge endeavour, namely the restoration of the Romanian Atheneum” (Mandeal and Nicoară 2009: 20).

The new director set out on his journey with a project that was at the same time necessary and complex, difficult and vast: the restoration of the Atheneum. Insisting by various authorities to obtain subventions for such an ambitious and costly plan, the general director launched a press appeal for public donations, in memory of that famous slogan “give one leu for the Atheneum”, which had supported the birth of the building over one century before. Thus, many individuals, foundations, institutions (such as the Union of Composers and Musicologists in Romania or the Romanian Academy) topped up state subventions, contributing to renovation funds. The Philharmonic also offered concerts in benefit of the Atheneum. Mandeal tells the epic of the constructions in detail, mentioning the flaws that surfaced as repairs went on and the discomfort in which rehearsals were held (ibid.). At the end of the 1990s, when the number of concert goers had gone down dramatically, the Philharmonic also went through such difficulties, often having to resort to other Bucharest concert halls to hold its activity (at the Radio, the Conservatoire and the Palace Hall). The efforts of the construction builders to ensure a certain continuity 200

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and stability to Philharmonic musicians should also be remarked, especially in the context of the new editions of the George Enescu Festival (1991, 1995, 1998, 2001, 2003), of which only in 1995 the Atheneum was missing from the concert hall circuit. Finally, one of the solutions the leadership of the Philharmonic resorted to in the twelve years of renovation (1991–2003) was to schedule as many tours as possible, which the musicians wanted and enjoyed, but which also gave more freedom of action inside the building. To go back to the programmes of Philharmonic symphony concerts and look at the repertoire dynamic and the artists invited, in the season 1990–91 performers of Romanian origin, living abroad, came back on stage. A few Romanian pieces are still scheduled, but not on a weekly basis as before 1990. In the next season (1991–92) their number continued to go down, following the general tendency present in all Romanian musical institutions. The reason was not hard to find, and all Philharmonic directors rightfully blame it on the abuses of the communist regime and its ostentatious nationalism. As such, “the Romanian music inflation (before 1989) led the audience and performers away from this music”, stated Nicolae Licareț (Roșu 1992: 1). His colleagues in other musical centres also signal a lack of selection and of strict quality criteria before 1989. However, in the country and at the Bucharest Philharmonic, Romanian pieces are present in repertoires; about fifty Romanian composers were performed along a two-year interval. Yet, an extremely small number of first performances are to be seen on concert posters, and they mostly appear in specialised festivals such as the International New Music Week, founded in Bucharest by composer Ștefan Niculescu, always in a close and constant collaboration with the Philharmonic and with the Radio Orchestras. If we try to analyse the symphony seasons of the Bucharest Philharmonic between 1990 and 2018 as a whole, concert programmes reveal a balance which is obviously in favour of baroque, classical and romantic world musics. The strategy of the Philharmonic did not neglect the important world musical life events. Certain years were anniversary ones: 1991 for Mozart, 2000 for Bach, 2009 for Haydn. On the other hand, it did not seem likely to set up a specific strategy to integrate novelties, first performances or the representativeness of Romanian music, even though all of these were not missing. But they seem to be rather the result of private initiatives, owed specifically to certain performers. Explanations can be found for this, from the difficulties the Atheneum went through during the long period of building refurbishment, to the attempts of the Philharmonic leadership to attract the audience to symphony concerts once again. Concert goers, whose numbers go down in the 1990s, need to be offered a certain comfort, pieces and performers of a certain well-established reputation. More or less shocking novelties can only be squeezed in passingly, in homeopathic amounts, in such a context. Regarding the situation of Romanian scores, in these almost three decades it is interesting to analyse the “free market” effect: there is no longer a state policy that imposes national music, but conductors and soloists are free to state their own choices.

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As a result, the amount of Romanian music scheduled in Philharmonic symphony concerts goes down spectacularly in the above-mentioned twenty-eight-year period. But one may also wish to observe the preferences and hierarchies of the performers who promote it, as well as those of the audience (who remains a motivating factor for the options of those on stage). Without claiming to make any exact statistics, I am bound to notice that the musicians who are most often present in programmes are George Enescu, Paul Constantinescu and Constantin Silvestri. A similar counting will reveal the fact that, from various generations of composers born after 1925 and up until around the 1980s, the “top” is led by Pascal Bentoiu (with around twelve appearances, without counting remakes or contributions to Enescu’s scores) and Dan Dediu, followed by Anatol Vieru, Ștefan Niculescu, Doina Rotaru, Adrian Iorgulescu, Dumitru Capoianu, Sabin Păutza, Cornel Țăranu, Călin Ioachimescu, Adrian Pop, Irina Odăgescu, Liviu Dănceanu and others. A musicologist’s impulse while reading this kind of enumeration would be to signal the much too timid presence of exceptional Romanian musical avant-garde names such as Aurel Stroe or Tiberiu Olah, as well as the total absence of musics signed, for instance, by Myriam Marbe or Mihai Moldovan. Moreover, a historian focusing on the music performed at the Bucharest institution will notice and discuss the obvious fact that there are certain nuances with respect to these schedulings. Sometimes, the composers are also conductors or soloists invited at the Philharmonic, and it is only natural that they should include their own pieces in concert programmes. We come across such situations in the case of Ludovic Bacs, Valentin Gheorghiu, Gheorghe Costin, Sabin Păutza. At other times, new music festivals or other events (celebrations or commemorations) impose certain pieces. But generally the main criterion remains a conductor’s or soloist’s choice to schedule Romanian scores. A similar situation seems to also trigger other repertoire novelties. If we follow first performances in general, with the exception of Romanian pieces, as well as contemporary pieces for which there is no mentioning of the opening night, the great names of world composition are seldom included in programmes. Yet some invited conductors propose their own scores, thus increasing the number of first performances. We should of course also mention the financial difficulty to rent orchestra material for new pieces, a situation that in the case of performers-composers sorted itself out. All of these, however, lead to an observation: The Bucharest audience is offered enough obscure names, but opportunities for them to listen to a piece by György Kurtág, Pierre Boulez or Mauricio Kagel, Karlheinz Stockhausen or Luciano Berio are as good as non-existent. From the same concert programmes one may notice, on the other hand, a certain affinity with Polish Music, from the Romanian opening night of Krzysztof Penderecki’s Polish Requiem (November 1995) to another of his works in first performance, Jacob’s Dream, various new pieces belonging to Zbigniew Bargielski and Wojciech Kilar, as well as the rediscovery of an interwar composer of the stature of Karol Szymanowski. In fact, during the 202

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Mandeal period thematic evenings (even festivals) are scheduled, dedicated to Japanese, American, Spanish, French and Polish musics, which gives a new, welcome clothing to an interwar tradition of the Bucharest Philharmonic, also promoted by George Georgescu. It is obvious that Mandeal, as a conductor and director in the nineties, was interested in diversifying the repertoire, but he was also limited by the financial resources he had at hand. As intended, Cristian Mandeal founded the Chamber Orchestra of the George Enescu Philharmonic; the choir, in its turn, went through various formative stages, depending on its conductors, Valentin Gruescu, Silvia Secrieriu and, from February 1998, Iosif Ion Prunner. Choir performances are visible on every vocal-symphony concert, in a great variety of scores tackled, from Purcell, Handel and Bach to Berg and Schönberg. As always, the chamber season consistently encouraged young interpreters and newer, experimental musics. These are the main components of the Philharmonic’s activity, which add themselves to symphony concerts and to the traditional parade of soloists and conductors on Thursdays and Fridays at the Atheneum (with small fluctuation to this well-established timetable). Since Cristian Mandeal resigned from his position as director of the Philharmonic (2009), three main conductors have ensured a certain balance: Horia Andreescu, Christian Badea and Camil Marinescu. The current director (the first non-musician in the history of the institution), Andrei Dimitriu, has set as one of his managerial focuses to resume Atheneum talks, in 2010. During his directorate he has encouraged an educational programme coordinated by Cristina Sârbu (Clasic e fantastic [Classic is Fantastic]), which has opened the Atheneum widely to children and young people. Otherwise, the repertoire and the musicians involved in Philharmonic programmes do not reveal any fundamental changes as compared to the Mandeal period. Romanian conductors invited by the Philharmonic from across the country or from Radio Romania continue to feature on the Atheneum stage, and significant numbers of foreign guests join them (especially after 1996). Seiji Ozawa’s visit was a moment of grace (15–16 November 2002), with an enormous impact on the orchestra and the audience, only comparable to that of Celibidache about a decade earlier. Philharmonic soloists who have always ensured the success of the institution through their own artistic prestige – Valentin Gheorghiu, Dan Grigore, Marin Cazacu, Ion Ivan Roncea and Aurelian Octav Popa – are joined by Romanian and foreign colleagues who have had rich and diverse musical lives in these almost three past decades. In going through concert programmes, names of guests from many parts of the world show a very auspicious pluralism of interpretative schools and styles, from Portugal to Russia, from Japan to South America. Many guests illustrate the renewal of contacts with the Romanian diaspora, one of the objectives of Philharmonic leaders since the time of general enthusiasm that followed the 1990 changes. Soloists and conductors of Romanian origin, who either studied abroad or left the country at a certain moment in their career, and therefore have somewhat lost ties with their native country, have shown their attachment to it and their 203

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wish to return to the first concert stage of the country. Finally, even two of the permanent conductors, Christian Badea and Camil Marinescu, can be assimilated to the same diasporic group, as they returned to their positions in Bucharest from various positions they had occupied in world musical institutions, from Japan to the USA. * Throughout this postsocialist period, with its transitions, its tough episodes and the rather dramatic shifts of mentalities and generations, the Bucharest Philharmonic has continued to be a landmark institution in Romanian musical life. If, back in 1990, we had expected a sudden return to the international glamour it had in the interwar period, when the Atheneum stage was regularly visited by world celebrities, we would feel justly disappointed. Resounding names of world performance only come to Bucharest for the Enescu Festival, participating in the dizzying agglomerations of events of those three or four weeks in September, once every two years. Our audience can thus make an intensive cure, without hoping to have opportunities to listen to the same celebrities during the “regular” season. But then on what is such a season built? On local, sometimes remarkable forces, and with good conductors and soloists, but without a very high box office quota. The main reason why the Bucharest Philharmonic cannot reach the international standard of other capitals (as it had under George Georgescu) is the lack of adequate funding. After all, this is the responsibility of the Romanian state (of the Ministry of Culture, in particular), the institution’s main source of funds, conditioning the type of Philharmonic they wish to have in the capital of the country. At various times in the postwar era, the leadership of socialist Romania had either shown clear attachment to Russian and Soviet values (which were short-lived in the 1950s), or had seen the importance of cultural propaganda in the world (in the 1960s), or that, finally, nationalism must govern Romanian culture ideologically (after 1970). What message do post-revolutionary governments transmit? It is hard to decipher it in this recent history, or maybe there is no message, no strategy, no ideology, but the institution is simply left to run itself by its own devices. After all, why is it important for Bucharest to be included in the mainstream and that funds should be invested in such an idea? Only for the delight of the Atheneum’s presumably rather small (and possibly elitist) audience? This may be what many decision factors will maintain. It seems that nobody thinks about how to build a national culture, in its various institutions (the Philharmonic remains a case study), at the time of stunning communication technologies. The promotion of national values (a phrase that has been repeated arrogantly and stripped of its meaning so many times, that it has become not only stale, but downright ironical) takes place within the country, but, necessarily, also beyond its borders. When you have no terms of comparison, when on the post-1990 Atheneum stage artists such as Maris Janssons, Seiji Ozawa, Daniele Gatti, Daniel Barenboim, Simon Rattle, Marta Argerich, Murray Perrahia, Radu Lupu or Grigory Sokolov (and this enumeration is based on 204

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strictly subjective criteria and merely for the sake of demonstration) have not been present on a regular basis, one can only think of a provincial, self-sufficient attitude, given that many Romanian artists and music lovers lack a direct concert hall contact with the top of today’s world musical performance. Also, it is good, but not sufficient to schedule pieces by Romanian composers in local concert institutions: such musics (carefully selected) must be taken abroad on tours or presented convincingly to foreign guests of the Philharmonic. In short, the freezing of orchestra member appointments for years (because of various moments of economic crisis) and the lack of subventions that would have helped bring in first-rate artists from the Philharmonics of the great cities of the world on a regular basis are major impediments that slow down the access of the Bucharest Philharmonic to the important circuit of concert life. And the undebatable quality of certain Romanian performers, members of the Philharmonic ensembles, cannot be turned to good account without a consistent strategy, accompanied by smartly directed funds that can serve Romanian music, in its essential components – composition and performance. In this context, we are back full circle to the vital role of the Enescu Festival in the internationalisation of Bucharest musical life in the postsocialist period, in the inclusion of the Romanian Atheneum in a world circuit of admired concert halls (e.g. the Midnight Concert series, inaugurated in 1998). As its history shows (Marghita 2015), when Cristian Mandeal accepted the position of artistic director of the 2001 and 2003 programmes, he stressed the idea of an international, European festival (we should not forget that, back then, Romania was just aspiring to become an EU member). Also, the Philharmonic orchestra and choir were present with notable performances in festival concert programmes (Gurrelieder, Moses and Aron by Schönberg, Wozzeck by Berg and others), showing that they were capable of focus and expression in one of the most difficult modern scores, when summoned by the right conductors. The recent history of the Philharmonic and of the Atheneum is as such intrinsically connected to the Enescu Festival, but it cannot be limited to it. The George Enescu International Festival and Contest are self-contained, exceptional events, no matter how much they are connected to the Atheneum building and to the Philharmonic as an institution. Let us remember that Sergiu Celibidache – an idol of many Romanian conductors and performers – built his career in the German musical life, in collaboration with German orchestras. As long as a young conductor with impressive culture and talent, say, similar to Celibidache, cannot become a world celebrity and is at the same time kept as conductor of the Bucharest Philharmonic, this means that important structural problems of the musical institutions continue to be completely ignored by the country’s governors. And Romanian music – Enescu and the composers and performers who followed him – will remain in the same sometimes underserved obscurity, penetrated by only pale, sporadic and inefficient sunrays. Translated by Maria-Sabina Alexandru-Draga 205

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References BULUȚĂ, Gheorghe (ed.) (1989) Cultură și civilizație. Conferințe ținute la tribuna Ateneului Român [Culture and civilisation. Lectures held at the Romanian Atheneum], Anthology, Bucharest: Eminescu Publishing House. CIOMAC, Emanoil (1934) Viața și opera lui Richard Wagner [Richard Wagner’s life and work], Bucharest: King Charles II Foundation for Literature and Art. COSMA, Octavian Lazăr (1983) Hronicul muzicii românești [The Chronicle of Romanian music], vol. V, Bucharest: Musical Publishing House. COSMA, O. L. [Octavian Lazăr] (1995) Universul muzicii româneşti. Uniunea Compozitorilor şi Muzicologilor din România, 1920–1995 [The Universe of Romanian music. The Union of Composers and Musicologists in Romania, 1920–1995], Bucharest: Musical Publishing House. COSMA, O. L. [Octavian Lazăr] (2004) Filarmonica din București în oglinda criticii muzicale, 1921–1945 [The Bucharest Philharmonic in the mirror of musical criticism, 1921–1945], Bucharest: Musical Publishing House. COSMA, Viorel (1968) Filarmonica George Enescu din București. 1868–1968 [The George Enescu Philharmonic in Bucharest], Bucharest: George Enescu Philharmonic. COSMA, Viorel (2015) 125: Ateneul Român în oglinda istoriei [125: The Romanian Atheneum in the mirror of history], Onești: Magic Print. DELETANT, Dennis (2014a) “România sub regimul comunist” [Romania under the communist tegime], in Mihai Bărbulescu, Dennis Deletant and Keith Hitchins (eds.) Istoria României [History of Romania], Bucharest: Corint educațional, 407–480. DELETANT, Dennis (2014b) “România după 1989” [Romania after 1989], in Mihai Bărbulescu, Dennis Deletant and Keith Hitchins (eds.) Istoria României [History of Romania], Bucharest: Corint educațional, 481–490. HITCHINS, Keith (2014) “Desăvârșirea națiunii române” [Accomplishing the Romanian ation], in Mihai Bărbulescu, Dennis Deletant and Keith Hitchins (eds.) Istoria României [History of Romania], Bucharest: Corint educațional: 287–406. LOVINESCU, Eugen (1925) Istoria civilizației române moderne [History of Romanian modern civilization], Bucharest: Ancora, 1925. MANDEAL, Cristian and Raluca Nicoară (2009) Clădirea Ateneului Român: consolidare, restaurare, modernizare [The Romanian Atheneum building: consolidation, restoration, modernisation]. Series: Caietele Filarmonicii „George Enescu” [The “George Enescu” Philharmonic Notebooks], Bucharest: Anima. 206

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MARGHITA, Ioana (2015) „Evoluția Festivalului Internațional George Enescu – un spirit dincolo de vremuri” [The Evolution of the George Enescu International Festival], in Ioan Holender, Livius Ciocârlie, Emil Hurezeanu (eds.) Festivalul „George Enescu” în era Holender [The “George Enescu” Festival in the Holender age], Bucharest: The National Opera Publishing House, 83–109. PREDA, Tania and Cristina Sârbu (eds.) (2009) Cupola cu frunze de acant și coarne de berbec [The Cupola with acanthus leaves and ram horns]. Series: Caietele Filarmonicii „George Enescu” [The “George Enescu” Philharmonic notebooks], Bucharest: Anima. ROȘU, Michaela (1992) “Creația românească în repertoriul instituțiilor muzicale” [Musical creation in the repertoire of musical institutions], Muzica 2: 1–4. SANDU-DEDIU, Valentina (2006) Rumänische Musik nach 1944, Saarbrücken: Pfau. SANDU-DEDIU, Valentina (2017) “The Beginnings of Romanian Composition. Between Nationalism and the Obsession with Synchronising with the West”, Nineteenth Century Music 14 (Special Issue 3, Music in Nineteenth-Century Romania): 315–337. SANDU-DEDIU, Valentina (2018) “George Enescu, Posthumously Reviewed”, Studia Musicologica 59 (1–2): 61–69. SÂRBU, Cristina (ed.) (2010) The Great Restoration Work of the Romanian Athenaeum (1990–2003). Series: Caietele Filarmonicii „George Enescu” [The “George Enescu” Philharmonic notebooks], Bucharest: Anima. TATOMIR, Virgiliu (1974) Ateneul Român. Inventar arhivistic [The Romanian Atheneum. An Archival inventory], Bucharest: The General Direction of State Archives in the S.R.R. VERDERY, Katherine (1994) Compromis și rezistență. Cultura română sub Ceaușescu [Compromise and resistance. Romanian culture under Ceaușescu]. Trans. Mona Antohi and Sorin Antohi, Bucharest: Humanitas. VOICU-ARNĂUȚOIU, Ioana Raluca (2013) Constantin Silvestri. Biografie necunoscută [Constantin Silvestri. Unknown biography], Bucharest: Ars Docendi. WALCKER-MAYER, Gerhard (2008) Orga Walcker de la Ateneul Român și vremurile de altădată [The Walcker organ at the Atheneum and the former times]. Series: Caietele Filarmonicii „George Enescu” [The “George Enescu” Philharmonic notebooks], Bucharest: Anima.

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Archival Sources Bucharest Philharmonic Library, Collections of concert programmes, bulletins and press reviews

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CHAPTER 11

Critical Years: Debates in the Field of Hungarian Music (1988–1992)1 Anna Dalos (Budapest)

On 21 March 1992, an open letter appeared in the columns of Új Magyarország [New Hungary], a daily newspaper close to the government (Orbán et al. 1992: 9). The letter was from a group of composers known as the Four – Miklós Csemiczky (b. 1954), György Orbán (b. 1947), György Selmeczi (b. 1952) and János Vajda (b. 1949). It was addressed to four other composers belonging to a special, modernist generation of composers inclined toward Western models, who were all born in the 1930s – Sándor Balassa (b. 1935), Attila Bozay (1939–1999), Zsolt Durkó (1934–1997) and Sándor Szokolay (1931–2013). They had all played decisive roles in the turn toward modernism in the 1960s, so that they were seen in the 1960s and 1970s as essential figures in the Hungarian music field (Földes 1969). The letter from the Four dropped like a bomb on a music scene riven in any case by scandals in the previous four or five years. When it appeared, Szokolay promptly told a live television programme, A hét [The Week], he would resign from all his positions in music (N. N. 1992a: 3). Meanwhile the Presidency of the Hungarian Composers’ Association rebuked the Four for a letter whose sharp and personal tone seemed (at least to them) unprecedented in the history of Hungarian music (N. N. 1992b: 9.). No one, according to the Presidency, could be condemned for seeking to prevail in professional life – neither in the present, nor in the past. Emil Petrovics (1930–2011), a well-known Presidency member, publicly expressed his personal view in another daily newspaper, Népszabadság [Folk Freedom]: the attack on the four older composers was “unprecedented” and the blame it placed on them for all the problems on the Hungarian music scene was wholly unfair (V. Gy. [Gyula Varsanyi] 1992: 4). 1 This study was supported by the National Research, Development and Innovation Office, project number 123819. 209

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In fact, the Four’s open letter posed four different questions and touched not only the circle around Durkó, but the Achilles’ heel of the mechanisms of Hungarian music life in its entirety, above all the society of composers who played a leading role in shaping its discourses. This also implies that the four recipients would also be affected by the letter in different ways. The Four saw too much power concentrated in the hands of the iconic generation of the older composers, who were using it to reshape the music scene after their own image. As the Four put it, Durkó and his people were trying to clean up the “whole Hungarian Music Scene, those Augean stables”, without “managing to reach consensus even on what should be cleaned up” (Orbán et al. 1992: 9). Furthermore, it was emphasised that composers in Durkó’s circle were in an exceptional position with official state commissions. It was also argued that however much the generation might express opposition to the presocialist regimes, its members had all exonerated the previous political system. The Four criticised sharply the strong nationalism shown among the Durkó circle, a common characteristic of this being too frequent, often distorted references to the ideas of Zoltán Kodály. Certainly éminence grise in music was Zsolt Durkó as President of the Hungarian Music Society, which had close relations from the outset with the first independent political party in Hungary, the Magyar Demokrata Fórum (Hungarian Democratic Forum) founded in 1987, which then won the first free general elections in 1990. Meanwhile Durkó as contemporary music director could decide whose work was heard on Hungarian Radio (Gerencsér 1999: 226). Furthermore, the new government chose his friend Attila Bozay in 1990 to direct the National Philharmonic, the national concert organisation (Kovács 1990: 6), while Sándor Szokolay became chairman of the Hungarian Music Chamber, an umbrella body founded in May 1991 (Győri 1991). And as if the leadership insensibly sought to display the truth in the Four’s letter, Szokolay’s place, when he resigned as Chamber President over the 1992 scandal, went to its former vice president, Attila Bozay (N. N. 1992c: 10). Szokolay was also mopping up prominent state commissions, such as writing his Magyar zsoltár [Hungarian Psalm] op. 241 for the first state celebration of 23 October 1956, Hungarian Uprising, held in 1990 (Gombos 2002: 23). Its title certainly reflected the chef-d’œuvre of Zoltán Kodály, Psalmus hungaricus (1923). Durkó, Bozay, Szokolay and Balassa had undoubtedly been the most successful figures on the music scene of János Kádár’s socialist Hungary, backed by state commissions, composer nights, international management, and sheet-music publications. On 14 December 1989, the organist István Ella (b. 1947), a member of the Hungarian Music Society, noted on television in Durkó’s presence that for many years the National Philharmonic had been run by Éva Lakatos (1905–1993) – Director of the institution and a former party official whom he simply dubbed “a radio announcer from Moscow” – without her having any knowledge of music. The composer Kamilló Lendvay (1928– 2016) reacted by quitting the Hungarian Music Society and writing at length

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to Durkó, reminding him how much his career and those of Bozay and Balassa had owed to Lakatos.2 As for nationalism, the Four focused on an essay by Balassa (Gondolatok a nemzeti zenéről [Thoughts on National Music]), published in November 1989 in the right-wing journal Hitel [Credit], dubbing modernism “a West European avant-garde ideology in a left-wing robe” and urging his contemporaries to turn in their ideals against modernity in favour of stylistic simplicity and clarity (Balassa 1989: 34). The Four were the first in Hungary to turn to neo styles, around 1985, and proclaim a revolution in the poetics of intelligibility (Dalos 2020: 374–385). They may have been quite irritated by Balassa’s wording, for he sought an aesthetic necessity as an ideology-based definition of the perfect national artwork and a political counter-reaction as well. Yet references to Kodály’s life work have been made also by Bozay, Durkó and Szokolay, mainly because they planned to stake out new ground for cultural and music education in Hungary. Durkó, in his first major interview after the founding of the Hungarian Music Society, specifically mentioned the renewed relevance of Kodály’s ideas around 1989 (Feuer 1989a: 4). The effects in Kodály’s concepts on shaping a modern and national music life were lively in those times, as the membership of Szokolay’s Hungarian Music Chamber shows. It included the Hungarian Kodály Association, the Békéstarhos Friendship Circle and the National Association of Hungarian Choirs and Orchestras (Győri 1991: 4). So Szokolay referred first to his great model when the Chamber was founded: “We want to catch up with Kodály’s name to become a real nation” (ibid: 5). However, the most powerful member of the Hungarian Music Chamber was the Hungarian Music Society, founded on 29 November 1987, although it did not begin to function until the end of 1988 (Feuer 1989a: 3). It was the first bottom-up professional music association to be founded independently of the state, although it required state subsidies. It not only carried out duties for protecting musicians, but had the right to organise concerts. It was formed when the National Philharmonic, having hitherto employed instrumental and vocal soloists in official positions, suddenly fired thirteen of them (Jálics 1991: 9). Most of the dismissed musicians on the one hand, and some composers, who belonged to the generation born in the 1930s on the other followed the initiative of Zsolt Durkó. Among the Society’s goals were activation of the country’s music scene, the complete re-examination and renewal of music’s institutional system, and promotion of composers hitherto neglected for political reasons, notably László Lajtha (1892–1963) and Sándor Veress (1907–1992), and of contemporary music, while securing the financial position of soloists and orchestral players and reforming Hungarian music criticism (Feuer 1989a: 4–5). So Durkó and Bozay recommended total redesign of the National Philharmonic and of the international management office Interkoncert, along with the state recording company Hungaroton and state music publisher Editio Musica Budapest. 2 Archives for 20th–21st Century Hungarian Music, Institute of Musicology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences Research Centre for the Humanities, Zsolt Durkó Collection, MZA-DZs-Script 8.298, Kamilló Lendvay’s letter to Zsolt Durkó, Budapest, 15 December 1989. 211

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All this matched the cultural policy of the new independent Hungarian Democratic Forum. That was clarified also by the writer and politician István Csoóri (1910–1990) in an introductory lecture to the May 1989 joint concert of the new party and the Hungarian Music Society. Csoóri said that members of the Hungarian Democratic Forum and of the Hungarian Music Society “know that dismantling rigid and untruthful institutions is one requirement for our renewal, but not enough in itself. Change also calls for eliminating the core of a corrupt former world” (Csoóri 1989: 20). Bozay and Durkó had precise ideas on what to do when the Society was formed. Less than two weeks later, the Society proposed at an extraordinary general meeting of the Hungarian Musicians’ Association on 12 December 1987 that the institutions of music be wholly reorganised. They saw the one solution to the serious financial and professional crisis to eliminate state monopolies over concerts (Szále 1988). Indeed, the crisis demanded unparalleled measures: the national Arts Fund [Művészeti Alap], which provided the finances for state-controlled arts, was on the verge of ruin. International and domestic management had reached a point of expiry (ibid: 4). It was a clear sign of crisis that the state took 220 million forints from the 400 million forints’ profit of the Hungaroton, the one large and successful corporation in the field. Despite the conditions, Hungaroton’s chief executive officer, Jenő Bors (1931–1999), offered six million forints to the Musicians’ Association in the hope that it could continue to function (ibid: 3). The Hungarian Musicians’ Association was finally dissolved only on 2 December 1990, or more precisely, transformed into the Hungarian Music Council, which like the Hungarian Music Chamber, acted as an umbrella organisation for musicians. The Council, as successor, also disposed over the Association’s budget (Gábor 1990: 4; Victor 1991). While the Hungarian Music Chamber had fourteen founding bodies, the Hungarian Music Council had twenty (Győri 1991: 4; Victor 1991: 11). The Hungarian Composers’ Association, formed in October 1990 (N. N. 1990c: 5), did not join any umbrella organisation, so demonstrating its political independence and transforming the field of Hungarian music into three parts (Victor 1991: 11). There were clear political reasons for the neglect of the umbrella organisations, as the members of the Composers’ Association were politically more varied than those of the two other organizations. The Hungarian Music Chamber could contact the new government very quickly, mainly through the Hungarian Music Society, which maintained, as has been seen, close relations with the right-wing ruling party, and already played a leading role in the Chamber (Szántó 1989: 31; dal-bor 1989: 39; Varsányi 1990: 10; Győri 1992). The Hungarian Music Council, chaired by the internationally renowned music educationist Katalin Forrai (1926–2004), but whose affairs were actually handled by a young and active vice-president, the composer Máté Victor (b. 1945). This protected the interests of nearly 20,000 Hungarian musicians, some 75% of the professional musicians (Varsányi 1993: 23). Indeed, the Hungarian Music Council opened its doors broadly and embraced not only the associations representing classical 212

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and popular musicians, but even those of the specialists operating on the music scene (Varsányi 1991: 20). Naturally, the first major conflict between the two umbrella organisations was triggered by a dispute over property and financial resources. In fact the Hungarian Music Council inherited from the Hungarian Musicians’ Association the huge music collection of the Music Information Center (today it is the collection of Budapest Music Center), and more valuable still, the state subsidy (ibid.). However, a sizable part of the latter was claimed by the Hungarian Music Chamber, and within it the Hungarian Music Society, which argued that the amount the state could use for this purpose was to be spent on the whole range of music, not just on members of the successor organisation (Varsányi 1993: 23). As a result, the government reduced its support to the Hungarian Music Council from year to year: 4.9 million out of 54.2 million forints in 1991, 4.4 million out of 86 million in 1992, and only 900,000 forints out of 105.5 million in 1993. In 1993, the Hungarian Music Society alone was receiving more support than the whole Hungarian Music Council (ibid.). This drastic cut in support was not the only problem for Vice President Máté Victor. In January 1991, the Department of Music and Dance of the Ministry of Culture’s, led by Bertalan Andrásfalvy (b. 1931), set up a thirty-three-member advisory board headed by Secretary of State György Fekete (b. 1932) and Department Head Dániel Tősér (b. 1945), but the Hungarian Music Council was not invited to join (Varsányi 1992: 20). The Ministry did not wish to do so because, as Máté Victor put it, the Government sought to specify the NGOs with which it would work. The Hungarian Music Council was excluded even though it was also a member of the UNESCO Music Council (Varsányi 1991: 20; 1993: 23). The list of advisory board members was not published, but Máté Victor learned indirectly there were more board members from the Hungarian Music Chamber and the Hungarian Music Society; the first board meeting discussed redistribution of the 5-million-forint budget of the earlier Hungarian Musicians’ Association (Varsányi 1991: 20). From the outset, the government’s cultural policy, in music particularly, bore marks of its determination to decide who should be considered partners and who not, and who would be the right people, who, as Csoóri put it, would help “to dismantle rigid and untruthful institutions” (Csoóri 1989: 20). The state-owned National Philharmonic and Hungaroton appeared clearly to be such “rigid and untruthful institutions” to the leaders of the Hungarian Music Society. In July 1990, Secretary of State György Fekete unexpectedly dismissed Jenő Bors as head of the Hungaroton and András Rátki as Director of the National Philharmonic, in favor of István Ella and Attila Bozay respectively (Győri and Gellért 1990). The situation of the two institutions and of the two new directors were judged differently in the public domain. A letter from Emil Petrovics to Attila Bozay dated 27 August 1990, shows clearly the difference between the two appointments.3 While Petrovics did not doubt that 3 Archives for 20th–21st Century Hungarian Music, Institute of Musicology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences Research Centre for the Humanities, Attila Bozay Collection, MZA-BA-Script 8.054, Emil Petrovics’s letter to Attila Bozay, Budapest, 27 August, 1990. 213

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the Philharmonic was ripe for change, he saw Hungaroton working as an internationally successful and prosperous firm. Deeper down, Petrovics felt that while Bozay’s ambition to head the Philharmonic had been well known in the past, the choice of István Ella was incomprehensible: he knew nothing of phonographic record production and had never had contact with the firm before. The manner of his appointment reminded Petrovics of the political practices of the 1950s. In an interview after his appointment, Ella sharply criticised the work of Jenő Bors as his predecessor, and more generally the way the record label had functioned. He believed the Hungaroton had deserted the cultural values that originally marked its publishing strategy: national values had given way to marketing. His own appointment would ensure that hitherto relegated musicians would finally have a chance to record (Győri and Gellért 1990: 21). Ella also complained that only a dozen of the 700 employees at the Hungaroton had a music education and there was no one in management who understood music (ibid.). Ella’s views echoed Zsolt Durkó’s interview right after the foundation of the Hungarian Music Society. Durkó bewailed the musical incompetence and failure to promote cultural values in the management of large music institutions. So it is highly probable that Ella, in seeking to renew Hungaroton, wished to execute Durkó’s 1987 plan (Feuer 1989a: 4). Yet Durkó’s concepts had been disputed as early as 1989 by Kálmán Strém, who came to head the first private concert-organising firm after the political change. Strém stressed that music management was a profession – those managing an arts institution had to do so professionally (Gerő and Várkonyi 2009). Nor could any music institution be run solely by a professional uncommitted to music. This had also applied under the previous political system (Strém 1989a: 4). The Hungaroton affair probably caused public outrage because the label under Bors had been a success in the last decade of János Kádár’s Hungary. Shortly before his dismissal, Bors was working on a very favorable international deal with EMI in London, whereby the Hungaroton would gain internationally prestigious sound recordings at a good price and easy release of its own records internationally. EMI, of course, withdrew from the talks after the unexpected change in Hungaroton’s management (V. Gy. [Gyula Varsanyi] 1990; Szőnyei 1991: 25). Interest in the events surrounding Hungaroton, however, shows not only in the high number of newspaper articles published on the story, but by the signatures of 65 famous musicians who opposed publicly the dismissal of Bors and the reorganisation of Hungaroton (N. N. 1990b: 7). Soon after, its employees also wrote an open letter to the Minister (N. N. 1990a). The world-renowned pianist Zoltán Kocsis (1952–2016) himself expressed his disapproval of the government’s cultural policy in several sharp declarations. He did not hide his view that Secretary of State György Fekete was open to the opinions of only one professional group, although “this group is marked,” as Kocsis put it, “by some clever, broad-minded people being joined by those of mediocrity in the worst sense. I see no other reason for their motivation than an unbridled desire for power” (Kenessei 1990: 11; Sándor 1990: 7). 214

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One year before his dismissal, Bors published an open letter (Bors 1989) and followed it with an interview with the most popular music journal, Muzsika (Feuer 1989b). At the time Hungaroton’s publishing policy was often being criticised, mainly by present-day composers and performers without a recording contract. The press zealously picked up the story. Bors explained in detail in his interview how the company worked and what aspects underlay its decisions (ibid: 3). Thus it provided an accurate insight into the difficulties faced by a giant socialist company operating on a capitalist basis in international markets. Bors touched on the promotion of contemporary music and performing artists as well, drawing attention to the way this structure made classical and popular musicians dependent on each other. According to Bors, the company had released ten contemporary albums a year in the 1980s. In line with the period’s practice, the Composers’ Section of the Musicians’ Association voted on the works and composers to be selected. The cost of producing a contemporary album was between one and two million forints. In the first year the company could sell 800 discs a single publication, in the second year 300, in the third twenty down to ten, and sometimes none (ibid.). So the firm did not reissue such discs, however much composers lamented that their work had become inaccessible in the music stores after a while. There were market factors in the selection of performing artists as well: albums were issued exclusively with artists who sold both in Hungary and on the international market – such as Zoltán Kocsis or Dezső Ránki (ibid: 4). The selection process relied on an advisory committee, the needs of commercial partners, and market analyses of the publisher’s experts. Even so, classical music revenues made an annual thirty million dollars loss for the company, which was offset by the sales of popular musicians. Still, the recordings of classical music earned the publisher foreign currency, whereas most popular-music recordings sold mainly on the Hungarian market. Since classical music could be sold abroad, the foreign currency allowed Hungaroton to obtain from the West, for example, the equipment required for making records. So classical and popular musicians were indeed very dependent on each other (ibid: 5–6). The business operations listed by Bors lost their function soon after the change of political regime: not only through liberalisation of the market, but because access to foreign currency was no longer a problem. Furthermore, private labels emerged – one of them (Quint) established by Bors himself (Szőnyei 1991: 25). The ways to promote and sell music underwent marked changes as well, as did the shift from discs to tapes and later to CDs (Szőnyei 1990: 35). As the economic and technical environments changed, so did the place and role of high culture in postsocialist society. Durkó’s ideas of raising Hungarian music culture through Kodály’s ideas, embodied primarily in plans for music education and development of music life in the country (Feuer 1989a: 4–5; Gönczy 1990a), became quite anachronistic within a few years. This is shown most plainly in the loss of demand for Bozay-led National Philharmonic, in the provinces and in Budapest (Gönczy 1990b), especially after the emergence of several independent concert managers which could compete with the na215

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tional concert agency (Bányai 1990). The most dramatic moment in these debates on music life is clear to posterity precisely in the fact that the participants in them, irrespective of their political slants, were less perceptive to the new situation, in which earlier cultural values, so important to both groups on the music scene, became marginalised. There is one other aspect of the debates of Hungarian music life in the period of political change that deserves a mention. A new, unimagined issue arose as to what kind of professionalism was needed in heading the various music institutions. Unlike other learned journals, Muzsika addressed the issue strongly, perhaps because music expertise and music-management skills do not necessarily coincide (Strém 1989b) – though Zsolt Durkó and members of the Hungarian Music Society might have thought otherwise. The problem was also reflected in an interview with Bors two months after his dismissal. As he put it, “Our country is a country of amateurs. Everybody here is an amateur, from the prime minister to the cleaning woman” (Győri 1990: 13). Implementation of the plans of the Hungarian Music Society to renew the whole music life was hindered as much by the incompetence of its leaders as by the cultural, economic and political transformation of Hungary after the system change. The Four, not expecting anger from all music society, presumably had an accurate awareness of the situation, when they said in the open letter of 1992 that Hungarian composers should override their self-interest when transforming institutions and operating mechanisms. Based on the Hungarian classical heritage and the example of Bartók and Kodály, Hungarian musicians should work together to create the new and politically free Hungary’s modern and successful music life (Orbán et al 1992: 9).

References BÁNYAI, Gábor (1990) “Eladni tudni kell. Beszélgetések-elmélkedések a magyar komolyzenei management helyzetéről” [It is important to know how to sell. Conversations and thoughts on the situation of classical music management], Muzsika 7: 3–7. BALASSA, Sándor (1989) “Gondolatok a nemzeti zenéről” [Thoughts on national music], Hitel 24: 34. BORS, Jenő (1989) “Nyílt levél a Hungaroton védelmében a magyar tömegtájékoztatáshoz” [Open letter to the mass media to protect Hungaroton], Muzsika 1: 20–22. CSOÓRI, Sándor (1989) “Teremteni és őrizni” [Creating and guarding], Film, Színház, Muzsika 23: 20. Dal-bor (1989) “Karácsonyi muzsika” [Christmas music], Képes 7 49: 39.

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DALOS, Anna (2020) Ajtón lakattal. Zeneszerzés a Kádár-kori Magyarországon (1956-1989) [Lock on the door. Composition in Hungary in the Kádár-era (1956–1989)], Budapest: Rózsavölgyi és Társa Kiadó. FEUER, Mária (1989a) “Kár lenne tévedni! Beszélgetés Durkó Zsolttal, a Magyar Zeneművészeti Társaság elnökével” [It would be a pity to be wrong. Conversation with Zsolt Durkó, the president of the Hungarian Musical Society], Muzsika 4: 3–7. FEUER, Mária (1989b) “Voluntarista egyenlősdi vagy hatékonyság. Beszélgetés Bors Jenővel” [Voluntaristic egalitarianism or efficiency. Conversation with Jenő Bors], Muzsika 9: 2–7. FÖLDES, Imre (1969) Harmincasok. Beszélgetések magyar zeneszerzőkkel [Composers born in the 1930s. Conversations with composers], Budapest: Zeneműkiadó. GÁBOR, István (1990) “Lehet-e még muzsikálni? Beszélgetés Láng Istvánnal” [Is it possible to play music? Conversation with István Láng], Magyar Nemzet, 3 January 1990: 4. GERENCSÉR, Rita (1999) Durkó Zsolt, Budapest: Holnap kiadó. GERŐ, Katalin and Tamás Várkonyi (eds.) (2009) Strém Kálmán – a hangversenyrendezés művészete [Kálmán Strém – the art of concert management], Budapest: Klasszikus és Jazz. GOMBOS, László (2002) Szokolay Sándor, Budapest: Mágus, 2002. GÖNCZY, László (1990a) “Élet a vízfejen kívül. Hangversenyélet Európa peremén II” [Life out of the water head. Concert life in the verge of Europe II], Muzsika 1: 3–6. GÖNCZY, László (1990b) ”Élet a vízfejen kívül. Hangversenyélet Európa peremén IV” [Life out of the water head. Concert life in the verge of Europe IV], Muzsika 4: 3–8. GYŐRI, László J. (1990) “Hatalomváltás. Beszélgetések Bors Jenővel” [Change of regime. Conversations with Jenő Bors], Kritika 9: 11–16. GYŐRI, László J. (1991) “Nem demonstrálni, hanem szolgálni szeretnék.’ Beszélgetés Szokolay Sándorral, a Magyar Zenei Kamara elnökével” [“I don’t want to demonstrate, I would like to serve”. Conversation with Sándor Szokolay, president of the Hungarian Music Chamber], Muzsika 8: 3–7. GYŐRI, László J. (1992) “Victor Máté, a Magyar Zenei Tanács alelnöke” [Máté Victor, the vice-president of Hungarian Music Council], Muzsika 2: 6–8. GYŐRI, László J. and András Gellért (1990) “Tönkremegy-e a Hungaroton? Magyar nemzeti kézi vezérlés” [Hungaroton is going to ruin? Hungarian national manual control], 168 óra 29: 21–23.

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JÁLICS, Kinga (1991) “‘Nem vagyok a vagdalkozás híve.’ Beszélgetés Bozay Attilával” [“I’m not a believer of slashing.” Conversation with Attila Bozay], Új Magyarország, 30 October 1991: 9. KOVÁCS, Júlia (1990) “Nem akarok vendettát. Beszélgetés Bozay Attilával” [I don’t want a vendetta. Conversation with Attila Bozay], Népszava, 7 August 1990: 6. KENESSEI, András (1990) “‘…akkor én zenei kultúrbugris vagyok.’ Beszélgetés Kocsis Zoltánnal” [“… so I’m a musical culture-bumpkin.’ Conversation with Zoltán Kocsis”], Magyar Hírlap, 27 July 1990: 11. N. N. (1990) “MHV, Hungaroton. Mindent megfontolva és meggondolva?” [Hungarian Disc Company, Hungaroton. Everything is considered and thought out], Magyar Hírlap, 20 July 1990: 10. N. N. (1990a) “‘Bürokratikus analfabétizmusnak tartjuk.’ Hatvanöt művész levele a zenei élet személycseréiről” [“‘We find it a bureaucratic analphabetism.’ Sixty-five artists letter about the personal changes of music life”], Magyar Nemzet, 24 July 1990: 7. N. N. (1990b) “Megalakult a Zeneszerzők Egyesülete” [The Society of Composers is established], Népszava, 15 October 1990: 5. N. N. (1992a) “Szokolay lemondott” [Szokolay resigned], Magyar Nemzet, 23 March 1992: 3. N. N. (1992b) “Kárt okoztak a Négyek” [The four does harm], Új Magyarország, 10 June 1992: 11. N. N. (1992c) “A Magyar Zenei Kamara” [Hungarian Music Chamber], Magyar Nemzet, 1 December 1992: 10. ORBÁN, György, János Vajda, György Selmeczi and Miklós Csemiczky (1992) “Levél Balassa Sándornak, Bozay Attilának, Durkó Zsoltnak és Szokolay Sándornak” [Letter to Sándor Balassa, Attila Bozay, Zsolt Durkó and Sándor Szokolay], Új Magyarország, 21 March 1992: 9. SÁNDOR, Anikó (1990) “Karikás ostorral Európába? Kocsis Zoltán: nem, nem és nem!” [With a bullwhip to Europe? Zoltán Kocsis: No, no, and no!], 168 óra 30: 7. STRÉM, Kálmán (1989a) “Nyílt levél Durkó Zsoltnak” [An open letter to Zsolt Durkó], Muzsika 5: 3–4. STRÉM, Kálmán (1989b) “Szatócs a szentélyben? (Zene és vállalkozás)” [A grocer in the sanctuary? (Music and enterprise)], Muzsika 6: 3–10. SZÁLE, László (1988) “Zendülő zenészek” [Rebellious musicians], Muzsika 2: 3–7. SZÁNTÓ, Mária (1989) “Egy nyílt levélről” [About an open letter], Új Tükör 14: 31. 218

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SZŐNYEI, Tamás (1990) “90-es fordulaton. Ami történik, az logikus, nem?” [On speed 90. Isn’t it logical what happens?], Világ 30: 34–35. SZŐNYEI, Tamás (1991) “Más hangok, más szobák” [Other voices, other rooms], A Világ 14: 25. VARSÁNYI, Gyula (1990) “Zenei élet új alapokon? Beszélgetés Kovács Dénes hegedűművésszel” [Music life on new grounds? Conversation with violinist Dénes Kovács], Népszabadság, 17 October 1990: 10. V. GY. [Gyula Varsányi] (1990) “Rotelli úr még gondolkodik… A Hungaroton igazgatója a tárgyalásokról” [Mr. Rotelli is still thinking... The director of Hungaroton is on the negotiations], Népszabadság, 3 August 1990: 5. V. GY. [Gyula Varsányi] (1992) “Zenei életünkben példátlan támadás. Petrovics Emil a négy zeneszerző leveléről” [It is an unprecedented attack in our music life. Emil Petrovics about the letter of the four composers], Népszabadság, 27 March 1992: 4. VARSÁNYI, Zsuzsa (1991) “A miniszter nyílt levele. Muzsikusok titkos társulása. Ki mit herdálhat el?” [The open letter of the minister. The secret society of musicians. Who can throw away anything?], 168 óra 4: 20. VARSÁNYI, Zsuzsa (1993) “Az utolsó zenei szalmaszál. Egy szövetség rekviemje” [The last musical straw. A requiem for a society], 168 óra 23: 23. VICTOR, Máté (1991) ”Rendszerváltás” [Change of regime], Muzsika 1: 9–11.

Archival sources Archives for 20th-21st Century Hungarian Music, Institute of Musicology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences Research Centre for the Humanities Zsolt Durkó Collection Attila Bozay Collection

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CHAPTER 12

Music and Business in Postsocialist Russia Lidia Ader and Konstantin Belousov (Saint Petersburg)

The first three decades of the newly born Russian Federation have brought huge changes and a lot of debate in all cultural spheres. Artists had to learn to survive in the dark 1990s, to first make independent projects and then to take steps towards collaboration with domestic and foreign institutions and individuals. With the development of the country’s economy, it became evident that business structures might be useful it terms of cooperation with cultural initiatives. This paper will show how the first timid steps were realised in such an integration of financial structures and art forces. By looking at the experiences of opera and philharmonic houses, we will examine how businesses turned to the realisation of social responsibility programmes and charity, and liability in front of stakeholders, typical approaches of interpretations of intentions of sustainable development, with the main accent on music. Here we will also observe music festivals – both small and large events, their relationship with businesses, and their impact on and role in the classical music climate of 2000–2010 Russia.

Financial Support for Music Before and After The 1990s: A Brief Insight Classical music always required official financial support. The position of culture is constantly unstable due to changes in the political situation of the country. Its censorship, its programming, and its financial support largely depended on subordination. It is necessary to note that cultural politics in concert activities is mostly coordinated by the State. However, a historical overview 221

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of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries shows two parallel methods of cultural subsidies. One was State control and support, while the other was Maecenases and charity. Both methods deserve special attention and, therefore, a look at the past is required in order to place the contemporary situation into some perspective. In Russia, the period of the late nineteenth to the beginning of the twentieth century is called the “golden age” of the development of philanthropy. On one side or another, Maecenases were active throughout the entire period of the Romanovs’ reign. Many large industrialists directed some of their income to public needs, including culture. This was partly due to the fact that the regions in which their activities took place were poorly developed. Almost every person mentioned in the Forbes magasine’s list of the “10 largest capitals of tsarist Russia” (Gakov 2017) was involved in philanthropy in one way or another. The most prominent of them at the beginning of the twentieth century were the industrialist Nikolai Vtorov, Prince Semyon Semyonovich Abamelek-Lazarev, the Polyakov railway magnates, manufacturers the Morozovs, Wogau, the Ryabushinskys, Nikolai Konshin and Alexei Alchevsky, bankers Boris Kamenka and the Günzburgs, landowners the Balashovs and many others. It should be noted, however, that their charitable activities were unsystematic in nature, and it is difficult to talk about their impact on the socio-economic situation in general. The philanthropy did not contribute to an increase in their reputation, nor did it serve as an incentive for socially responsible behaviour. The director and playwright Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko even pointed out that despite the well-known philanthropic activities, representatives of the commercial and industrial estate “were not respected, neither theirs nor their capital” (Nemirovich-Danchenko 1989: 126). The only thing that could stimulate philanthropy was to receive through the Academy of Sciences the rank of State Councillor, which provided the right to hereditary nobility. Donating their collections to the State, Alexey Bakhrushin, Pyotr Shchukin and others received the nobility. Pavel Tretyakov was awarded the title of Commerce Advisor (Belousov 2019). Another historical line over the centuries brings us to cultural and official support or control. In 1840, on the initiative of the Russian official and composer Duke Mikhail Vielgorsky, there was a Symphonic Musical Society founded, which was soon replaced by the Concert Society and continued by the University Concerts. This was a time when the idea of an organisation of a large musical society under the patronage of the Emperor became real. The year 1859 brought the Russian empire the Russian Musical Society, under the patronage of the imperial family. According to the charter, the Russian Musical Society set its goal “to promote the spread of music education in Russia, to promote the development of all branches of musical art and to encourage capable Russian artists (writers and performers) and teachers of musical subjects” (Ustav 1873). As part of the activities of the Society, concerts were organised, educational institutions were opened and competitions were held for the cre-

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ation of new works. Their income consisted of private donations, mainly from the Emperor’s family. “The Grand Duchess Elena Pavlovna at first gave the Society 1,000 rubles. The late Sovereign Emperor [Alexander II] ordered the release in favor of the Society from the sums of His Majesty’s cabinet annually 500 rubles. The late Sovereign Empress Maria Alexandrovna granted a gift to the community 150 rubles per year [...] Patroness of the Society, Grand Duchess Elena Pavlovna who died on 9 September 1873, secured for the Society an annual allowance from the government of 15 thousand rubles” (Kratkiy 1888: 35).

The Soviet era changed the situation, with centralised control of all musical life. The Maecenas disappeared as a social layer. According to the Decree of the Council of People’s Commissars of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR) of 13 April 1928, all the functions of managing artistic creativity were concentrated in a single centre – Glaviskusstvo [General Directorate of Literature and Arts]. It united theatre, music, cinema, art, the circus, pop art and amateur performances. Glaviskusstvo controlled financial and material sources and also had the following tasks: (a) Organisational and ideological management of events; (b) Ideological control over the repertoire; (c) Development of programmatic and methodological issues in the field of art theory, prerequisites for the emergence of a centralised administrative system. During the Soviet Union epoch, Philharmonics were the main representative of classical art and culture. They acted in closest cooperation with the State. Most of them appeared at the beginning of 1930s and are still active now, with a great amount experience and history. The State fully funded orchestras and soloists, and built concert halls. They provided about 500 concerts per year and numerous festivals. Thus, for all cities and towns these organisations became the main source of music leisure and self-education, a cultural centre. In the years that followed, Glaviskusstvo transformed into the Department of Arts within the Theatre and Entertainment Company Management, and then to the Committee for Arts. A new organisation was created in 1953 by a decree of the Presidium of the Supreme Council of the RSFSR, comprising the Ministry of Cinematography of the RSFSR, the Committee for Cultural and Educational Institutions, the Committee for Arts, the Office for the Printing Industry, and Publishing and Book Trade under the Council of Ministers of the RSFSR. This was the Ministry of Culture of RSFSR, which was responsible for public and scientific libraries, museums, clubs, lecture bureaus, culture and recreation parks, zoos, and planetariums. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, this was transformed into the Ministry of Culture and Tourism of the Russian Federation in 1992, then into the Ministry for Culture and Mass Media in 2004 and finally into the Ministry of Culture (existing now). It is responsible for the financing system of most State, cultural organisations (except some local committees of cultural organi223

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sations) along with controlling all cultural processes in Russia. Nowadays, it unites more than twenty theatres, twenty concert organisations, circuses, fifty-eight museums, etc. Generally speaking, it is a federal executive body that performs functions of developing State policy in the field of culture, art, historical and cultural heritage, cinematography, archival work, copyright and related rights, as well as legal regulation in the field of culture, art, historical and cultural heritage (except for the protection of cultural heritage), cinematography, archival affairs, copyright and related rights (except legal regulation of the implementation of control and supervision in the field of copyright and related rights) and the functions of managing State property and the provision of public services in the field of culture and cinematography. Direct financing in Russia provides, on average, up to 80% of the income of public cultural organisations, including 86.7% in libraries, 85.4% in club, 81.3% in museums, and 73.7% in theatres and concert organisations. Alexey Shalashov, a director of Moscow Philharmonic, stated: “[…] it is historically predetermined that high level art is difficult for understanding and thus it was always commissioned by elite. In democratic society these functions are in the rights of the Ministry of Culture and cultural departments. However, it should only be noted that this is not a commission for a specific work, but a commission for activities the creative team can do in accordance with its mission. It is the state that must maintain the highest standard of this ‘commission’” (Shalashov 2011).

The main idea of the contemporary cultural financial system involves increasing support with the help of the creation of a multichannel system, including the State budget (distributing it through levels of government) and the emergence of new sources through the so-called indirect support: private and corporate charity, sponsorship funds, a developed system of tax preferences, an introduction of special (marked) taxes, and creating endowment funds. As a source for analysis of the first segment (State budget), one can use data published in the Russian statistical yearbook in the “Finance” section (State finances or expenses of the consolidated budget of the Russian Federation for social and cultural events), as well as data on the consolidated budget of the Russian Federation, published on the website of the Federal Treasury of the Russian Federation.1 According to international statistics, Russian support of culture is in line with the average percentage of economically developed countries (about 1.5% of total budget, compare with 2.6% in Finland, 2.3% in France, 1.5% in Italy, 2.2% in Sweden, 2.3% in Germany). This shows, on the one hand, a stable position, while still balancing its bottom line. Analysing the most common non-governmental sources of financing the cultural sphere from around the world, we can include: • Donations from commercial organisations for the implementation of joint events and projects with State institutions of culture and art; 1 For further information, see Federal State Statistics Service (1999–2020) and The Information on Execution of Budgets (2015–2020). 224

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• Organisations, foundations, associations and other similar institutions making charitable donations; • Donations from individuals. Maecenases and sponsors are controlled by the government. In modern Russia, the activities of sponsors and philanthropists are governed by special laws: sponsorship is regulated by the advertising law dated 13 March 2006, No. 38–FZ, and the Federal Law of 11 August 1995, No. 135–FZ (amended on 5 May 2014), “On Charitable Activities and Charitable Organisations”; Philanthropy is controlled by the Federal Law of 4 November 2014, No. 327–FZ, “On Patronage of Activities”. All these laws spell out the goals, objectives, and the legal basis for regulating activities.

Corporate Responsibility and Business Strategies The 2010s brought a vivid musical culture full of many different festivals. Every field developed in its own way. Along with opera and philharmonic houses, private organisations took an active role in this development – foundations and non-profit companies, aimed at increasing the cultural level and creating solid and large-scale festivals. However, it should be noted that there was no favourable institutional environment for the positive development of a multi-channel financing system. Art, according to many famous cultural figures, is increasingly becoming dependent on business. This changed situation required other methods of managing concert organisations. Philharmonics actively looked for new management principles and intensified their work with sponsors. Unfortunately, however, Russian companies do not have a clear marketing strategy when it comes to musical art. In terms of business support for the cultural segment, two types are possible: • Charity (philanthropy) • Corporate and social responsibility In the first case, we are talking about unsystematic sponsorship, situational actions, or support based on the personal preferences of the manager, board of directors or the owner of the organisation. This represents a private initiative for the sake of public good, an attempt at increasing the quality of life. In the second case, we are talking about systemic participation; a constant, methodical, and comprehensive support from businesses. Corporate and social responsibility is part of the strategic management of the company in question, being inextricably linked with it. It is focused on long-term social investments. The business does not prioritise a quick return on its investment, receiving exclusively material profits. An important aspect of the success of the relationship is the interaction with stakeholders by the organisations (those persons or groups of persons that the organisation can influence and under 225

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the influence of which it itself is). As becomes clear from this definition, key stakeholders who can significantly influence a company are far removed from cultural organisations. This gives rise to an attitude towards cultural organisations as being insignificant from the point of view of corporate strategy and, consequently, companies need to select the “appropriate tools” to enable the philanthropic interaction at a corporate level. Entrepreneurial sponsorship differs from charitable activities and is directly related to the market policy of corporations and serves advertising purposes. Specific, targeted assistance, or charity, prescribed by corporate policy, with clear goals, objectives and conditions, is probably the most appropriate approach for large companies. However, anyone who decides to develop a social responsibility strategy clearly understands to whom they want to donate funds, and what benefit it will bring. The last point is often a priority for companies. When speaking about corporate social responsibility, we are talking, inter alia, about intangible assets, the growth of the company’s reputation capital, its goodwill. For the company, long-term sustainable relationships with stakeholders become important. The relationships with theatres and philharmonics are deeply integrated into the company’s strategy and become a part of it. This means that the company cannot immediately cease its participation in the life of a cultural institution (Belousov 2020). Thus, most developed European countries recognise the possibility of cultural influence on economic efficiency and that cultural values are a condition for improving production processes and social responsibility. Many people confuse sponsorship and philanthropy. Another point of contention is that social the effect of supporting culture is insignificant and not obvious. Modern charitable programme evaluation systems such as the London Benchmarking Group (LBG), measure the impact of cultural projects. The LBG helps to evaluate the inputs and assess the impacts of corporate contributions to community programmes. Their set of indicators includes not only quantitative indices (for example, the number of people or organisations participating in the project), but also indicators of the satisfaction and involvement of residents, infrastructure development, etc. Their activities are important as they, according to their remit, on a daily basis, analyse the costs and benefits of realising programmes, hugely improve management information in order to form a future strategy, shift the debate from cash contributed to benefits achieved, capture and value all inputs, and, finally, enhance internal and external communications. Our analysis did not find any Russian company that would provide such a service and this lack of professional expertise slows down the development of the best theatres, museums and festivals in the country and in company corporate sustainability strategies. However, the high standard of and the analyses that the LBG carried out shows that support of cultural activities may not only benefit the stakeholders, but also be valuable for the company itself.

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Opera and Philharmonic Sponsors Opera and Philharmonic houses have a certain amount of State support. However, part of their annual budget (depending on their status) is derived from donations. Compared to the Western situation, it is very low level. According to the research results of V. Muzïchuk, in his article “Financing culture in Russia: a step forward and two backward”, the share derived from charity and sponsorship of the total financial income of State cultural organisations is 2.1% for theatres, 2.2% for museums, 1.1% for concert organisations, 0.4% for libraries, and 1.1% for clubs (Muzïchuk 2019). The contemporary practice of investment shows a stable interest in supporting major events, famous names and festivals. Further research shows a clear picture of Russian musical companies having sponsors according to their presence in or distance from the capital. If we consider the Bolshoi Theatre or the Mariinsky Theatre as an example, we see that they are a kind of brand, famous product in their own right. Their sponsorship strategy differs hugely from other theatres. They might choose sponsors or product lines that will support their theatre, which, in turn, become a vehicle for advertising. Other institutions act on the basis of company interests or a personal story. For example, a company working in the gas sector, Novatek, steadily supports contemporary art and museums that have new collections. Something that started as merely an interest on the part of the directors has been transformed into company strategy. Many cultural institutions have boards of trustees or supervisory boards that include representatives of business. The Russian case clearly shows that such councils often exist only on paper, the business is not ready for full-fledged participation in the work of the councils, and cultural institutions themselves are afraid of excessive intervention by the councils or do not see any benefit in the activities of such councils. When analysing the Russian operatic experience, we searched through all the theatres’ stories, using available reports and the available access to their websites. First of all, it is important to note that only one fifth of more than thirty Russian opera theatres have a special section in their web info dedicated to “Friends and Sponsors”. Most of them show their sponsors and partners in the contact page or at the bottom of the website. The culture of a sponsor respecting page is seen in the major theatres with a huge amount of sponsor support. Secondly, it became clear that all of these theatres lack a system of sponsor relations. This stems from the very limited experience and in this sphere. The sponsorship portfolio ranges from huge companies to local partners and most of the time there is no differentiation made between the two. On the other hand, when observing the businesses we found a lack of strategy and or any concrete aims that would appear to explain their involvement in sponsorship. Most companies appear to be involved only for some kind of fame for supporting top theatres. 227

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Thirdly, the Russian type of opera and philharmonic support can be defined as situational charity. Most sponsors are looking not only at the status of the institution, but at a certain event and its geographic location or attendees. More and more often, company support is occasional, rather than regular. Let us look closer at the experience of a total of eleven opera houses who share their sponsorship portfolio on their websites. The Bolshoi Theatre’s (Moscow) sponsors are from various industries: the Ingosstrakh insurance company, the Swiss financial conglomerate Credit Suisse, the GUM trading house, Nestlé and the Shell oil company, DHL delivery service, the Swiss luxury watch manufacturer Audemars Piguet, the BMW automobile company, the French jewellery, watch and perfumery company Van Cleef & Arpels, KPMG consulting company, the O1 Properties office property network, the perfume house Guerlain, Samsung and the coffee company Nespresso. The Mariinsky Theatre (St. Petersburg) is actively supported by well-known financial brands (VTB, Sberbank, Mastercard and AFK Sistema), oil companies (BP, Total, RussNeft and SurgutNefteGaz), conglomerates (Renova and Megapolis), mining companies (Severstal and Alrosa), the electric network operator Rosseti, the IT company PWS, the aircraft manufacturer Bombardier and the famous St. Petersburg hotel Astoria. Among the partners of the Mariinsky Theatre there are a number of organisations whose support for music and art is their main activity; for example, the foundation of Yoko Ceschina, a Japanese harpist and famous philanthropist. Support is also provided by the Art, Science and Sports Charitable Foundation. The Mikhailovsky Theatre (St. Petersburg) is mainly supported by hotels: Kempinski Moika 22, Belmond Grand Hotel Europe, Angleterre and Novotel. In addition, the St. Petersburg Theatre is sponsored by the world’s largest law firm Dentons, the consulting company Deloitte and the manufacturer of security systems An-Security. It is important to compare the neighbours’ experience (Mikhailovsky Theatre and Mariinsky Theatre) and note the huge difference that exists between them. The Krasnoyarsk Opera and Ballet Theatre is also supported by VTB and Sberbank banks, as well as Rosbank. The theatre is supported by three regional car dealerships (Bear Holding, Elite Auto and GK Fortress) and the construction company Monolith Holding. Non-profit organisations providing support include the Mikhail Prokhorov Foundation. The Ural Opera and Ballet (Yekaterinburg) is supported by Sberbank. Among the regular sponsors we can see: The Eurasia Ballet Foundation, the Park Inn hotel chain, the Inter-Most travel company, the Yeltsin Centre presidential centre and the USTA group of companies. The Ural Opera and Ballet Theatre also has “situational sponsors”. For example, the British Consulate in Yekaterinburg was the official partner of the premiere of Prokofiev’s ballet Romeo and Juliet, the German Consulate General in Yekaterinburg supported Mozart’s opera Die Zauberflöte, the Consulate General of the Czech Republic in Yekaterinburg – Dvořák’s opera Rusalka [Mermaid], Martinů’s opera 228

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Řecké pašije [The Greek Passion], and the OTP Bank – Eötvös’ opera Tri sestry [Three Sisters]. The Opera and Ballet Theatre (Perm) has only two officially named sponsors: The Lukoil company and the Perm Ballet Support Fund of Alexey Miroshnichenko. The Samara Academic Opera and Ballet Theatre is also supported by Lukoil. Among its main sponsors are: Otkrytie Bank, the “koncertsamara.ru” website, selling theatre tickets, and the Theatre Foundation. The Tatar Academic State Opera and Ballet Theatre, named after Musa Jalil (Kazan), has a local helicopter factory (KVZ), the Bereg construction company, and the United Russia political party in its pool of sponsors. The Chelyabinsk Opera and Ballet Theatre is expected to be mainly supported by heavy metallurgy enterprises (Magnezit Group, Mechel PAO, The Russian Copper Company, the Yuzhuralzoloto Group of Companies OJSC, and the ChTPZ Group). The theatre is also supported by the construction company AlfaStroy, Ariant agro-industrial holding and BOVID Holding. The Magnitogorsk Opera and Ballet Theatre has only two named sponsors from the heavy metal industry: The Magnitogorsk Iron and Steel Works and Magnitogorsk Metal. The Astrakhan State Opera and Ballet Theatre is supported by companies from various sectors of the economy: the oil company Lukoil, Rosbank, Ingostrakh, telecommunications companies (Megafon, Rostelecom, and the regional internet provider Real), Astrakhan Museum-Reserve, Azimut-Astrakhan Hotel, the Yarmarka shopping centre, car dealership Kia Nakhimovsky, and the Academia Arco Foundation. The sponsor with the closest links to the theatre world is Imlayt, which sells equipment and lighting for theatres. Looking at the sponsors and partners list of leading Russian opera houses, one can find a wide variety of large companies whose main activity is in no way connected with culture, art, music, opera or ballet. Among the sponsors, companies of various industries can be listed: from banks and large oil companies, to hotels and local shopping centres. It is possible to put forward the assumption that large companies or banks strive to show themselves as patrons, while for a number of companies (hotels, car dealerships, and manufacturers of prestigious goods) it is important that consumers identify them with ballet or opera’s highest standard and cultural aura as an image manifestation of bourgeois art and culture. Here, stratification comes to the fore: on the one hand, companies provide direct financial assistance, on the other, they are partners and provide services or other benefits. Among the leading philharmonic societies of the country, the situation with sponsorship is somewhat different: there are fewer sponsors, among them are large, federal-scale companies and well-known banks. As a rule, the bulk of sponsors and partners of philharmonic societies are regional and local companies. A number of philharmonic societies have only information partners or support in the form of State bodies. Most philharmonic societies do not declare any partners at all. 229

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Among the sponsors of the Moscow Philharmonic are the Moscow Marriott Grand Hotel, Orpheus and Culture radio, and the Musical Review and Musical Life magazines. The St. Petersburg Academic Philharmonic, named after D. Shostakovich, announced Rosneft as a general sponsor, and the VTB Bank as a partner. Other sponsors include the car dealership Dakar, the manufacturer of fuels and lubricants KirishiNefteOrgSynthesis and the philanthropist Robert Delzell’s foundation. Among the regular sponsors of the Sverdlovsk Philharmonic, one can find the AVS Group (investment), Kaspersky Lab (computer technology), Presidential Grants Fund, the Svetlana Savelyeva Floristics Studio, and the translation Agency Translit. The Nizhny Novgorod Philharmonic, named after M. L. Rostropovich, has the following general sponsors – banks (Sberbank, Rosbank and TKB Bank), the Volga Shipping Group, the Volga Shipping Company, the Record Culture Centre, producer of meat products Myasnov, and the flower delivery company Klumba. The Togliatti Philharmonic names TogliattiAzot as an official sponsor – it is one of the largest enterprises in the chemical industry in Russia and one of the three main producers of ammonia. Among the sponsorship partners of The Pskov Regional Philharmonic are listed the Pokrovsky Hotel and the Dvor Podznoeva restaurant and hotel complex. No financial sponsors are mentioned. The Tver Academic Regional Philharmonic lists Sberbank as its general sponsor. Among the partners of the Irkutsk Philharmonic one can find Gazprom Dobycha Irkutsk, the Irkutsk Oil Company, Gazprombank, the airline agency RAMES+, hotels (Irkutsk and Angara), the producer of drinking water The Wave of Baykal, the tourist company Eastland and the security bureau Sokrat. The Omsk Philharmonic, among its sponsors, names local hotels (Aurora, Ibis and Tourist), BMW car dealership Bars, and the restaurant and cafe Base. The Udmurt Philharmonic announces its general sponsor as Udmurtneft (Rosneft). The Bashkir Philharmonic, named after Khusain Akhmetov, lists among its partners the shopping centre June and the Krasinsky market. The Kolomna Philharmonic mentions the Kolomna Factory, the Port of Kolomna, and the JSC Scientific and Production Corporation Engineering Design Bureau of Mechanical Engineering. Among the sponsors of the Karelian Philharmonic in Petrozavodsk are TUI Tour Operator, PKF Slovo, the VEK group of companies, the construction finance company SFK, the charitable foundation Maternal Heart, Internet Business Systems, the tourist agency Kolmas Karelia, Ruskeala Mountain Park, ScanTour, the production centre SMK, Electronics, Office Club, and the Coffee House cafe.

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The Chelyabinsk Philharmonic lists the White Whit dentistry as its only partner. The Tyumen Philharmonic has among its sponsors local hotels (Eurasia, Remizov, Vostok, etc.), the alcoholic beverages trading house Benat, and the Camellia flower salons. The Kaliningrad Philharmonic provides only a list of State organisations, such as the Ministry of Culture or the Government of the Kaliningrad Region. It is a similar situation with the Vologda Philharmonic, named after V. A. Gavrilin, the Voronezh Philharmonic, the Khakassian Republican Philharmonic, the Saratov Philharmonic, named after A. Schnittke, the Samara Philharmonic, and the Tula Philharmonic. The Tatar Philharmonic, the Perm Philharmonic, the Murmansk Philharmonic, and the Khabarovsk Philharmonic show only their information partners. The North Caucasian Philharmonic, named after V. I. Safonov, and the Volgograd and Novosibirsk Philharmonic do not provide any information on sponsors at all. Looking at this list, one can see how poor the situation in this sector is. None of the philharmonics have such a list of partners as the Mariinsky or Bolshoi theatres, or a few regional opera companies. As we can see, the level of work with sponsors at the Philharmonic is much lower and (with rare exceptions) is mainly limited to partnership and exchange. Here we have only considered those philharmonic societies that indicated the presence of partners and sponsors. Other philharmonic societies do not have such or do not consider it necessary to indicate charity or sponsorship. There is a problem not only of financial etiquette and strategy, but also the lack of incentives for philharmonic societies to work with external partners. Possessing State subsidies, many consider the allocated funding to be sufficient and do not seek to expand this field of activity.

Business foundations The journal Forbes annually publishes ratings of Russian charitable corporations. One of the ratings included foundations that belong to rich Russian individuals. Giving a list of twenty organisations, one should note that they are not limited only to this number. “A large majority of Forbes’s billionaires (up to 90%) are involved in charitable activities of various kinds, but not all have created their own funds for these purposes. Sometimes charitable foundations are created and then headed by the wives of businessmen, which can be considered organised family philanthropy”, said independent expert Vyacheslav Bakhmin (Pavlova 2020). The top three of the 2020 Forbes list was made up of The Timchenko Foundation (1), The Vladimir Potanin Foundation (2), and Vagit Alekperov’s Our Future Foundation (3). The Timchenko Foundation, in their last reporting period (“Annual Report on the Activities of the Elena and Gennady Timchenko Foundation” 2018), supported only one musical event – the famous Saint Pe231

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tersburg Festival – the 19th International Music Festival Arts Square, organised by the Maestro Temirkanov International Foundation for Cultural Initiatives and the Saint Petersburg Philharmonic (ibid: 15) (thanks to their financial support two ensembles – the Peter Beets Trio and the Janoshka Ensemble – travelled to Saint Petersburg to perform at the festival). Two other foundations have other aims and strategies and no regular support of music institutions. The first one also did not show a long-standing support strategy that was musically oriented. In the top twenty there are other foundations, showing a passing interest in the musical sphere. Let us have a close look. Oleg Deripaska’s Volnoe delo foundation by has a cultural department and could be put at the top of the list of private foundations. In their reports they state that their support is spread across the Novaya Rossiya State Symphony Orchestra, the Yuri Bashmet and Moscow Soloists Chamber Orchestra, the Yuri Bashmet International Viola Competition, the Russian Performing Art foundation, the Moscow Youth Chamber Orchestra, the Moscow State Academy of Choreography and the Musical Educational Theatre, the Bolshoi Theatre, and the Mariinsky Theatre. Their aims include the development of creative potential, enabling people from all social classes to appreciate the value of national and world culture, the preservation of cultural values and traditions for the people of Russia, maintaining the prestige of Russian culture abroad, and the expansion of international cultural cooperation. This list of organisations represents a stable interest in the support of the musical sphere among famous institutions, including leading names (as Yuri Bashmet) and prestigious cultural centres (two opera houses). Let us go further and observe other institutions. The Safmar Charitable Foundation was founded by Mikhail Gutseriev and is another leading musical supporter. Thanks to its funding the largest contests and forums in Russia are held annually. Among them are the Moscow Easter Festival, under the direction of the conductor Valery Gergiev, the Winter International Art Festival in Sochi, under the patronage of Yuri Bashmet, the Knushevitsky International Cello Competitionin Saratov, and many others. In addition, the Foundation provides assistance to the Central Music School at TheMoscow StateTchaikovsky Conservatory, and children’s art schools, establishing scholarships for talented young musicians, strengthening the material base of educational institutions and providing musical instruments for children’s art schools. Another important institution supported by the Foundation is the Territory international festival and school, whose aims include the unification of professionals of theatre, dance, fine and music art and the creation of their festival, which acquaints visitors with the most relevant performing arts of different genres.It has been discovering new names, presenting avant-garde classics and experimenting with various forms for more than ten years, uniting a fantastic team of contemporary art actors. The festival, started in 2005, is led by active experts of the theatre and art scene – the actor and artistic director of the Theatre of Nations, Evgeniy Mironov, the director and artistic director of the Gogol Centre, Kirill Serebrennikov, the theatre critic, Roman Dolzhansky, 232

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the conductor and artistic director of the Perm Opera and Ballet Theatre, Theodor Currentzis, the theatre and film actress, Chulpan Khamatova, a teacher from the Moscow Art Theatre School, Andrey Uraev, and the executive director of the Moscow Museum of Modern Art, Vasily Tsereteli. The Mikhail Prokhorov fund has two musically related organisations that receive direct support from the foundation. One of them is the Russian National Orchestra (RNO), which was founded by Mikhail Pletnev, and has gained international fame and recognition. The Foundation has supported the Orchestra since 2009 and also financially helps with the organisation of the RNO’s Big Festival. The Art, Science and Sport Charity Foundation was founded by Alisher Usmanov. In 2019, the Moscow Virtuosi State Chamber Orchestra celebrated its fortieth anniversary. With the support of the Art, Science and Sport Charity Foundation, the orchestra managed to implement eighty-eight vibrant concert programmes and important tours, which were attended by over eighty-five thousand spectators. In addition to supporting the Moscow Virtuosi Orchestra, the Art, Science and Sport Charity Foundation has been fruitfully cooperating with the National Philharmonic Orchestra for many years. It supports tours all over the world. Another star on their list is the Mariinsky Theatre. Thanks to the Foundation, they support soloists, and organise festivals, concerts and other events. For example, in November – December 2019, the Mariinsky Theatre toured in the Belgorod, Kursk and Orenburg regions. Gala concerts have become a traditional New Year’s gift from the Art, Science and Sport Charity Foundation to residents of the regions. This list of foundations shows selected businessman who are active in their support of musical art in different institutions. It is interesting to note that they associate only with top names to show their level of support. We did not discover any regional organisation that was able to attract their attention or support.

Russian Festivals In the cultural policy of contemporary Russia the festival movement is at the forefront. The festival, as an instrument for bringing people together, and raising the level of cultural values, is not involved now as a tourist segment however. The task of developing the festival movement corresponds with one of the main tasks of the State programme, namely the “Development of Culture and Tourism” for the period 2013–2020 – preserving the cultural and historical heritage of the people, providing citizens with access to cultural values and participation in cultural life, and realising the creative and innovative potential of the nation. The largest international festivals attract people from all over the world. In Russia, only the Stars of the White Nights festival can be distinguished, sharing the fame of the Mariinsky Theatre as an opera mecca and Valery Gergiev as the ideological inspirer and headliner of each festival. This is one of the most 233

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popular and ambitious music forums in terms of design and scope. Each year, the festival programme includes the best opera and ballet performances of the theatre, grandiose symphonic canvases, masterpieces of chamber music and new theatre premieres. Over the past few years, the festival has included programme cycles of works by classical composers: the performance of Prokofiev’s symphonies, Beethoven’s symphonies and concerts, Tchaikovsky’s opera-ballet and symphonic music, as well as all Shostakovich’s symphonies and all Mahler’s symphonies. Such events present an image of Russia abroad, carry a “cultural code” in the form of a Russian performing school. It is also worth noting several other large-scale projects of Russian musicians of our time, the experience of interaction with sponsors of which we will consider. The Stars on Lake Baykal festival, the artistic director of which is the pianist Denis Matsuev, is an annual international music festival of academic music in Irkutsk. The festival traditionally takes place in September and consists of between twelve and fifteen concerts, as well as workshops and creative meetings. The festival was created in 2004 with the help of the Governor of the Irkutsk region, Boris Govorin. Since then, the festival has been invariably held with the support of the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation, and the Ministry of Culture and Archives of the Irkutsk Region. Such outstanding musicians as Vladimir Spivakov and the Moscow Virtuosi Chamber Orchestra have taken part in the festival, as well as Yuri Temirkanov and the Honoured Collective of Russia, the Academic Symphony Orchestra of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Society; Soloists of the Bolshoi Opera and Ballet; Zubin Mehta and the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra and others. Denis Matsuev formulated this aim for the festival: “I would like to show them the city of Irkutsk, Lake Baykal, which have become for me the source of vital and creative energy. Indeed, at a meeting with Baykal, music itself begins to sound in the soul” (“‘Festival’ ‘Zvezdï na Baykale’. O festivale” n.d.). This festival has a special partners page, which lists the following sponsors: Irkutsk Oil Company (General Sponsor), Gazprombank JSC (General Partner of Creative Projects of Denis Matsuev) – one of the largest commercial banks in Russia; OOO Gazprom Dobycha Irkutsk – a division of PJSC Gazprom, a resource base for the implementation of the Power of Siberia project; the State corporation Rostec, engaged in the production and export of high-tech industrial products for civil and military purposes, uniting more than seven hundred organisations; the Russian Helicopters holding company, which unites most of the country’s helicopter-building enterprises. The Moscow Easter Festival is the largest spring festival, created in 2002 on the initiative of the artistic director and director of the Mariinsky Theatre, Valery Gergiev, and the Moscow Government. Hundreds of thousands of visitors attend Easter concerts every year. In 2003, with the support of President of the Russian Federation, Vladimir Putin, the festival became “All-Russian” and now covers one hundred and forty-five cities of Russia and five countries, and includes symphonic, choral, chamber and bell-ringing programmes. The festival programme is decorated with the names of world opera stars: Anna Ne234

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trebko, René Pape, Natalie Dessay, Vladimir Galuzin, Albina Shagimuratova, Bryn Terfel, Ferruccio Furlanetto, Nina Stemme, Ildar and Askar Abdrazakov, as well as Olga Borodina, Mikhail Petrenko and others. Not surprisingly, sponsors are lining up to be involved. Mention of support for the Easter Festival is the “blue ribbon” of charitable programmes for business organisations and is displayed on the cover pages of reports, websites and is emphasised in interviews. Let us consider the festival support line. The partners section contains three categories: sponsors, partners and information partners. The VTB Bank, the Japanese harpist and philanthropist Yoko Nagae Cheskina, and Sberbank are three of the patrons of the festival. In the list of sponsors there are: Total Russia (hydrocarbon production, marketing, and trading); PJSC ROSSETI – the largest energy company in Russia and the world, providing the transmission and distribution of electricity; the multinational oil and gas company BP; the industrial and financial group SAFMAR; PJSC Severstal – a mining and metallurgical company; the Mercury Group of Companies; PJSC Surgutneftegas – one of the largest Russian oil and gas companies; and the Canadian engineering company Bombardier. The “With Support” section includes the following sponsors: Art, Science and Sports Foundation, Alrosa – the leader of the world diamond mining industry and a Russian company with State participation; Russian Railways OJSC, the Renova Group of Companies, Mastercard the international payment system, Sistema JSFC – an investment company, the international network of PWC companies (PricewaterhouseCoopers), offering consulting services; the leader in the cellular markets of Sweden and Finland, the Telia Company, Nestlé AS, the world’s largest food producer; and the Vozrozhdenie Bank. The Trans-Siberian Art Festival is another large all-Russian festival. Its artistic director is Vadim Repin, a famous Russian violinist. It covers Novosibirsk and the Novosibirsk region, Krasnoyarsk, and St. Petersburg, and includes concerts and master classes. World premieres are often performed here and, in general, each festival covers about twenty-five cities, seven countries and thirty-eight concert venues. The official sponsor of the festival is RZD (Russian Railways). Other partners include the Russian Seasons project, and the Pirastro company, specialising in the production of instrument strings. On such a scale, the circle of partners and sponsors seems extremely limited, but reflects the picture that is traditional for the top two or three largest festivals of this kind. The main financial burden is assumed by the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation, as well as the Trans-Siberian Art Festival Support Fund and the Vadim Repin Foundation. Here a very characteristic picture of stratification is exposed: in a vast country with fifteen cities of a million-plus population, only three classical music festivals have an impressive list of sponsors. Other festivals are content with local sponsors and very rarely with large players. There follows another example. The International Winter Festival Arts Square takes place in St. Petersburg in the basement of the Great Hall of the Philharmonic. It was founded in 1999, combining in its programmes the Russian Museum, the Mikhailovsky Theatre, 235

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the Musical Comedy Theatre, and the Church of the Resurrection of Christ (Saviour on the Spilled Blood). Tickets for this festival are quite expensive, similar to the level of theatre prices, however they are sold out for most of the events. Yuri Temirkanov, an artistic director of the festival, formulated its goals: “In the programme of Arts Square every year there are a lot of concerts, a variety of genres. At the same time, the goals of the festival, which we determined twenty years ago, remain unchanged and still determine its characteristic features. These goals are the propaganda of high musical art, the desire to acquaint residents and guests of the city with the best world performers and to remain faithful to the traditions of St. Petersburg culture. Each time the festival becomes a holiday – both for the public and for me, because it brings together musicians in St. Petersburg, whom I love and appreciate” (XX Mezhdunarodnïy Zimniy Festival’ “Ploshchad’ Iskusstv” n.d.).

The general partner of the festival is the Timchenko Foundation; the general sponsor is the Delzell Foundation (USA). Among the other partners are Belmond Grand Hotel Europe (St. Petersburg), Smolensk Diamonds Jewellery Group, RIV GOSH Cosmetic Company and St. Petersburg’s Taxi 068. There are no commercial sponsors on the site and, apparently, the fund takes on the main financial burden of the festival. Sergey Diaghilev inspired two cultural centres for staging international festivals. One of them is located in Saint Petersburg, while the other is in Perm. The International Arts Festival Diaghilev P. S. (Saint Petersburg) was initially biannual, and later became annual, headed by the artistic director Natal’ya Metelitsa. The mission of the festival is to foster a creative and cultural exchange between Russia and the rest of the world, to present the most iconic and innovative works and phenomena in various genres of art, and to discover new talent. Within the framework of the festival in St. Petersburg, there have been tours of the best groups of modern ballet, including the troupes of John Neumeier and Angelin Preljocaj, the ballet tour of The Bolshoi Theatre of Russia, the Perm Opera and Ballet Theatre Orchestra under the direction of Teodor Currentzis. The festival noted three foundations as its main sponsors: The Blavatnik Family Foundation, the Delzell Foundation, and the Mikhail Bazhenov Foundation. As with the previous festivals, it is supported by the Ministry of Culture and Committee of Culture at Saint Petersburg, however the support differs from year to year. The Diaghilev Festival (Perm) has been active since 2003, and was revamped in 2011. It is headed by the artistic director Teodor Currentzis. According to the festival conception, unique projects in different genres of arts are established here, including premieres of opera and ballet shows, concerts, contemporary dance, and organ, chamber, symphonic and jazz music, all aimed at maintaining and developing the traditions of the prominent impresario and propagandist of Russian culture, Sergey Diaghilev. Their major supporters are the Ministry of Culture of the Perm Region and the Cultural Department of Perm Administration. The official partner is Lukoil, and an official car is 236

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also listed (Lexus). Other partners are listed as: Ural Hotel, Aeroflot (transportation), Porsche, Dom.ru – internet service, Gazprom – Perm, Demidkovo Sanatorium, the international insurance company Generali, the chain of cafes and restaurants National Cuisine, outdoor advertising UralMedia, manufacturer of frame houses Prostodom, designer shop Polytope, musical instrument shop BoutiqueTone, the Ambassade de France in Russia, Alliance Française in Perm, and the Institut Français in Russia. Although the list of partners is quite long, it should be noted that most of them support festival segments, most of them on a barter or advertising exchange basis. Of course, almost all major classical music festivals have a certain amount of State support: among the main sponsors are State organisations, as a rule, the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation, and local authorities (individual cities’ committees for culture). However, not all festivals fit into the allocated budget and the examples we have examined have had a positive experience (albeit at different levels) in communicating with sponsors. Thus, looking at the partners of music festivals, we can conclude that industrial companies, mining holdings, and oil and gas companies definitely prevail. The next level is banking systems. The third unites consulting, investment, and information networks. Food holdings are extremely rare, possibly due to alternative charity strategies. Another obvious result is that among the partners of domestic festivals, 99% are dominated by local sponsors or official representative offices of foreign companies in Russia. This is directly related to the interest of various organisations in obtaining sponsorship privileges from investing in a festival. Accordingly, any organisation will likely invest its finances in the festival in the territory in which they work, with the audience that their brand is aimed at. The modern festival of classical music is, in addition to a highly artistic product, also a business project in which the role of the sponsors is great. At first glance, unpopular art turns out to be a titbit for large banks, fuel and energy companies, State corporations and transport monopolies, telecom operators and courier services. Some of these organisations participate as philanthropists, providing various services to help organise the festival. Others find a field for profit. Considering the fact that the development of the festival movement in Russia seems promising, it is necessary to interest the business structure in participating in various festival projects. It is important to note that among the partners of the festivals it is difficult to identify any category of organisations interested in such cooperation. For each segment or individual partner there is a certain incentive that meets personal interests, the desire to get closer to the ‘elite’ art, to belong to the ‘higher caste’, to satisfy one’s own ego, and to increase the personal brand through investments in culture. These and other incentives are fundamental in the realm of sponsorship and charity in the field of art. The participation of partners is not always limited to monetary investments in their standard sense. Here hotels, printing houses, catering companies and restaurants, and transport companies come into play. Despite the fact that this type of partnership does not have a cash equivalent, it is an effective way to minimise the project budget. 237

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Conclusion Having considered the experience of sponsorship of major festivals and organisations related to classical music, we can draw the following conclusions. (1) Charitable business activities in the field of support of classical musical art are unsystematic and represent situational charity. Despite the fact that one company is indicated as a sponsor, this, alas, is not a guarantee of their systematic support. Their presence on the list of sponsors does not guarantee their participation in the regular activities of the institution, and their financing does not necessarily form a budget. Very often declared sponsors support only specific events –festivals, tours, individual concerts and performances. (2) The main activity of companies that are declared sponsors, as a rule, is not related to music, art or culture, with rare exceptions (the production of theatre equipment, strings for musical instruments, pianos, or philanthropic musicians). For most companies festivals, theatres, and philharmonic societies are not included in the list of their stakeholders; their spheres do not overlap. For large all-Russian companies, such as banks, support for musical art is common philanthropy, which we mentioned in a historical review, with the only difference being that in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, philanthropic activity was carried out by the business owner, but now it mostly comes from faces of the corporation. An exception is registered foundations of businessmen, a successful example of which was considered in the article. Large companies care about the image component and the fact that they support culture and art. It is important for some business representatives the way in which the image of their business is combined with the image of philharmonic societies, theatres or festivals. In the process of the systematic support of classical art, companies integrate this into their marketing strategy. (3) A rare exception is the case of regional institutions supported by local business – large factories, branches of large corporations, or local players. This is especially pronounced when reviewing industrial cities, where there is a concentrated infrastructure, and cultural institutions are extremely unprofitable. There is a lack of culture, a lack of a high level of education, which is why theatres and philharmonic societies are directly or indirectly on the list of stakeholders of these companies. Here we see a manifestation not of philanthropy, but of the corporate and social responsibility of business. (4) In large cities such as Moscow and St. Petersburg, philharmonic societies, theatres and festivals have become brands. In such institutions there is no budget deficit, no problems with visitors. The level of sponsorship here is very high, representing a stark contrast to regional institutions. (5) The prevailing sponsors of cultural institutions and festivals that we have reviewed are representatives of large Russian businesses. They are followed by Russian companies with Western capital and branches of Western companies in Russia. Western companies as sponsors mainly operate only in major cities and festivals. 238

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(6) Despite the enormous influence of the image component, sponsors are interested in the advertising component. It is very important for companies to highlight their support: press releases, logos and banners of events must contain a sponsorship line. In turn, large companies that issue non-financial reporting indicate their participation in various cultural events. (7) Sponsorship of companies can be manifested in different ways: in systematic or situational financing, in the provision of goods or services, or in the provision of information support. Since the collapse of the USSR, cultural organisations have received increasing support from business organisations. It is difficult to talk about trends throughout the country, because Moscow and St. Petersburg are very different from the regions. Large, branded organisations (theatre-brands and festivals-brands) differ from local organisations. It is difficult to talk about quality development, the transition from philanthropy and corporate and social responsibility, or about systematic support. However, at the same time, business is becoming increasingly interested in supporting Russian cultural organisations. It is also becoming increasingly involved. Different businesses have different incentives. Some corporations need this to support their image, others for advertising purposes, to support either the region as a whole or a single city. However, one way or another, business is increasingly becoming involved in the work of cultural organisations. For large theatres and philharmonic societies this support may not be so important, but for regional institutions their survival, the prospects for their development and creative growth, and the attraction of “star” names may depend on such support. On the other hand, theatres and philharmonic societies, and festival groups are gradually setting up a system of fundraising, attracting sponsors, and creating content for potential sponsors. Although the State does not take sufficient measures to bring business and culture closer, these two areas, taking timid steps towards each other, are independently seeking methods of cooperation.

References “Annual Report on the Activities of the Elena and Gennady Timchenko Foundation” (2018) Timchenko Foundation, BELOUSOV, Konstantin (2019) “Istoricheskiye aspektï razvitiya instituta sotsial’noy otvetstvennosti: opït otechestvennogo i zarubezhnogo biznesa” [Historical aspects of the development of the institution of social responsibility: An experience of local and foreign business], Peterburgskiy ėkonomicheskiy zhurnal 1: 34–41. BELOUSOV, Konstantin (2020) “Corporate Social Responsibility and Sustainable Development of Modern Russian Companies as a Challenge of Business Globalization”, in Tomas Kliestik (ed.) SHS Web of Conferences, vol. 74 (The 239

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19th International Scientific Conference Globalization and its Socio-Economic Consequences 2019 – Sustainability in the Global-Knowledge Economy), article number 06004 Federal State Statistics Service (1999–2020) ROSSTAT – Russian Federation Federal State Statistics Service Official Website, “‘Festival’ ‘Zvezdï na Baykale’. O festivale” [Stars on Lake Baikal Festival. About the festival] (n.d.) Festival’ Zvezdï na Baykale. Accessed on 11 May 2020, GAKOV, Vladimir, Varvara Pertsova and Mikhail Kozïrev (2017) “10 krupneyshikh sostoyaniy tsarskoy Rossii. Chto proizoshlo s hozyaevami” [10 largest capitals of tsarist Russia. What happened with owners?], Forbes, 28 February 2017,

GLUSHKOVA, O. R. (ed.) (2012) Russkoe muzïkal’noye obshchestvo (1859–1917): Istoriya otdeleniy [Russian Musical Society (1859–1917): History of its departments], Moscow: Yazïki slavyanskoy kul’turï. Information on Execution of Budgets (2015–2020) Federal Treasury of the Russian Federation Official Website, KAZOVSKAYA, Tat’yana (1994) Prosvetitel’nïye obshchestva i metsenatï v formirovanii kul’turnoy sredï Peterburga (konets 19 - nachalo 20 vv.) [Enlightenment societies and patronage in the formation of St. Petersburg cultural milieu (end of 19th–beginning of 20th century)], unpublished PhD thesis, Saint Petersburg State Academy of Culture. “Kratkiy istoricheskiy obzor deyatel’nosti IRMO” [A brief historical overview of the activities of IRMO] (1888) Russkij muzïkal’nïy vestnik 31: 35. MUZÏCHUK, V. Yu. (2019) “Finansirovanie kul’turï v Rossii: shag vperyod i dva nazad” [Financing culture in Russia: a step forward and two backward], Zhurnal NEA 1(41): 208–215. NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO, V. I. (1989) Rozhdeniye teatra: vospominaniya, stat’i, zametki, pis’ma [The birth of the theater: memoirs, articles, notes, letters], Moscow: Pravda. PAVLOVA, Olga (2020) “20 luchshikh blagotvoritel’nïh fondov bogateyshikh rossiyan. Reyting Forbes” [The 20 best charitable foundations of the richest Russians. Forbes rating], Forbes, 25 February 2020.

PON’KO, Аleksey (2010) Ocherki istorii Ministerstva kul’turï RSFSR i Ministerstva kul’turï Rossiyskoy Federatsii [Essays about the history of the Ministry of Cul240

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ture of RSFSR and Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation], Moscow: SkayPress. RICHARDSON, Neil (2019) “Corporate Social Responsibility or Sustainability in Music Festivals”, International Journal of Organizational Analysis 27(5): 1257– 1273. RODIONOVA, Irina (2011) Formirovanie patrioticheskogo soznaniya sovetskogo naroda (1917–1953) [Formation of patriotic feelings among Soviet peoples (1917–1953)], Moscow: Moskovskiy institut ėlektroniki i matematiki NIU VSE. SHALASHOV, A. (2011) “Reforma sistemï pokazateley byudzheta i praktika ispolnitel’skikh iskusstv” [Budget indicator reform and performing arts practice], Spravochnik rukovoditelya uchrezhdeniy kul’turï 1: 72–78. Ustav Imperatorskogo Russkogo Muzïkal’nogo obshchestva [Charter of the Imperial Russian Musical Society] (1873), Saint Petersburg. “XX Mezhdunarodnïy zimniy festival’ ‘Ploshchad’ Iskusstv’. O festivale” [XX International Winter Festival Arts Square. About the festival] (n.d.) Mezhdunarodnïy zimniy festival’ Ploshchad’ Iskusstv. Accessed on 11 May 2020,

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PART THREE

Changing Landscapes of Traditional and Popular Musics

CHAPTER 13

Folklore in the Communist Period and Its Later Extensions: The Romanian Case Speranţa Rădulescu (Bucharest)

In the pages below I will refer to the period 1945–2019 in Romania, having at its core the event that accounts for the speeding up of the changes in the oral traditional music and its remodelling in the media: the anti-communist uprising of 1989. The changes that followed after that year were largely prepared by those that preceded them.

1945–1989: Peasants and Their Music After the seizure of power by communists coming from Moscow, Romania’s political, social, economic and demographic landscape was quickly reshaped. At the end of World War II, peasants were given land, albeit followed, only a decade later, by forced collectivisation. Dispossessed of land, livestock and tools, peasants sought refuge in the cities. The villages were gradually emptied of men capable of work, the family structure changed, and the women and the elderly were left behind to maintain the depleted households. In cities, forced industrialisation was implemented, which gave men the chance to train for a job and perhaps get a modest block apartment from the state, where they could settle with their families. Consequently, population density decreased in rural areas and increased in cities. In the depressed, depopulated villages, lacking the support of young people, vocal and instrumental performances went into decline. Some rural music faded out of circulation until they soon verged on a state of extinction: the “old song” (i.e. ballad) and a good part of the doine (sing. doina), among which 245

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was the horea lungă1 from the north of Transylvania (see the map of Romania, Figure 13.1). In other words, genres prone to the improvised interventions of the performers and, from another perspective, the most aesthetically valuable ones were extinguished. Where they did not evaporate entirely, the doine took refuge in the repertoires of the elders, especially of the professional popular musicians (lăutari)2 from Gorj and from Bucovina, who performed them chiefly in multi-instrumental forms practiced by tarafuri.3 The previous forms, delivered mono-vocally or on the Jew’s harp, pipe, long pipe or bagpipe, became rarer. In the 1980s, young girls from Năsăud (northern Transylvania) laughed at the few old women who still sang horea lungă: they were no longer fashionable, because one could not hear them on the radio or television. The extinction was not immediate, however, so that in the 1950s–1970s the folklorist Alexandru Amzulescu still managed to record some of the most spectacular Romanian epic songs in the Danube Plain: Miorița, Master Manole, Constantin Brâncoveanu, Corbea, Miu Haiducul (i.e. the Outlaw), The Shepherd Who Lost His Sheep, and The Sun and the Moon (Amzulescu 1974). The ballads’ extinction occurred in stages: first their performers dropped the introductory taqsim,4 then they shortened them, eliminating entire packages of sung lyrics, after which they discarded the instrumental introductions and the interludes, then the expressive repetitions of melo-poetic phrases (Vicol 2004). Towards the end of the interval, there were few musicians left who still knew a few “old songs” in truncated versions, which they had not performed at weddings for several decades. However, before they were lost, some of them were partially integrated into the instrumental repertoire of some violinists: this is the case of the melody of Corbea, transformed into “listening songs” – songs to listen to. Interestingly, the most enduring epic songs were now The Costești Fire (about a fire that broke out in a village church on Easter night), Ghiță Cătănuță (about a man who kills his unfaithful wife), and The Shepherd 1 Horea lungă is a variant of the doina from northern Transylvania, also documented by Bela Bartók (Bartók 1923). In his writings, Bartók named it hora lungă/long song/ chant long. 2 Lăutari (sing. lăutar) are folk musicians who live, together with their families, off the sale of the music they are capable of producing. In the western part of Romania (Transylvania) they are called ceterași, and in other places muzicanți. The lăutari are mostly Roma (or “Gypsies”, as they prefer to identify themselves), therefore people belonging to an ethnic group other than the majority. From the perspective of Western ethnomusicology, this is not unusual: in many cultures, the professionals of oral musics come from a different ethnicity than the one for which they work. The “classical” case is that of the griots, the musicians of the former African royal courts, who come from an ethnic group different from that of their employers, but who perform the latter’s’ music. 3 Taraf (pl. tarafuri) is an instrumental or vocal-instrumental ensemble made up of two to seven–eight professional folk musicians (called lăutari, ceterași or muzicanți), mainly playing – at least in this first period – stringed instruments, an ensemble that is made available to anyone willing to hire and reward/pay it. 4 The taqsim is (in Romania) an instrumental introduction modelled on the taqsim from the Middle East, in which the violinist of the band plays a melodic material different from that of the epic song proper. It disappeared from circulation towards the middle of the twentieth century. 246

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Who Lost His Sheep. In other words: no mythological ballad, no heroic ballad inspired by the battles with the Turks. The first two pertain to rather recent dramatic events. The epic-heroic vein is already exhausted. In Transylvania, Romanians have their heroes – Iancu and Pintea the Brave – whom they evoke in packages of lyrics with moderate amplitude, performed to tunes of lyrical songs or carols. The lyrical songs have an ambiguous fate. On the one hand, those from an older layer and with irregular pulsations, in the parlando rubato style, are reduced in number or rhythmically reorganised to suit one or another of the dances from one region or another. Thus, appeared the hora songs, the sârba songs, the geampara songs, and the învârtită [rotation] songs, which have been changed into tunes that can be danced to, although this rarely happens. On the other hand, pieces with a precise rhythm and conventional meter are taking wings. The withdrawal from circulation of music in free rhythm, or “flowing rhythm” (Frigyesi 1994–1995) is a great loss for popular culture, among others because this rhythm, which Bartók and Brăiloiu called parlando rubato, implies a certain way of managing the musical time that could be considered distinctive for Romanians.5 The old carols, possibly pre-Christian, some of which are still preserved in the east of the Danube Plain, southern Transylvania, Apuseni (Western Carpathians), and (possibly) Bucovina, are being lost hand over fist. If a village would have held in its active pool, in the not too distant past, up to 50–60 distinct pieces, each of them suitable for one or another of the village households, now their number has dropped dramatically: in the eastern Danube Plain it is reduced to about seven, and in southern Transylvania to about 20–30.6 In northern Transylvania, a different, worse thing is happening: many of the ancient mythological carols, with versified epic texts narrating the hunt for the lion or the deer, have been replaced by new, Western-like ones, similar to the common European Christmas and Noël songs. In fact, everywhere, the place of the old carols is being taken by the cântece de stea [star songs], pieces with Western-style patterns whose lyrics refer exclusively to the Miraculous Birth, which people learn, directly or indirectly, at church. Even the custom of carolling was now being practiced with caution, because in many villages and cities the authorities attacked the carolling young men in the dark, with clubs. Decades before, the tarafuri had taken over dance music from the peasant pipers and bagpipers (Alexandru 1980), though not entirely: some types of dances were slowly disappearing, especially those whose performance required a choreographic virtuosity that young peasants, many of whom were half-urbanites, did not possess anymore: for example, the mânânțelul from Bihor, de tare from Vrancea, and many brâuri from Muntenia. Others were 5 Free rhythm also exists in the musics of other south-eastern European, Mediterranean and Asian peoples (Clayton 1996). However, Romanians seemingly have a particular, distinctive free rhythm. This is the opinion of the American researcher Walter Zev Feldman, formulated in a personal communication. 6 I acquired this latest information from the doctoral student Ana-Maria Maranda, who recently undertook research on carols in southern Transylvania. 247

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energetically transformed. For example, românește (or purtata) from central Transylvania – the tunes with the clearest expressed ethnic specificity in the whole Transylvanian area – were in a somewhat different situation. At the beginning, they changed their very elaborate aksak rhythm (2 + 3 + 3 + 3, 2 + 3 + 2 + 3, or 2 + 3 + 3 + 4) into four equal beats (4/4), under the impulse given by folk orchestras. The choreography of their dance is hard to learn; therefore, if people do not dance it anymore, the ceterași have no reason to perpetuate its music. With their decline, a precious quality of the Transylvanian music wore thin: the elasticity of the beat and the deliberate time lags of the performance – those that Bonini Baraldi subordinates to an “aesthetic of the gap” (l’esthétique du décalage), related mainly to românește (Bonini Baraldi 2013). Other dance tunes were modified under the influence of tunes from the same choreographic category belonging to the music of the cohabiting ethnic groups or of the Romanians from nearby cultural areas. This was the case of the Romanian învârtite, which were increasingly sharing more melodic-rhythmic formulas from the Hungarian czardas, the converse being valid to the same extent. All in all, dance music became increasingly predictable, but it remained prolific. In general, people and musicians focused on the dominant dance in their cultural area: hora and sârba in Muntenia and Oltenia, sârba and bătuta in Moldavia, învârtita in Transylvania and Maramureș, brîul and ardeleana in Banat etc. On their structural trunk new tunes were constantly being creating, by the reserialisation of phrases and motifs from pre-existing tunes and by a precise rhythmic reorganisation of some tunes absorbed from them. Those that evaded conventionalism were some bătute from central Transylvania and especially the de învârtit dance from Maramureș; the improvised form of the latter, noticed by Béla Bartók (Bartók 1923), became more and more fanciful and exuberant until it started to show signs of fatigue (see Figure 13.2). Other genres were changing significantly. The most brilliant example is the love song7 from the Danube Plain. In the first half of the twentieth century it was an improvised vocal doina with dense ornamentation performed by individual peasants, like any doina; then it was adopted by the tarafuri and transformed into a dynamic dialogue-competition, rich in recitatives, which involves all the instrumentalists-vocalists of a band, joined spontaneously by one or other of the guests. The packages of erotic lyrics that they produce – partly pre-existing, partly invented ad hoc during the performance – are chained freely. Like the Maramureş de învârtit dances, the love songs from Muntenia were the musical masterpieces of the second half of the twentieth century. After a brief period of brilliance in the 1960–1980s, however, they began to decline. Funeral music, on the other hand, enjoyed a remarkable endurance. The ritual “dawn” and “fir tree” songs and the bocete [laments], performed publicly by the female relatives of the deceased at precise moments during the wake, and on the road to and at the cemetery, were still obligatory (Kahane and Georgescu Stanculeanu 1988); likewise, the mortuary signals emitted by alphorns, called buciume, tulnice, trâmbite, depending on the region (Georgescu 1987). 7 Or “love doina”, as Brăiloiu calls it (Brăiloiu 2009). 248

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The agrarian and pastoral rituals did not become entirely extinct, but gradually turned into shows, during which peasants dressed in pseudo-folk costumes and acted “as if on stage”, or even on a stage. In the last decades of the twentieth century, they were already inviting television cameras to immortalise their performances. It should be noted that each Romanian region and micro-region is distinct from the others through the dominant musical genres, its own dance tunes, specific lyrical songs, or those with the highest frequency. In brief, each region has its own distinctive music, albeit one compatible with the surrounding music. The territorial differences used to be – and still are to some extent – much more salient in Transylvania than in the rest of the country. The reason may be that the Romanians, a deprecated “ethnic minority” (though numerically the majority!) within the Austro-Hungarian Empire, lived there in enclaves little permeable to external influences, until the province was annexed to the Kingdom of Romania (1919). In the depleted villages, there are still some great occasions for gatherings influenced only indirectly by folklorisation (see Addenda, section 1). Among such occasions are the village dance (or Sunday dance), the wedding, the baby’s first haircut ceremony,8 the local church patron saint’s day ending in dancing, the market fairs and funfairs, or the shepherds’ sâmbre.9 On such occasions, the music is delivered by musicians grouped in tarafuri, rewarded or – after the 1950s – paid for their performance by their employers: the bridegroom’s father, the godfather, the head of the best men, the organiser of any party etc. It may be said that throughout the twentieth century, the most significant phenomenon was the transfer of music to professionals, in parallel with a proportional decrease of the music performed by ordinary people. In a nutshell: peasants entrusted their cultural goods to tarafuri, i.e. to lăutari, most of which were Gypsies,10 who adopted them, readjusted them, and carried them further in the way and to the extent that their customers still needed them. In the 1950s, radio broadcasts were already carefully structured and controlled by power. They contained a lot of mobilizing “popular music”11 – dances and dance tunes transformed into folklore (see below) – flanked by political shows, revolutionary and “patriotic” marches, and cultural shows such as “Learning the Russian language by singing”, “Moscow Speaks”, “News from the socialist countries”, and so forth. The close succession of these broadcasts was a sophisticated way of indoctrinating ordinary people, whose efficiency must have been tested in the USSR: political messages penetrated more easily when relying on “popular music”. There were, in each locality, in key topographic positions, several 8 Ritual practice followed by a party where the godparents cut the hair of their one-yearold godchild. 9 Sâmbra (pl. sâmbre) is the place where the sheep are grouped in a flock preparing for mountain pasture; it is also the name of a pastoral practice followed by a party related to this event. 10 An important mention: the lăutari challenge the recommended political correctness and prefer to be called Gypsies. That is why they are named as such in this text. 11 For the Romanian media, “popular music” and “folklore” were synonymous. 249

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“communal” speakers that transmitted during the daylight hours, at high intensity, the national radio broadcasts. Ideological bombardment became inescapable. Without noticing it, “man” gradually turned into the “new man” the regime wanted. From 1956 on, the shaping of the latter was taken over by the only (at that time) Romanian television station. Political indoctrination continued through direct interventions on the music itself. Its authors were cultural activists of all kinds, either paid or working pro bono: directors of cultural centres, folklorists and choreographers “from the County Centre”, schoolteachers, radio and TV show editors, not to mention the vigilant activists of the Ministry of Culture. Their mission was to transform rural music into folklore, directly or through a network of intermediaries, following the model of the Moiseyev Dance Company (See Addenda, 1). Folklore was produced with the help of the members of folklore orchestras and ensembles – conductors, instrumentalists, soloists, orchestral music arrangers and dance troupe choreographers – and sometimes with the help of other “authors”. The exemplary folklore orchestras were established around 1950, as in all the Eastern countries that had come under Soviet domination. The first one was Barbu Lăutar of the George Enescu State Philharmonic (1949), which had its headquarters and place of public performance at the Romanian Athenaeum, the temple of academic music – a choice with symbolic significance, by which the authorities sent the message that the working people were now in power. Musical-choreographic folklore ensembles were also established: Doina (of the Army) in 1947, Ciocârlia (of the Securitate [secret police]) in 1959, and others, followed by a lot of regional ensembles. All of them taught the country people how their music and dance had to be in order to be “civilised”, superior, broadcast, and awarded prizes (for more details see section 2 of Addenda).

1945–1989: City Dwellers and Their Music Almost nothing is known about the music that ordinary city dwellers made for themselves or within the family: no folklorist has followed the subject. They did have opportunities to make music: during outdoor work, family and yard parties, weddings, at restaurants and balls organised by culture centres. Outdoors, construction workers on scaffoldings would sing songs from their native villages. In restaurants and taverns, almost all of the music was made by lăutari. Their music was variegated, like the cities themselves. At the beginning of the period, music from the surrounding villages predominated in their repertoire, especially in Transylvania and Banat.12 To these were added national arias (see below), folk or author romances, and light (pop) Romanian music (which at that time were still melodious and highly prized), as well as even more modern music, huddled under the vague umbrella of “jazz”. From their broad corpus of musical styles and pieces, the musicians extracted those most 12 Even today, the musics played at restaurants in Transylvania are the rural ones of the region: Romanian, Hungarian and Gypsy. 250

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appropriate to the person or group they performed for. At the same time, they aspired to produce a coherent music that carried their own imprint, which could give them satisfaction. By the end of the nineteenth century, the top lăutari from the former Romanian Principalities had already created original music, which proved to be surprisingly perennial and attractive: national arias, music for all the inhabitants of Romania at the time. It was probably the first explicit integration of tonality and tonal harmonisations, the first connection of Romanian folk music to European music. After the vogue of national arias subsided, city musicians came up with Gypsy lăutărească music (see Figure 13.3). Initially, it was not addressed to the Romanian nation, but to a narrow, marginal ethnic and professional group, that of Gypsy lăutari. It began to take shape in the urban areas of southern and eastern Romania (Muntenia, Oltenia, Moldavia and Dobrogea), over the three to four decades at the beginning of the twentieth century, perhaps even earlier. Whatever the case, in the 1950s-60s it crystallised its distinctive features and aesthetics. Shortly after the middle of the century, Gypsy lăutărească music became the ethnic and professional sound emblem of all the folk musicians from the south and east of Romania. It is true that rural lăutari could not perform it, but they used it anyway when organising Gypsy weddings, for which they hired skilled musicians from the city: the whole village had to hear that the Gypsies were celebrating! This music soon became the music of Romanians of modest condition, and was performed on demand at parties in private houses and courtyards, and in taverns on the outskirts of Wallachian cities. As a consequence, it acquired an alternative name: muzică de mahala [slum music]. The exponents of communist power claimed that they hated it – although they enjoyed it at their private parties – because it undermined the sacrosanct “Romanian national specificity”. Romanian ethnomusicologists ignored it, but the American scientist Robert Garfias wrote about it in a study that is still a reference point today (Garfias 1981). The Romanian media was not allowed to record or broadcast this music. However, the authorities made a few exceptions for the New Year’s Eve television shows of 1973 and 1975, and later authorised the Electrecord label to market five or six Gypsy lăutărească music albums a year, to save it from bankruptcy. (The politically-correct folklore that Electrecord was throwing onto the market was produced in gargantuan amounts, but sold in only homeopathic quantities). In its hard core, lăutărească music – also called Gypsy lăutărească music (Rădulescu 2004) – is made up of “listening songs” (most of them in Romanian) and specific dance tunes. The melodic lines of the former carry Balkan influences, often based on sound scales similar to some Greek-Turkish makams (Garfias 1981), or are borrowed from the post-Phanariot13 music of the nineteenth century. The tunes have a free rhythm and avoid rigid architectonic patterns. The vocal and instrumental timbres are specific. The tonal harmoni13 The “Phanariot rule” was between 1711 and 1821. At that time, the rulers of the two Romanian countries, Muntenia and Moldavia, were appointed by the Ottoman Empire from among the Greek nobles from the Fanar district of Istanbul. (Post-) Phanariot music, slightly oriental in colour, endured a long time after the restoration of local rulers. i.e. during the nineteenth century. 251

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sations are refined and intelligently distributed throughout the discourse. The dance music is made up of hore lăutărești, which are different from the rural ones in that they have a slower tempo and their tunes are interspersed with augmented seconds. The glory days of lăutărească music were between the 1950s and 1980s. Beginning in the mid-1970s, the successful lăutari in cities and villages began to “technologise”, buying amplification equipment, still very expensive and of pitiful quality. As a result, the timbres of their taraf music deteriorated badly, while intensities rose to almost unbearable limits, which they would soon surpass. However, the musicians were very pleased with this innovation, which spared them the effort to play loudly in order to make themselves heard by all the guests. However, their own and their audience’s sensitivity to sound colour decreased sharply, and would decrease even more in the coming decades. Towards the end of the same decade, the first electric organs made their appearance in the country. The amplifier and the synthesier, whose use now became generalised, both dependent on electricity, forced musicians to perform in a rigid position, usually on a podium placed in a corner of the room where the party took place. Thus tethered, the lăutari sometimes gave up the habit of approaching each client individually and playing their favourite music in their ear.

The Reaction of Rejecting “Folklore” The lăutari found a way to implicitly oppose official folklore, by launching a new music onto the market of folk weddings and parties: Banatian-Serbian music, which emerged in the mid-1970s in Banat, a south-western province of Romania, neighbouring Serbia. There, folk musicians from both countries had long been sharing modal profiles, harmonisation schemes, melodies and rhythms. At that time, in Serbia (then part of Yugoslavia) – a country with a relatively thriving economy, whose inhabitants were allowed to travel more easily throughout Europe – a new kind of folk music was in fashion: novokomponovana narodna muzika [newly composed folk music]. This music was seductive for Romanians by itself, but also due to the prestige of its country of origin and its references to the sounds of the Balkan area. The Banatian-Serbian music, inspired by this newly composed Serbian music, was enthusiastically received by Romanians; it crossed the boundaries of Banat and in a few years conquered the whole country. (This music is still present at rural wedding parties in the twenty–first century!) Banatian-Serbian music was an effective and very popular alternative to official folklore. It expressed the aspiration for openness of the Romanian people, prisoners within the borders of their own country and, on another plane, the desire of the people from the south of Romania to reconnect to the once familiar music from the south-east of Europe. The music projected a new orientalising wave on the country’s musical landscape (Rădulescu 2014). The next 252

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wave would be represented by manele, a music that was very little present in the repertoires of the tarafuri in the 1980s and 1990s, but which would burst with full force at the beginning of the twenty–first century, and would be angrily blamed by cultural activists and intellectuals alike. Outraged by the intolerable ethnic impurity of Banatian-Serbian music and the scale of its popularity, the authorities launched, towards the end of the 1980s, a “campaign of depollution of folklore”. First, they identified the culprits: the Gypsy lăutari, whom they threatened with hefty fines and the lifting of the free practice license. Those who decided whether the music performed at parties was “polluted” or not were the local militiamen (police officers)! At the same time, the authorities also launched an intense media campaign, asking subservient folklorists and musicologists to rebuke the culprits, reloading in the process the anti-Gypsy feelings of the population. The campaign to depollute folklore orchestrated by the propaganda section of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party ended abruptly, after the events of December 1989. But the temptation of some intellectuals to ban undesirable music continued to manifest for a while, targeting another new music, which emerged largely after 1990: manele, which will be discussed later in the text. In order to get a larger picture of the importance and meaning of folklore in Romanian post-war society a short insight into the sphere of research would certainly be useful (see Addenda, 3).

1989: The Collapse of the Communist Regime and Its Consequences After the bloody December 1989, Romanians were trying to break away from communism. But they soon noticed that detachment was difficult: people were the same, their mentalities and their thought and action reflexes had not changed, the young generations were already indoctrinated, the leaders of the old regime had settled into the new leadership, etc. But what should freedom be like? In January 1990, when the national television channel dared to resume its folklore shows, some viewers were outraged. They perceived folklore as a fake in the service of communist propaganda and took advantage of the momentary confusion of the national television (the only one existing then) to publicly express their indignation: that was not what freedom looked and sounded like! For a moment, the television management took heed of their revolt, but after a short time it rebounded and resumed its previous shows, from which it eliminated, at first, only the pieces extolling the Leader, the Party and the greatness of the communist regime. But what could it put in their stead? After 1989, the Song to Romania Festival came to an end, leaving its organisers without an occupation or any social visibility. The new neo-communist power was still at a loss as to which attitude to adopt with regard to folklore. One year later, however, it returned in full force: cultural activists, once so obliging, could not be exposed to unemployment! A solution was found for their rescue: the name of 253

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the “guidance centre” was changed, for the sake of honour, but also in the hope of renewal, to the National Centre for the Conservation and Promotion of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, with the same regional subsidiaries. The media also resumed the spreading of folklore the way they had done in the recent past, with some changes designed to hide its grotesque side: for example, the uplifting folk operettas from the Song to Romania shows became cheap little comedies. Even so, the music remained obdurate in its clichés. The folklore contests and shows were gradually resumed at a regional level, most of them being broadcast by national and local television stations, whose numbers were growing. Change was slow and it faced both sturdy obstacles and inertia. It was also hampered by the disastrous economic situation in which the previous regime had left the country. In the first decade, farmers were struggling to recover their land and other goods requisitioned by the communist cooperatives; the results, undermined by former local leaders, were almost always disappointing. In cities, people faced other troubles: Which factories, plants and enterprises, most of them bankrupt at that time, would remain standing? Which workers would be laid off and would have to go back “home” to the countryside? Who are those to whom the houses, estates and businesses seized by the communist state would be restored? What political parties were being set up, and who should run them? The first decade of freedom was chaotic. The next two were comparatively calmer and more constructive, especially after Romania’s accession to the European Union in 2007. Whatever the state of affairs, the situation in Romania remained somewhat unclear for a long time. The exodus of Romanians to the West had begun, with an upsurge after 2002, when Romanians were relieved of the obligation to obtain visas for Western European countries. The young peasants left their villages in search of better-paid jobs. The city dwellers, especially the educated ones, had their own reasons to leave: the functioning of the state was hesitant, the working and living conditions were precarious, prospects of professional advance uncertain, individual initiatives crushed, and the key positions everywhere occupied by the former leaders of the party and of the political police, and their descendants. Traditional rural music lost the support, weak or strong, that it had had until then. The emigrants left with their music recorded on cassettes, but most often they acquired discs with the latest fashionable genre, manele (see below). Only later, when they could afford it, did those still very attached to their “home” music take along with them one or more traditional musicians capable of producing it.14 At times, the adults and the elderly tried to make up for the absence of their children and grandchildren by organising dancing parties, attended by the middle-aged people left behind in the village. Traditional rural music was disintegrating at a fast pace. Only nostalgic elders and young people who hoped to become singers on television still sang or played instruments. Of course, the latter took as their model stars of the pre14 Two documented cases: on the outskirts of Paris, about six hundred emigrants from Oaș (northern Transylvania), who founded a Romanian community, fly two ceterași from their villages to animate their parties almost every week. (I have this information from the Parisian ethnomusicologist Bernard Lortat-Jacob.) In London, a ceteraș from Oaș, who has settled here for the long run, tirelessly self-advertises worldwide via the Internet. 254

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vious era and, therefore, they became estranged from the specific rural repertoire, timbre and ways of managing the musical time. Even the ritual wedding music – performed by lăutari, often with the contribution of the guests – was, to some extent, affected by “modernisation”. Some were simply replaced by new, more exuberant songs, or even – at the beginning of the twenty–first century – with imitations of television skits: during their performance the bride and her friends, parents, relatives and neighbours would have fun instead of crying bitterly, the dramatism of the separation of the girl from her parents’ family is ruined, the moment is desacralised. However, there were still many conservative peasants stubborn enough to remain attached to the old ritual songs and the symbolic gestures that accompanied them. Only the funeral music repertoire was still robust and very little affected by the passage of time. Each occasional (i.e. non-ritual) genre followed the downward path taken since the previous period. With few exceptions, the village hora (or Sunday dance) – where it still existed – was breaking down (see Figure 13.4). Likewise, some of the agrarian and pastoral customs were accompanied by music (see Figure 13.5). As the 1990s were more destitute than ever, people postponed organising community events related to the family cycle for better times, when they would be able to afford to hire musicians. As for the lăutari, they faced dire poverty. Their sons, disheartened by the precariousness of their parents’ lives, refused to learn the profession, as required by tradition. The consequence was that the family tarafuri, the sound backbone of the villages, weakened. A dangerous hiatus appeared in the musicians’ guild, which was going through its worst known crisis. About a decade later, the situation began to pick up, but it was too late: a whole generation was absent from music-making that had missed styles, repertoires and changes. In many cases, the lăutari’s “father-to-son” succession, of which Gypsy musicians had always been proud, broke. Meanwhile, Romanians began to infiltrate the industry, often rather inexpert in traditional music, but able to produce trendy pop music and buy more expensive “organs” and amplifiers. The chase began after ever more efficient equipment. Starting with the 2000s, musicians no longer competed in instrumental technique, sound quality, amplitude of the repertoire, etc., but rather in watts, hertz and decibels, according to the value of which they adjusted their rates. It goes without saying that the old, conservative lăutari were the losers. Interestingly, the manele, a music put on the market in the 1990s by top musicians from among the lăutari, were not wholly integrated into the repertoires of those from the countryside. In order to be able to meet the customers’ requests, the family tarafuri temporarily included a Romanian manelist-vocalist from the city, capable of performing them, after midnight, with the most appropriate timbre and rhythm. In the last decade of the century another “invention” was made: “dedications”, requested by one customer or another, paid in an envelope handed to the primaș (band leader), and announced on the microphone. A “dedication” is a request by which a guest asks the leader of the band to perform together with his group a particular piece in honour of another guest, paying the band in advance for 255

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this purpose. The leader ceremoniously announces the name of the person who makes it and the name of the person to receive it. The “dedication” is part of a social “game” with a musical pretext through which the social and material condition of those involved in it are publicly displayed and the prestige of both is enhanced. In all cases, the physical distance between musicians and guests increased, and their ability to communicate emotionally decreased proportionally. Many country lăutari, poor and terrified of technology, were bypassed by the organisers of important events. With their marginalisation, a valuable part of the traditional repertoires and styles was wasted. They remained available for a while only for the wedding Sunday “customs”15 that take place in the open air (in the groom and bride’s yard, on the road, in front of the church or by a fountain at a crossroads), customs in which they are expert: here, the use of amplification is often impossible.

Manelele – a Balkan Ethno-Pop In the cities, a new music emerged, manele (sing. manea),16 which took advantage of the decline of the Gypsy lăutărească music to quickly win over the general public, first in urban areas, then in villages. Manelele (pl. def. art., i.e. the manele) is a vocal-instrumental music performed by specialised Gypsy musicians. It is a Balkan ethno-pop in which two-sided songs fuse (one oriented to the Middle East and the other to Europe), often with “oriental” ornamentation and timbres, Balkan (but also African or Central American) rhythms, and harmonies of Western popular music (Giurchescu and Rădulescu 2011). The generation process of manele is similar to that of “Bulgarian chalga or pop-folk, Serbian and Bosnian turbo folk, Albanian muzica popullore, and Greek laika” (Beissinger et al. 2016: 95). Through the lyrics, but also through the structure of the music that carries them, manele express the desire to escape from the tight circle of national music and to enter symbolically into the wider world but not before making a detour to the south of the Danube, to which Romanians are bound by the long period of Ottoman rule. Manele also give voice to the very poor people’s desire to become rich, which, for the moment, seems possible only by onerous means. And finally, on another level, manele implicitly defy communist prudishness, through their erotic lyrics in which conventionalism is entwined with vulgarity. For all of the above reasons, manele were violently attacked by intellectuals, and then, out of snobbery, by ordinary people who refused to be associated with a destitute world, with the underworld, or with the Roma manelisti who had the reputation of “destroyers of ancestral folklore” (i.e. of the sacrosanct 15 Obiceiuri [customs] are ritual gestures always accompanied by music that are performed on the Sunday morning when the bride and groom go to church for the wedding ceremony. 16 The newness of manele is relative: in the nineteenth century, it was precisely manele that could be heard at the boyars’ parties in Moldavia (Moisil 2016)! However, I have never met a lăutar who had any knowledge of this. In any case, the connection between the music of old manele and that of the manele of today is difficult to prove. 256

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national-communist “Romanian specificity”). In all the public discourses, manele and their producers are “‘evil’, ‘ugly’, ‘immoral’, and ‘unacceptable’, all features of manele that have taken on public space in insidious ways, emanate from ‘others’ – the ‘local exotics’ who are blamed for many other wrongdoings anyway” (Beissinger 2016). In spite of the never-ending insults, the manelisti, among whom Romanian musicians have sneaked in recently, have conquered the popular music market. If at this time (2020) their music is in certain decline, especially in cities, it is only because they have largely exhausted their potential. Manele are, however, present at parties, at rural weddings and especially in the underworld. Manele are not “forbidden” in Romania, as a lot of intellectuals wish; only their dissemination through governmental media is stopped. However, today there are many private radio and TV channels that broadcast them abundantly.

Restructuring the Taraf and Rethinking the Lăutar’s Profession Towards the end of the 1990s, synthesisers produced a further alteration of the global sound and even a restructuring of tarafuri: rudimentary as they were, they made the presence of the accompanying instruments of the taraf (kobsa, cimbalom, viola, guitar or accordion, depending on the region) no longer indispensable, because timbres and their accompaniment formulas could be retrieved from their memory and used at will. In the last two to three decades, other specialisations appeared in the musician’s profession: for example, that of songwriter for would-be vocal soloists who want to make records for publicity. A category of musicians from Transylvania specialises as writers of new pieces for the studio recordings of rising stars. As bizarre as it may seem, these songwriters-performers, latter-day specialists, took up the role of the “new-life folklore” handymen of the communist era, but also that of arrangers of pieces for popular orchestras. Their aesthetic ideal is flawless execution, sometimes from basic scores written by the most skilled of them. Their instrumental timbre is unmistakable and unique: the studio timbre (see Figure 13.6). In the last decades, the more adroit lăutari have begun to write and record backing tracks (Rom. “negative”) for vocal soloists and put them on sale on the Internet.

Folklore and the Media in the Last Decades The media have, in principle, a problem that they are forced to overcome: their folklore must discard the nationalist-propagandistic function and, as far as possible, the triumphalist aspect (even professional sycophants understand this!), while still remaining attractive. But as Western popular music, with its 257

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paraphernalia of excessive intensities, extravagant set designs and hyper-dynamic stage and musical movements, was already invading televisions, the media reckoned that folklore must remain exaggeratedly festive, lest it look shabby in this context. This is how the recipe for making folklore put into circulation during the communist era was recovered, along with the praise addressed to those who contributed to its general dissemination. Its destructive impact on real peasant music was of no interest to anyone. However, the usual hieratic stage movements of the soloists, among cardboard settings dotted with anachronistic symbols such as granddad’s well sweeps or female thread makers, gradually disappeared or grew more understated. The topic of this sub-chapter is given a wider frame in the “Research of Oral Music in Romania after 1989” (see Addenda, 4).

The Major Changes of foLkLore in the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries: Recapitulation

PROFESSIONALISATION OF MUSIC During the twentieth century and in subsequent decades, a gradual professionalisation of rural and urban music took place, consisting of the migration of a substantial part of the community musical repertoire (from villages, cities, regions or provinces) from “amateur artists” (ordinary people) to professional musicians (lăutari, ceterași or muzicanți). Freed from the effort, the peasants and the villagers became careless: they left their own music to the care of professionals and contented themselves to be served with it. At the same time, they also accepted the consequences: the process of changes in their music was – partially – out of their control, and the musicians were able to make almost any change, including the creation of new music, such as – over the years I refer to here – Banatian-Serbian music, Gypsy lăutărească music and manele.

EUROPEANISATION Its earliest and most striking manifestation, carried out by musicians on their own initiative, was the tonal-harmonic accompaniment of the tunes. It began to be practiced in the last decades of the nineteenth century by city musicians, the rural lăutari started later but as early as the 1930s they were already producing, throughout the country, relatively complex, refined harmonisations that had the particularity of not affecting the modal aspect of the melodies they accompanied. In recent decades, however, the harmonisations of all the musicians became even more dense, often suffocating the songs they accompany. Later Europeanisation, which occurred during the communist regime, consisted of standardisation and generalisation of the four-bar melodic phrase at the level of the popular musical genres that were previously expressed in free 258

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rhythm (parlando rubato, flowing rhythm): lyric songs and doine. The champions of standardisation were popular orchestras, adept at re-formulating tunes in square, equal, symmetrical phrases, in fact the first of the operations implied by folklorisation. It seems ironic that the nationalist political regime in Romania accepted and even promoted these two types of “Europeanising” changes. But we must take into account the fact that this regime had major inferiority complexes in relation to Western culture, which otherwise it made selectively and scantily accessible, while chastening it on every occasion. Its officials, however, wanted Romanians to prove, through folklore, that they were European all the same – that is to say, civilised. Folklore was the only thing that mattered to the authorities, while the reference rural music was, in their opinion, “rudimentary”, “rude” and “wild”.

Reflection of the Ideology and Aspirations of the Time As the communities’ control over their music weakened, the musicians’ freedom to innovate on all levels increased. Of course, they continued to take into consideration the preferences and special requests of those for whom they performed; but they were also attentive to the national social-political context, to the ideology and current ideas, and to the people’s opinions about these. For example, the Banatian-Serbian music of the 1980s and the manele of the late twentieth century symbolised the Romanians’ wish to disengage from the system, by explicitly incorporating external influences. In my opinion, the first one (Banatian-Serbian) can be considered a sound preamble to the events of December 1989. Today, upstart city lăutari, especially those specialising in the late extensions of lăutărească music, attract and reformat in their own style academic music “hits”: Bach-Stokowski, Paganini, Rachmaninoff, Khachaturian, etc. It is the perceptible result of the fact that, in the last decade, many young people have graduated from music universities, but also an expression of the desire of some others to elevate their own music through interaction with a prestigious music: academic music.

The Shift of Creativity from the Village to the City and the Influence of the Media Little by little, musical creativity diminished in villages, but became proportionally more vigorous in cities. Only villages and rural neighbourhoods of Gypsy lăutari remained active and productive, where inventiveness, whipped by internal musical competition, remained at high levels and allowed the emergence of renewed musical categories, such as the love songs improvised 259

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through dialogue from the Danube Plain, in the 1960s–1990s. However, ever since then the party repertoires of the young musicians have expanded, being fed by newly written songs (including Romanian and Western popular music), songs broadcast on TV, songs recovered from the past and modernly revamped. Today, YouTube is a constant source of inspiration for popular musicians, especially the young ones. The role of women in the actual production of music has also grown: in tarafuri, the place of singers-instrumentalists from the south of the country is taken by female vocalists (often the wives of the band members), who refresh their repertoire by browsing the Internet, in the company of their children. Lately, a female cimbalom or panpipe player will sneak into one taraf or another.

The Progressive Dynamisation, Desacralisation and Fragilisation of the Repertoires Over the last decade, musical transformations have accelerated. The tempo of dance tunes has been invigorated, often too much for them to serve as support for dancing. The utility of the gestures that accompany the music became obscured. The free management of musical time in parlando rubato pieces has been suspended, the free rhythms being attracted into the conventional meter. Folklore shows and concerts stimulate the musicians’ appetite for free virtuosity. The audience has become accustomed to false, ostentatious cheerfulness and dazzling intensities. As their competence and demand continue to slump, they begin to accept, without objection, whatever they are offered. Musical fads come and go, almost nothing lasts, most new songs soon fade away without a trace. Banatian-Serbian music is unusually perennial: not due to actual musical pieces, but due to the pseudo-Balkan style that it displays. The music of the “people” of the first half of the twentieth century and that of 2020 are already thousands of leagues apart. Suffice here to display a short description of the main characteristics of traditional Romanian music (see Addenda, 5).

The Decline The music that not long ago we used to call “traditional” is, therefore, either collapsing, or drastically changing as a result of successive or simultaneous challenges. The first one was modernization, be it communist, of the economy, or of social structures and the way of life. The second was folklorisation, imposed by the Communist political power and adopted by a people who had learned to obey. The third was – in fact, is – globalisation, which symbolically detached people from their familiar place and local culture and created the illusion that they can grow roots wherever they please. Finally, the rise of technology and the internet plays a constantly increasing role: the former impinges 260

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on the timbre and intensity of tarafuri, the latter brings the various sounds of the world to the ears of all. The young generation has moved away from the older music, whose uncertain keepers became the middle-aged, then the elderly, then ... nobody. Now they only perform – if at all – radio, television and gig hits, with the standardised vocal or instrumental timbre of folklore, although it is worth noting that they still enjoy listening and dancing to the dance tunes of the local tarafuri. At big collective parties, for example on New Year’s Eve in top restaurants, city dwellers also dance with pleasure, though with little skill, to the music of the important dance tunes: the hora and the sârba in the south of the country, the învârtita in the Transylvanian area, and the bătuta in Moldavia. In the medium and long term, the ideological indoctrination of the people and the correlative aesthetic education imposed by political power have succeeded. Sooner or later, traditional music would have deteriorated anyway: all the transformations of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries were pushing it in this direction. But it would have been preferable for it to perish without leaving behind two caricatural creatures: the folklore of today’s media and the “new man” willing to accept it, to espouse it, and to perpetuate it. On the other hand, the new urban music, which was on the rise at the twilight of the twentieth century, is still alive, and will find its meaningfulness, fulfilment and aesthetic polish in the century in which we are living. Maybe. Who knows ...?

Addenda

1. FOLKLORISATION Folklorisation is the reformatting of traditional rural music for the purpose of publicising it, but dependent on the objectives of those who produce it – in the case of Romania, on the objectives of the cultural activists subordinated to political power. In other words: folklorisation is the process of transforming rural oral music into folklore. (It has been around four decades since this concept was used in French ethnomusicology.) The subconscious objective of its authors is to make the music of the folk orchestras and their soloists like the communist society the party set itself to build: predictable, orderly, placed under the command of a conductor (non-existent in folk culture, but omnipresent in society), to whom the folk musicians (lăutari) owe obedience, and who denies musicians the initiatives they are accustomed to from the current rural practice of their profession. Folklore (i.e. folklorised music), presented for decades as the superior version of the “unpolished”, “uncivilised” countryside music, would eventually come to be considered like that by the simple people as well: they internalised its aesthetic standards and adjusted their vocal and instrumental way of performing it accordingly. Communist power, in fact, had big plans for folklore, the proof being the large number of researchers that it employed, at least at the beginning, in the institutes of the folklore of the Archives in Bucharest, Cluj-Napoca and Iași. Since it rather wanted explicitly useful folklorists, in 1955, it founded the Centre for 261

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the Guidance of Folk Creation and the Mass Artistic Movement: a central institution with an absurd name (“guiding folk creation” is an absurdity!), which opened branches in all the regions of Romania. Therein, a new category of folklorists grew immeasurably: those who collected music to adapt it and to deliver it, in an allegedly improved form, to folklore ensembles and orchestras and folk art schools. As they soon were entrusted the mission to manage, in all aspects, folklore concerts and shows, contests, and, later, the Song to Romania Festival [Cântarea României], these folklorists became a socio-professional category, privileged by status, but also by the undue benefits they gained from the contestants.

2. THE “GREAT DIVERSION” – CÂNTAREA ROMÂNIEI [THE SONG TO ROMANIA] Around 1972, the Communist Party and the Romanian State distanced themselves from the ideology of proletarian internationalism promoted since 1945 and embraced a national ideology, to be instilled into Romanians by all means. In 1976, when it had already become aggressively nationalistic, the Ministry of Socialist Culture and Education launched, under the supervision of the propaganda section of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, the megalithic Song to Romania Festival. Through it, the State aimed to promote – in contest-shows, concerts, exhibitions and publications – artistic manifestations of all sorts, provided they were “purely” Romanian and (at least some of them) glorified the Party and the Leader. All the amateur and professional artists in the country were compelled to participate in the shows and concert-contests, while they were supposed to forget that the living standard of their compatriots was collapsing. The festival unfolded in “phases”, which started at the level of communes and cities and continued with the higher phases – county, inter-county, republic. Theoretically, people were supposed to be excited to participate in its musical performances. In fact, audiences were rarely numerous, and faulty planning of the contest acts caused many of them to take place after midnight, in front of empty seats and a drowsy jury. The jury included a folklorist-researcher and another eight or nine “representatives” of the Ministry of Culture, Army, Securitate, Militia, Guidance Centre, and county and town hall. Most contestants received a diploma that was a kind of honorary degree, but also a flimsy recommendation for radio or television.

3. RESEARCH OF RURAL FOLKLORE AFTER 1950 Most folklorist-musicians were grouped around the three archival institutes/centres in Bucharest, Cluj-Napoca and Iași. Some were affiliated with music academies in the same cities. Folklorists were not interested in urban music unless it came from villages: over the Western ethnomusicologists’ indifference to the city before 1970 was superposed an idea of the communist power in Bucharest: that this music, being heterogeneous and impure, is incapable of encapsulating “Romanian national specificity”. An exception is Gheorghe Ciobanu, but he dealt with nineteenth-century urban music (Ciobanu 1976).

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In the first stage, folklorists devoted themselves to intensive field collection in villages throughout the country, with excellent results, many of them included in volumes of regional monographs. On their return, they enriched sound archives with anthological pieces. Their field activity was followed by the transcription of the collected pieces. The musical text became the sacred object of the folklorists’ work – as in all the communist states of Eastern Europe. This happened for a variety of reasons – one being that power discourages critical thinking about society – the connections between music and the communities and people who produce it came second. Folklorists put together collections of musical pieces preceded by introductory studies. Case studies on various topics were current currency too: analysis of musical texts, descriptions of regional and local styles, presentations of customs and situations encountered on site, and so on. After 1972, folklorists were also concerned about that “national specificity” that interested the political power of the day, specifically conceived in opposition to that of other peoples, whether neighbours or cohabitants. After 1981, that is to say, in the age of virulent nationalism, the study of the main musical categories or genres was placed under the umbrella of a projected series of volumes of the National Folklore Collection, initiated by the Bucharest Folklore Institute. The volumes were to be dedicated to the major genres of rural music and the repertoire related to certain rituals. In time, the ethnomusicological series produced some remarkable books, authored by Corneliu Dan Georgescu, Mariana Kahane and Lucilia Georgescu, Speranța Rădulescu, Iosif Herțea, Adrian Vicol and Paula Carp. The folklorists from the Archives of Cluj-Napoca and Iași were also concerned about the “classical” traditional music of the Romanians, and in the case of Cluj, of both the Romanians and the Hungarians. All this work engulfed the researchers around the music and further distanced them from the mechanisms of its production. None of them felt this shortcoming because, far removed from the world as they were, they ignored the international developments of the discipline. Their isolation worsened year after year, with dramatic consequences: in the early 1990s, most of them were strangers to the concepts, working methods and research topics addressed by their colleagues in the free world, without this fact being wholly imputable to them. The most prolific researchers, with contributions in books, articles and discs that resist time are: Tiberiu Alexandru (Alexandru 1978, 1980), Gheorghe Ciobanu (1974, 1979, 1992), Emilia Comișel (1969–2009); Traian Mârza, Virgil Medan, Zamfir Dejeu in Cluj-Napoca; Florin Bucescu, Viorel Bârleanu and Ioan Ciubotaru in Iași. Research of Turkish, Tatar, German and Jewish minorities’ music, initiated in the era of proletarian internationalism in the first two communist decades, was abandoned. In Cluj, however, a group of Hungarian folklorists constantly researched Hungarian music, sometimes alongside Romanian music (Ilóna Szenik, István Almasi). The music of the Gypsy minority was out of the question. However, after 1973, the use of the word “Gypsy” was forbidden in public: since they were not featured in official state documents, Gypsies did not exist, therefore could not have their own music. “Romanian people” meant “people of Romanian ethnicity”. The urban music of the immediate present did not interest anyone.

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4. RESEARCH OF ORAL MUSIC OF ROMANIA AFTER 1989 After 1990, the Institute of Ethnography and Folklore in Bucharest added on its frontispiece the name of Constantin Brăiloiu. It also became subordinated to the Romanian Academy, and severely restricted the access of all ethnomusicologists to its archives. It is true, however, that these valuable archives are being transferred onto reliable media support (the operation is ongoing). The researchers’ interest in the National Folklore Collection waned. All the ethnomusicologists were now free to pursue topics that concerned them. As a matter of fact, however, the subject that concerned them, in Bucharest as well as at the research centres in Cluj-Napoca and Iași, remained the study of the “perfect” musical past, an inquiry conducted and synthesised in the same format, as territorial or genre monographs. These included titles such as: Categories and Pastoral Musical Instruments in the Carpathian Culture by Marian Lupașcu (2013), Semantron Calls by Constanța Cristescu (2007), Musical Folklore from the Region of Neamț by Doina Haplea, Ioan Haplea and Ioan H. Ciubotaru (Haplea et al. 2009). The researcher from Cluj, Ioan Haplea, opened, together with his students, a line of computational research of the traditional musical repertoire. Doina Haplea undertook, among others, a study of the complex asymmetrical rhythms in Transylvanian music (Haplea 2005). Zamfir Dejeu inducted the Romanian dance feciorește in the intangible heritage of UNESCO, and published a book on the same subject (Dejeu 2016). The newly established Peasant Museum set up an active research centre that produced a collection of Ethnophonie records, which includes 30 CDs of traditional Romanian, Gypsy, Jewish, Hungarian, Ukrainian, and Aromanian music. Also, it periodically organises traditional music concerts in its halls and publishes articles in foreign reviews of ethnomusicology. In 2011, with the support of Laurent Aubert from the Ethnography Museum in Geneva, it re-installed, at his headquarters, the sound exhibition entitled Pe aripile timpului [On the Wings of Time / L’air du Temps], dedicated to Constantin Brăiloiu. Ethnomusicologists from Romania began to cooperate with their counterparts in European countries with strong traditions in the discipline. As a result, the book À tue tête. Chant et violon au Pays de l’Oach, co-signed by Jacques Bouët, Bernard Lortat-Jacob and Speranța Rădulescu (Bouët et al. 2002), was published in France. At Cluj-Napoca, the ethnomusicological collection of Janos Jagamas was published, following the cooperation between the Cluj Institute, Liviu Pop and Gergely Zoltan, and two researchers from Budapest. Finally, Manele in Romania, a book by Margaret H. Beissinger, Anca Giurchescu and Speranța Rădulescu, was published in the USA (Beissinger et al. 2016). In recent decades, ethnomusicological literature has been enriched with seven massive volumes and many articles about old and new oral music in Romania, signed by Robert Garfias, USA (Garfias 1981); Margaret H. Beissinger, USA (Beissinger 1991, 2016); Bernard Lortat-Jacob, France (Lortat-Jacob 1994, 2002); Anca Giurchescu, Denmark; Sunni Bloland, USA (Giurchescu, Bloland 1995); Jacques Bouët, France (2002); Victor A. Stoichita, France (Stoichita 2008); and Filippo Bonini Baraldi, Italy (Bonini Baraldi 2013).

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5. FEATURES OF TRADITIONAL ORAL MUSIC IN ROMANIA The Romanians’ rural and urban oral music has particularities that distinguish it, to some extent or other, from the written, academic or popular music: variability, mutual convertibility of the vocal and the instrumental parts, interchangeability of the lyrics and the melodies, and the potential transgression of pieces from one genre to another. Variability is the ability of pieces to be structurally remodelled without sacrificing their identity by varying the circumstances, the meaning and the psychological climate of the performance, or the will and imagination of the performers. It is, in fact, the very method of existence of oral pieces: none is performed twice in the same way, not even by the same interpreter. The reciprocal convertibility of the vocal and the instrumental parts is a feature shared by the popular and academic music of both Romanians and other peoples: the vocal songs can always get instrumental versions, and the instrumental pieces, including the dance ones, can be associated at any time with lyrics, at the cost of some changes operated on several levels. We must also bear in mind that, in the case of freerhythm pieces, conversion can cause important changes at the melodic-rhythmic level, the instrumental versions being often musically denser. The interchangeability of the lyrics and the melodies are based on the same metrical pattern, one of the two trochaic patterns possible in the music of the Romanians: octosyllabic or (much rarer) hexasyllabic (Brăiloiu 1973). Hence, there is the possibility for interpreters to add, during the performance of a vocal piece, new lyrics, either extracted from various other pieces or invented on the spot. There is another consequence too: a package of lyrics does not necessarily pertain to a particular melody, and a melody does not pertain to a certain package of lyrics, except in rare cases. Finally, the potential transgression of pieces from one genre to another: a piece can sustain many melodic-rhythmic and architectonic transformations, becoming (and being perceived as) “something else”, a different piece, with a slightly different melodic-rhythmic profile and even with other functions. This is what often happened during the twentieth century, when a piece on the verge of extinction, for example a doina, was partially saved by recovering its melody in the formal patterns of a lyrical song proper or a dance tune. At the end of the interval, the most common case is that of the transformation of any music, belonging to any genre, into dance music. It is worth noting that none of these features described above has been seriously affected by the changes that occurred in recent decades. This may mean that traditional music has not yet exhausted its resources.

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Figure 13.1 Map of Romania

Figure 13.2 Musicians from the village of Zece Prajini, Moldavia (Photo: Speranța Rădulescu, 1993)

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Figure 13.3 Vasile Năsturică from Bucharest and his band, playing muzică lăutărească (Photo: Marius Caraman, 2007)

Figure 13.4 Sunday dancing party in the village of Hoteni, Maramureș (Photo: Ioan Pop, 2001)

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Figure 13.5 Musicians playing for sâmbra oilor in the village of Bixad, Oash county (Photo: Florin Iordan, 2014)

Figure 13.6 Urban musicians from Gherla town preparing a studio recording session (Photo: Florin Iordan, 2018)

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References ALEXANDRU, Tiberiu (1980) Romanian Folk Music (translated by Constantin Stihi-Boos; translation revised by A. L. Lloyd), Bucharest: Musical Publishing House. AMZULESCU, Alexandru (1974) Cîntece bătrînești. Cîntecul epic eroic [Old songs. The heroic epic song], Bucharest: Editura Minerva. BARTÓK, Béla (1923) Volksmusik der Rumänen von Maramureș, München: Drei Masken Verlag. BEISSINGER, Margaret H. (1991) The Art of the Lăutar. The Epic Tradition of Romania, New York & London: Garland Publishing. BEISSINGER, Margaret H., Speranța Rădulescu and Anca Giurchescu (eds.) (2016) Manele in Romania: Cultural Expression and Social Meaning in Balkan Popular Music, Lanham, Boulder, New York and London: Rowman & Littlefield. BONINI BARALDI, Filippo (2013) Tsiganes, musique et empathie, Paris: Édition de la Maison des sciences de l’homme. BOUËT, Jacques, Bernard Lortat-Jacob and Speranța Rădulescu (2002) À tue tête. Chant et violon au Pays de l’Oach, Roumanie, Nanterre: Société d’ethnologie. BRĂILOIU, Constantin (1973) “Le vers populaire roumain chanté”, Problèmes d’ethnomusicologie, textes réunis et préfacés par Gilbert Rouget, Genève: Minkoff Reprint, 5–39. CIOBANU, Gheorghe (1974, 1979, 1992) Studii de etnomuzicologie și bizantinologie [Ethnomusicology and byzantinology studies], vol. 1–3, Bucharest: Editura Muzicală. CIOBANU, Gheorghe (1976) Culegeri de folclor și cîntece de lume [Folklore and urban folk songs collections]. Series Izvoare ale muzicii românești [Sources of Romanian music], vol. 1, Bucharest: Editura Muzicală. CLAYTON, Martin (1996) “Free Rhythm: Ethnomusicology and the Study of Music Without Metre”, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 59 (2): 323–332. COMIȘEL, Emilia, in cooperation with Mariana Rodan-Kahane (1955) “Pe urmele lui Béla Bartók în Hunedoara” [In the footsteps of Béla Bartók in Hunedoara], Muzica 5 (9): 9–22. COMIȘEL, Emilia (1967–2008) Brăiloiu, Constantin. Opere [Works], vol. 1–8, Bucharest: Editura Muzicală. CRISTESCU, Constanța (2007) Chemări de toacă [Semantron calls], Chisinau: Institutul de Cercetări Filologice și Interculturale. 269

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DEJEU, Zamfir (2016) Jocul fecioresc din România [The fecioresc dance in Romania], Cluj-Napoca: Editura Fundației pentru Studii Europene. FRIGYESI, Judit (1993) “Preliminary Thoughts Toward the Study of Music Without Clear Beat: The Example of ‘Flowing Rhythm’ in Jewish Nusah”, Asian Music 24 (2): 59–88. GARFIAS, Robert (1981) “Survivals of Turkish Characteristics in Romanian Musica Lautareasca”, Yearbook for Traditional Music 13: 97–107. GEORGESCU, Corneliu Dan (1987) Repertoriul pastoral. Semnale de bucium: tipologie muzicală și corpus de melodii [The pastoral repertoire. Alphorn signals: Musical typology and melody corpus], Bucharest: Editura Muzicală. GIURCHESCU, Anca and Sunni Bloland (1995) Romanian Traditional Dance. A Contextual and Structural Approach, Mill Valley (CA): Wild Flower Press. GIURCHESCU, Anca and Speranța Rădulescu (2011) “Pan-Balkan and Euro-American Fusion Music and Dance. The Case of the Romanian Manea”, Yearbook for Traditional Music (ICTM) (43): 1–36. HAPLEA, Doina (2005) Folclor instrumental românesc din Transilvania: ritmuri asimetrice şi tipare modale [Romanian instrumental folklore from Transylvania: Asymmetrical rhythms and modal patterns], Cluj-Napoca: Arpeggione. HAPLEA, Doina, Ioan Haplea and Ioan H. Ciubotaru (2009) Folclor muzical din ținutul Neamțului [Musical folklore from the region of Neamț], Cluj-Napoca: Arpeggione. KAHANE, Mariana and Lucilia Georgescu Stănculeanu (1988) Cântecul zorilor și bradului. Tipologie muzicală [The “Dawn” and “Fir-Tree” songs. Musical typology], Bucharest: Editura Muzicală. LORTAT-JACOB, Bernard (1994) Musique en fête: Maroc, Sardaigne, Roumanie, Nanterre: Société française d’ethnomusicologie. LUPAȘCU, Marian (2013) Categorii și instrumente muzicale pastorale în cultura carpatică [Categories and pastoral musical instruments in the Carpathian culture], Bucharest: Editura Muzeului Național al Literaturii Române. MOISIL, Costin (2016) “A History of the Manea: The Nineteenth to the Mid-Twentieth Century”, in Margaret H. Beissinger, Speranța Rădulescu and Anca Giurchescu (eds.) Manele in Romania. Cultural Expression and Social Meaning in Balkan Popular Culture, Lanham, Boulder, New York and London: Rowman & Littlefield, 45–62. RĂDULESCU, Speranța (2014) “Oriental Waves in Romanian Popular Music from Wallachia and Moldavia”, in Georg Schoellhammer and Ruben Arevshatyan (eds.) Sweet Sixties, Berlin and New York: Sternberg Press: 416–428.

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RĂDULESCU, Speranța (2004) Taifasuri despre muzica țigănească [Chats about Gypsy music], Bucharest: Paideia. STOICHITA, Victor A. (2008) Fabricants d’émotion: Musique et malice dans un village tsigane de Roumanie (DVD Edition), Nanterre: Société française d’ethnomusicologie. VICOL, Adrian (2004) Recitativul epic al baladei românești. Tipologie muzicală [The epic recitative of the Romanian ballad. Musical typology], Bucharest: Editura Arvin.

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CHAPTER 14

Postsocialism and the Culture of Kazakhstan: National Music in the Era of Global Changes Gulzada N. Omarova (Almaty)

Kazakhstan (Historical Reference) The Republic of Kazakhstan (ROK) became an independent state in 1991, after the collapse of the USSR. It is one of the Central Asian countries that used to make up the Soviet East – the so-called Central Asian republics (Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan) and Kazakhstan. Today, to the west and north, Kazakhstan borders with Russia, to the south-west and south – with Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan, to the south-east – with China, and to the east – with the Southern Siberia region (The Gorno-Altai Autonomous Oblast of the Russian Federation). Due to the vastness of its territory (2,717 sq. km) and its special geographical location, it is a separate region of Central Asia and occupies ninth place in the world in terms of the size of its territory. Being one of the independent territorial units of Central Asia, Kazakhstan has, at the same time, throughout its history been the middle link between the largest cultural areas of the Eurasian continent: between Eastern Europe, the Muslim countries of the Middle and Near East, South-East Asia, and Siberia. Therefore, the role of Kazakhstan on the great Silk Road was exceptional. Due to its geographical location and historical development, the vast territory of Kazakhstan was a “natural bridge between East and West for many millennia, and its indigenous inhabitants were at the heart of the migration routes of Eurasia” (Akishev et al. 1993: 123). The intermediate position between Europe and Asia was also reflected in the anthropological appearance of the Kazakhs, finally formed in the fourteenth–fifteenth centuries on the basis of the complex interaction of the Cau273

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casoid (“autochthonous” – in the period of Antiquity) and Mongoloid (from the era of Huns onwards – in the Turkic and “Mongol” time) appearances. The mix is also observed in the types of economic management connected to the natural and climatic conditions of life. For example, in Kazakhstan, nomadic cattle breeding has been the main form of life support for thousands of years, which is inherent in the Central Asian region as a whole. At the same time, in a number of areas (south, east, north-east), agriculture has long occupied a large place in the overall structure of the economy, which allows us to speak about the settled way of life of some part of the population. The factor of settlement, as well as many caravan roads and caravanserais along the great Silk Road, caused the growth of cities in the territory of Kazakhstan in the Early and Late Middle Ages. Huge migration processes and the main line connecting the West and the East in this region contributed to the penetration of the main world religions (Buddhism, Zoroastrianism, Nestorian Christianity, Manichaeism, and Islam) into Kazakhstan in different periods of its history. According to official statistics, Kazakhs are Sunni Muslims, but due to their nomadic way of life, the dominant place in the Kazakh worldview belongs to the traditional faith of the Kazakhs – Tengriism (Islam here is accordingly a Sufi Islam, as in most Middle East countries). The marked borderline of the historical and geographical position of Kazakhstan does not mean an eclectic, mosaic connection of different types of cultures, in particular, Western and Eastern cultures. On the contrary, the complexity of ethnogenetic and historical processes throughout the formation and development of the nation led to the uniqueness of its culture. The typological similarity of the Kazakh culture with the cultures of other peoples of Eurasia is determined by the fact that it is part of the Central Asian nomadic culture, which in turn is part of the culture of Asia, and more broadly, of the East.1 At the same time, a number of modern cultural researchers note that nomadic culture is antagonistic to both Western and Eastern cultures in terms of its most important ideological characteristics and vital parameters. This antagonism is reflected primarily in the cardinal difference between nomadic and settled-agricultural civilisations. Despite the central position being the “epicentre” of the most important processes in the history of many tribes and peoples of Eurasia, the open spaces of Kazakhstan, primarily due to its climatic conditions are, in the unanimous opinion of many researchers, the cradle of nomadic culture, a country of classic nomadic lifestyle, which was preserved until the early twentieth century. The seventy years as a part of the USSR (1920–1990) was a time characterised by a revolutionary breakdown and actual replacement of the socio-economic foundations of life with subsequent radical transformations in all social spheres, including culture. What happened in the republics of the USSR in the twentieth century is part of the world process associated with contemporary 1 According to the general typology of cultures, the East covers not only Asian countries, but also the countries that are located outside of Asia, that is, on border territories (for examples, on the border with Europe – Turkey, Kazakhstan, some Caucasian countries; on the border with North Africa – Middle East countries). 274

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times in the history of mankind and the era of industrialisation: scientific and technical revolution, the collapse of colonialism on the one hand, and, later, the formation of a socialist lager2 in Eurasia on the other hand. However, despite the “suddenness” of the political collapse, and the “end” of the socialist period, the transition to independence in almost all republics of the USSR was not “revolutionary”, but rather peaceful and smooth in terms of continuity of power and the absence of social upheavals.3 That is probably why, despite political and economic independence, many public institutions, including education and culture, continued to move in the direction set by the Soviets (at least in the first decade). In general, the path that Kazakhstan has travelled for almost thirty years (1991–2020) is characterised by contradictory processes that show signs of a prolonged transition period to “true” independence. That is, despite certain success in creating a market economy and relative stability in the social sphere (Kazakhstan is by many indicators the most “prosperous” country compared to other Central Asian countries), the country is still on the path of reforms, both political (issues of power, public administration, legislation, etc.), and economic (commodity-based, resource-based economy, lack of continuity of economic programmes, destructive urbanisation, high level of corruption, etc.) (Satpaev 2019). We must also admit that in the period of Kazakhstan’s independence, the course of the policy “the basis first, and then the superstructure”, that is, the construction of a primarily socio-economic life of society without the construction of culture, has led to the fact that, until now, spiritual and socio-cultural spheres have developed “by inertia” and, unfortunately, are not on the list of priorities of state policy. So, the model of culture that was built in Soviet times still continues to work; there are only a few adjustments that life itself has made to this model in the beginning of the era of global change. The focus of this article is on the continuities and changes that have happened in the last decades, based on the material of Kazakh national (traditional) music.4 2 The socialist lager – an ideological and political term (political cliché) used in the USSR and other socialist countries to refer to the USSR and its friendly countries that have taken the “socialist path of development”. 3 A national referendum on secession from the USSR was held in Kazakhstan on 17 March1991. 4 Along with the recognition of the musical professionalism of oral and, in particular, Eastern musical traditions, the term “folk music” was replaced in Soviet musicology with the term “traditional music”. The latter concept actually means the national music of different peoples, but in the USSR, the term “national” was avoided for various reasons. In addition, the generalised term “traditional music” is more applicable to European musical cultures, in which “classical music” (professional academic music of the European written tradition) and “folklore”– traditional music (orally transmitted ethnic music) function. In the musical cultures of eastern countries, long before the acceptance of classical music of the academic European direction (late nineteenth-early twentieth centuries), along with folklore (ritual genres) and folk professional art (epic, lyric songs), there was also their own professional classical music – national musical classics of an unwritten tradition (Arabic, Turkish Azerbaijani, Uzbek-Tajik makam and mugam, Iranian dastgyah, Indian raga, etc.). The official recognition of this status of the national musical classics of the East can be found in the proceedings of large 275

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A Brief Digression Into the Past and Present of Kazakh Music We all know that the issues of musical existence and functioning in the system of contemporary culture have been particularly acute for Eastern musical cultures since the beginning of modern times. What happened to the national musical heritage of these countries over a hundred years is a very interesting topic. It is necessary to understand this, because today we are already in the next historical dimension and another era – the era of a post-industrial (information) society. According to the most pessimistic forecasts, this era is the “last act”: “Psychological changes in the information society are quite obvious and can be characterised in terms of regression and devaluation of the intellectual and spiritual spheres of human activity: mental development is slowed down, political process is degraded, the role of tradition is minimised, and cultural heritage is devalued. An information surrogate takes the place of knowledge, narrow specialisation replaces classical education […] Former rationalism and the cult of positive knowledge of the New era are replaced by de-intellectualisation and demoralisation of the Modern time […]” (Leskin 2011).

And then, on the contemporary era: “To veil the void forming inside so that a person doesn’t take it painfully, it is filled through the media with surrogates of inspiration – the vehemence of entertainment industry, the exciting infinity of virtual worlds, and the ideology of unrestrained consumption. However, the main purpose of the rampant ‘holiday of life’ on the screen is to hide the growing nonsense of being and prevent a person from returning to the sobering reality of self-consciousness and self-restraint” (ibid.).

I am citing such a lengthy quote to call for a real understanding of our present, without which it is actually impossible to understand and realise the trends of the future laid down in today’s reality. This future does not seem to me so unambiguously hopeless or flat, since human communities develop unevenly and, in general, humanity certainly has a chance. This is primarily connected to the fact that the contemporary epoch is characterised by two contradictory processes: on the one hand, at a new stage of history there is an intense division and dissociation of peoples who seek true self-determination and independence; on the other hand, newly formed states must become subjects of the world community and integrate into the global (or rather, Western) economy, politics, as well as culture, art, and education. international symposia such as Traditions of Musical Cultures of the Peoples of the Near and Middle East and the Present (Rashidova and Gafurbekov 1987), or Borbad and the Artistic Traditions of the Peoples of Central and Western Asia and Modernity (Radzhabov et al. 1990). In Kazakh music, the national musical classics are the art of an, kui, zhyr (professional genres of song, instrumental and epic art, in which the concept of authorship took shape in the fifteenth–sixteenth centuries). 276

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However, the processes that reflect separative, centrifugal tendencies in one part of the world (the Middle East, Central Asia, Eastern Europe, etc.), and unifying, globalising ones in another (Western Europe and America), ultimately indicate, first of all, that the development of human civilisations (Gumilev 1993) is out of sync and, secondly, that it is impossible (at least at this stage) to create a single, “universal human civilisation”. This means that, despite the modern processes of globalisation, humanity is not becoming a homogeneous mass and the acceptance by the majority of the benefits of the material culture of Western civilisation does not reveal a mechanical perception of its other values. Thus, even at the present stage of history, there are still differences in human communities on the basis of civilisations, nations, and cultures, and they naturally affect the level of peoples’ ethnic and cultural-historical identity (Hantington [Huntington] 2003). In matters of the contemporary national identity of the Kazakhs, it is impossible to ignore the factor of historical time and that of the formation of national identity in the context of nomadic culture and civilisation, which actually dates back over millennia, not centuries. This is incomparable with the time period of one century, during which the material (technogenic) and cultural and socio-cultural environment has changed, due to the revolutionary inclusion of the peoples of Kazakhstan into Western culture and civilisation. The Kazakhs, like many other peoples of Central Asia, were the direct heirs of the Turkic (more precisely, the Turkic-Mongolian) nomadic civilisation that was formed in the great steppes much earlier than the fifteenth century (the time of the formation of national statehood). At the same time, it is important to note that, despite the radical social transformations at the beginning of the last century, the Kazakhs have been able to preserve the foundations of both their national, and more broadly, nomadic culture as a whole. And the most valuable and, at the same time, most intimate heritage of this culture was Kazakh national music, of which in the twentieth century there were tens of thousands of examples. This fact confirms the statement of René Guenon, that “music and poetry reached the highest development on Earth in the nomad cultures […]” (Amanov and Mukhambetova 2002: 390). In this article, we also start from the idea of the contemporary Kazakh scientist, ethnomusicologist and cultural critic, А. I. Mukhambetova, who, in the early 2000s, in her detailed analytical article “Kazakh musical language as a state problem”, put forward the following idea: “Kazakh musical language, along with verbal language, is a vital asset of the people. It is a repository of deep layers of culture, an irreplaceable foundation of psycho-emotional and spiritual experience, the basis of musical masterpieces that are the property of world musical culture, as well as the basis for further development of the musical art of Kazakhstan” (ibid: 391). Today, in the era when many peoples have gained state independence, the problem of preserving, developing, promoting, and researching cultural heritage from the perspective of new concepts and new scientific paradigms is relevant. Those areas that are associated with debates on historical issues in rela277

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tion to peoples whose past, due to imperial-colonial policy or ideological bias, was reflected very deficiently, only in certain time frames and angles, often in a dubious and distorted form, are especially popular in science. Therefore, a comprehensive and in-depth study of ethnic history, national culture and art with regard to their relationships, which once gave rise to their systemic integrity, is one of the most important problems of modern humanitarianism/ humanity and, in particular, ethnology (history, cultural studies, ethnolinguistics, ethnomusicology, etc.). I think that here the researcher who expressed the following thought is profoundly right: “[…] the reality of modern times is determined not so much by the reality with its proper values, as by their compliance with national traditions, the logic of continuity of historical development. No matter how much we talk about the future of the country, layers of ethnic worldview and mentality, political culture and social stereotypes, having a certain inertia, remain self-sufficient as long as there is a national culture” (Orazbaeva 2005: 7).

The question as to whether we need to preserve the diversity of styles not only in music, but also in other types of national art, can only be rhetorical. After all, no one doubts that it is necessary to try to preserve the culture of each nation on a global scale. We can say the same about the culture of each nation, which has within itself regional traditions, local styles and traditions of creativity, different schools, etc. Thus, the problem of the Kazakh musical language as the keeper of Kazakh national cultures is closely connected not only with the further scientific development of actual problems of the Kazakh ethnomusicology, but also with the preservation and existence of the traditional music itself in the contemporary culture of Kazakhstan. In order to preserve the richness and diversity of styles that we inherited from anshi, kuishi, zhyrau and zhyrshy (creators and performers of song, instrumental and epic art), we must carefully preserve their creative and performing traditions. Meanwhile, this is becoming more and more problematic in the period of globalisation, the processes of which are rapidly changing the socio-cultural space. We must admit that the position of national classical music in the system of modern culture is quite difficult. On the one hand, this music is objectively alive and in demand both in the sphere of professional art and in the folk environment. On the other hand, traditions do not develop, the number of music’s true bearers is progressively decreasing, and most importantly, the audience environment which, with its understanding and support, can stimulate the preservation and development of traditional forms of creativity and art is disappearing. Why do we have this situation? Let us try to answer this question. In the contemporary musical culture of Kazakhstan, we can allocate three most actively functioning layers that were developed in the era of the socialist system:(1) Western art music tradition, including the music of contemporary Kazakhstan composers, (2) popular music of various directions and genres, (3) traditional music (so-called “folk” or “ethnic” music) – the national mu278

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sic of Kazakhs and other peoples living in Kazakhstan.5 Each of them has its own cultural and historical traditions and its own audience: most competent, usually musically educated people (most of them are professional musicians) listen to classical music; the listeners of pop (“light”) music are mostly young people, although at present everyone listens to this music whether they wish to or not (this is what they broadcast nowadays); representatives of older and middle age tend to listen to native music (traditional, and sometimes nationally stylised). Despite the fact that these three layers are based on quite different cultural types and traditions, connected by different historical, ethno-cultural and social factors, they are united today by one thing: the form of functioning, the form of implementation and communication. That is, the form of existence of all types and genres of musical art today are airwaves (as the most accessible means of realisation and distribution) and concert (stage) performance. The concert, as the main form of music-making, was established in Kazakhstan in the 1930–1950s, along with the approval of classical forms and genres of Western art music and corresponding norms of musical thinking in culture. In general, the concert form, as well as Western art music itself, is firmly established in almost all musical cultures of the world (the presence of orchestras, opera houses and concert halls). However, we should probably be aware of the following: the official preservation of the Soviet model of musical culture, in which the leading place belongs to Western art music (practically all institutions and infrastructure of this musical sphere are preserved in the country), without any education of the listening masses, makes this music elitist. That is, in the USSR, in order to introduce people to such a kind of musical culture, the state, in addition to maintaining the same orchestras, opera and ballet theatres, philharmonic halls and concert halls, channelled huge funds into mass musical education (children’s music schools, clubs, cultural and creativity centres, and music lessons in secondary schools using the system of D. Kabalevsky). “Ideally, the concepts of mass education were aimed at ensuring that children, future members of society, grow up to be connoisseurs of European compositional music. These ideas did not bring good results. The degradation of the musical culture of society and the rejection of the broad masses of audience of the world of high classical music created in Europe – is now a reality recognised by all (Amanov and Mukhambetova 2002: 414–415).

Therefore, today, concerts of Western as well as Kazakh art music are mostly attended by a select audience (a small percentage of musically educated people) and it turns out that it is necessary, by and large, only for this elite, experts and connoisseurs of that music in large cities, as well as for the “cultural image” 5 According to the latest data, more than 125 nationalities live in Kazakhstan; Kazakhs make up about 70% of the population, followed by Russians (more than 20%), Uzbeks, Ukrainians, Uighurs, Tatars, Germans, Turks, Azerbaijanis, Koreans, etc. 279

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of the country.6 Ordinary people are in the fold of mass culture, which lives by its “market laws” and, as we know, they are not limited and regulated: after the raising of the “Iron Curtain”, Western pop culture products freely poured into the post-Soviet space and, in the 2000s, Kazakhstan, like everywhere else, also had its own domestic pop music. From this we can draw a simple conclusion that a society which does not cultivate enough high art (neither of Western nor national traditions) rapidly loses its position, and the resulting “voids” are naturally filled with ersatz culture. Is anything being done in Kazakhstan to counteract this objective process? There are such attempts, indeed. For example, there is a State programme “Madeni mura” [Cultural heritage], which was launched thanks to the Decree of the former President of Kazakhstan, Nursultan Nazarbaev, in 2004 (the programme lasted until 2011). It became a large-scale phenomenon in recent decades and an unprecedented national project, which involved the purposeful work of a large number of scientists and cultural figures. Many historians, archaeologists, ethnographers, literary critics, cultural scientists, artists and musicians were involved in various projects to identify, collect and restore certain cultural monuments. For example, in the field of the traditional musical heritage of the Kazakhs, the CD albums Kazakhtin dasturly 1000 kuyi [1,000 Kazakh kuis] and Kazakhtin dasturly 1000 ani [1,000 Kazakh songs], which represent an anthology of the Kazakh instrumental and song tradition, were released. Its uniqueness lies in the fact that it contains or takes into account almost all known sound recordings to date and, therefore, living samples of kuis and songs (oleng, an). In 2017, realising the value of cultural heritage, which should be the foundation of the spiritual revival of the nation, the former President initiated the programme “Rukhani zhangyru” [Spiritual revival], the implementation of which should become the condition of the next stage of “modernisation of public consciousness”. It is stated there: “The first condition for the modernisation of a new type is the preservation of one’s own culture, its own national code. Without this, modernisation will become an empty sound”, and later: “New modernisation should not look at historical experience and traditions with arrogance like before. On the contrary, it should make the best traditions a prerequisite, an important condition for the success of modernisation” (Nazarbaev 2017). Finally, in the programme article of Nazarbaev “Seven facets of the Great Steppe” (2018), its second part “Modernisation of historical consciousness” mentions several major projects proposed by the leader of the nation. One of them is Thousand years of steppe folklore and music (section 5). This section touches on the creation of An anthology of steppe folklore (fairy tales, legends and epics), the collection Ancient motifs of the great steppe (a collection of significant works created for traditional Kazakh musical instru6 For example, at official government concerts, the main participants are symphonic orchestras (symphony pop orchestras), orchestras of wind and folk instruments as a modern form of the presentation of traditional music, opera singers, and ballet dancers. These collectives travel abroad to participate in the Days of Culture (festivals, exhibitions) of Kazakhstan. 280

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ments) and the organisation of a series of research expeditions to various regions of Kazakhstan and other countries to find common historical foundations of the folklore tradition (Nazarbaev 2018). In our articles and reports at international conferences of recent years devoted to the problems of modern musical culture (Omarova 2013; 2016; 2018), we noted the important message contained in these programme documents. They reflect a deep understanding of the historical mission of modern generations – to preserve and pass on the spiritual values of the nation to future generations and to build a modern culture on their basis. At the same time, individual programmes, even such long-term ones as the Kazakhstan – 2050 strategy probably cannot consistently solve the problems of cultural construction in the country without developing a large-scale cultural policy of the country, as well as a specific State programme for its development. For example, after the implementation of the project Cultural heritage, in his final speech, Nazarbaev expressed the hope that this project would find its continuation and, in the future, the identified historical and cultural heritage should be transferred to the sphere of public knowledge and mass media, available to broader layers of the population. Unfortunately, this essentially remained only a good wish. As for the programme Spiritual revival, society needs a clear understanding of what is meant by the concept (process) of “spiritual rebirth” (Rukhani zhangyru) and what needs to be revived. In the meantime, we observe that every cultural event can be held under the motto, aegis, and the sign of “Rukhani zhangyru”: there is a clear substitution of concepts against the background of a certain cultural situation (Omarova 2018; Abishev 2020). The Ministry of Culture of the country is mainly engaged in the same cultural and image projects, which consist of exporting large musical groups with soloists abroad in order to show and convince the whole world of the high achievements of Kazakhstan’s culture. Perhaps it is not necessary to explain that culture must function fruitfully first of all within the country and for its own people. Meanwhile, for the masses, we hold the same “cultural events” – one-time actions, sometimes large-scale and costly, which are convenient for cultural officials because there is no need to think too much about the everyday and complex issues of the cultural enlightenment of the masses (Isabaeva 2019). The question on how to preserve and integrate national cultures into the system of culture in contemporary conditions – conditions of globalisation and the unstoppable expansion of mass culture – engages the minds of scientists, especially in Eastern countries, since the introduction of the Eastern peoples to Western civilisation brought, on the one hand, tangible material benefits, but on the other, no less tangible losses in the sphere of their spiritual life. We are not talking about preserving cultural and spiritual achievements, but about the actual continuity, live functioning and possible development of the best traditions of Eastern music. In fact, this music was created according to the laws of oral creativity – “before our eyes”, with live performance and deep contact with the listener who, with his attention and understanding of this 281

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music, inspired and “started” the creative process. This is especially important for the existence of such classical genres of Eastern cultures as raga, makam (makom, mugam), kui (kai, hai), zhyr (yr, iyr) and others, where improvisation is the “soul” of the music. In an era of independence after a certain historical “stagnation”, we should really have found ways for the further life of these musical traditions. However, as correctly noted in Kazakh ethnomusicology, “the sphere of mass consciousness, poisoned by seventy-year-old propaganda, is far from these ideas” (Amanov and Mukhambetova 2002: 454). “Practically, members of any social and professional stratum of our society – from the unemployed to the Minister” (ibid.) are still bearers of myths of mass awareness about the need to “improve” traditional music. It was socialist propaganda that, for a long time, formed the idea that the development of traditional genres should follow the path of transformation, that is, national culture should be integrated into the system of “advanced European culture”. In the Soviet period, the processes of the active modernisation and “Westernisation” (Bruno Nettle’s term) of Kazakh music within the system of socialist culture were mainly expressed in the adoption of writing systems (notation of samples, numerous adaptations and transcriptions, and the training of traditional musicians on notes), European concert forms of performance, orchestral and ensemble performance (the creation of orchestras of folk instruments in contrast to traditional solo performance), etc. In order to perform kuis, as well as simple European compositions by Kazakh orchestras, native musical instruments (dombra, kobyz) were “improved”: their traditional musical system became unified (tempered), the forms and constructive structure of the instruments changed, which, of course, led to the levelling of not only the “natural” (ethnic) sound ideal, but also the modal and rhythmic structure of the music itself. Transformed (“cultivated”) traditional music samples were sounded in instrumental and vocal arrangements–in folk and symphony orchestras, accompanied by piano, on opera stages, etc. At that time this was meant to embed an idea into the folklore essence of traditional music,7 which could only acquire the status of professional music after its adaptation according to Western music theory and practice. Training in the state education system was also aimed at educating, mainly, folk orchestra musicians with an appropriate curriculum (still being followed by inertia). In this programme, the actual combination of a “traditional Kazakh and European repertoire by the instrumentalists forms an eclectic consciousness that is unable to deeply interpret both European and Kazakh compositions” (Amanov and Mukhambetova 2002: 453). In the complex of musical and theoretical disciplines which they study, Western ones – solfeggio, harmony, history of world music, reading scores – are still prioritised. This, as well as the transition to written methods of teaching (with the actual loss of the system “ustaz – shakirt” /mentor – student/) and concert forms of perfor7 The enormous power of this suggestion and inertia of thinking are demonstrated by the terms “folklore” still used in relation to the professional genres like an, kui, zhyr, “folk music”, “folk instruments”, “folk performer” and, accordingly, the departments and faculties of folk instruments and folk singing in educational institutions. 282

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mance, changed the very musical thinking of Kazakh musicians. As a result, instrumental kuis, which are multi-variant and improvisational sby nature, are schematized and solo musicians in an urban environment (where there are no life-giving channels of communication) lose the ability to compose. Professional composing schools of the Western direction in Kazakhstan, as in many Eastern countries, have put forward genres of national opera, symphony, concert, oratorio, etc. in some hybrid forms, which, in each culture, have formed their own niche. However, in the nineteenth century, this art was not very popular. Time has also shown that the path of the “indifferent mixing” of genres and forms is not the only one, i.е. there should probably be an “equal dialogue” or, in musical terms, “polyphony” of cultures, where everything valuable in national cultures should be preserved as part of the general spiritual culture of mankind. We have written about all this in international publications (Omarova et al. 2015).

Ways to Preserve and Develop National Music in the Context of Globalisation Taking into account the modern realities of the Kazakh culture and global processes, we face the question: Which direction should the Kazakh traditional music choose in the twenty-first century: the direction of “improvements” (for example, in orchestras and ensembles of folk instruments) privileged in the Soviet times, “modernisation” on the stage and with rock groups (in the name of modern processes of globalisation), or finally, the direction of revival of traditional forms, adapting them to contemporary socio-cultural conditions? Taking into account the fact that we have already spoken about the importance of preserving old genres and forms of performance of national classical music, it is necessary to emphasise once again that the musical and cultural heritage of Kazakhstan can and should become the basis of the national identity and spiritual revival of society. After all, we could retain the Kazakh art of an-kui-zhyr through centuries thanks to its powerful spiritual potential, which we still hold in our hands, but could lose it in a situation of an absolutely negligent (to put it mildly) attitude to our cultural heritage in practice, in modern life and culture. Meanwhile, we have to state that the specific features of Kazakh musical monody (for example, intonational-modal, rhythmic, etc.) are still being studied but, with no chance to identify its patterns, we are already under threat of the disappearance of the foundations of Kazakh musical thinking – such is the destructive impact of modern processes. In the makamat system, these aspects of the musical language attracted the attention of researchers and were successfully solved due to their huge expressive significance in Eastern musical cultures. Most importantly, due to the great stability over time of this type of Eastern monody, no orchestras of folk instruments were able to unify the traditional intonation system, so there is a lesser degree of its destruction in the culture of makamat. Unfortunately, we cannot say the same about 283

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Kazakh traditional music. For reasons of an objective and subjective nature, the instrumentalists’ intonational and modal thinking (for example, in kobyz, dombra music, and especially in the shertpe style) has gradually been levelled. Even in the solo performance of kuis of all regions we can hear an almost tempered structure and evenness of the metro-rhythm due to a certain mechanical quality inherent in modern performance. This certainly happened under the influence of orchestral and ensemble forms of music-making, as well as enthusiasm for a virtuoso technique of playing the dombra in which there is less internal freedom or a sense of “cosmic vibrations”. We should also note that, in modern performance, art musicians are fascinated with folklorism, or pseudo-traditional genres – this was manifested recently in the very fashionable ensemble music making, which is not native to Kazakh culture. The repertoire of these ensembles, which includes different national musical instruments, is characterised by an eclectic mix of different regional styles, not only of Kazakh instrumental music, but also the musical styles of related Turkic peoples (for example, pseudo-throat singing, the constant sound of percussion instruments that were used only as applied instruments in culture, etc.). That is, the processes of the superficial, modern interpretation of traditional genres, the influence of the fashion trends of Western and Eastern mass culture on the Kazakh culture are increasing. In this regard, the issues of preserving and developing the traditions of national music in the education system are particularly acute. For example, in terms of the loss of the environment and mechanisms for the functioning of traditional music, educational institutions should become centres for training specialists in a true, highly professional performance of traditional music. Unfortunately, we cannot currently tell young people whether there are any priorities in modern culture with regard to the development of traditional forms of creativity and, in this regard, what the professional activities are in the cultural sphere for which we are training them. The fact that there is no corresponding cultural niche for national classical music is evidenced by the catastrophically low percentage of concerts of native traditional music in halls, on TV and radio; music lectures within the “Universities of musical culture”, which once performed educational functions for the people, have passed into oblivion. Thus, our preliminary conclusions about the current state of traditional music in Kazakhstan are as follows: free entry into the global information space, which provided a favourable regime for the production of mass culture, penetration of market relations in all spheres of life without exception leads, as we now observe, to a complete levelling of spiritual values and guidelines. Unclear priorities and values in culture, with a clear focus on global processes, displace ethno-cultural traditions and classical national art to the sidelines of the cultural life of society. The actual lack of material and moral support by the State for traditional musicians – carriers of the specific Kazakh spirituality and mentality – poses a threat of the disappearance of the most significant layer of Kazakh national culture. Therefore, the tasks of preserving and developing traditional culture and art should be included in the State programme of devel284

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opment of Kazakhstan as an integral part of it, and become one of the priority directions of the country’s cultural policy. It is also clear that in the sphere of culture it is necessary to create modern forms of presenting music that are more appropriate to the nature of traditional genres and to distinguish them from European ones (performing musical numbers from the stage) in order to preserve the musical heritage. After all, kui (instrumental piece) or an (song), and especially zhyr (epic) in Kazakh culture is not a “composition” of the Western European type of the nineteenth century, which was created and performed according to other aesthetic bases. So, it is very uncomfortable for a traditional musician on the European stage, when the time of performance is limited, there is no live communication with the audience, and the possibility of creativity, improvisation, composition is limited. Social demand for communicative forms of performance of Kazakh traditional music has long existed in society, since after decades it becomes obvious that modern performance in the field of musical art leads only to the extinction of Eastern traditions. Today, it is obvious that the rejection of its own national heritage is a threat to Kazakh contemporary culture. Against all the odds, thousands of examples of classical music traditions did not disappear. Their rearrangement for the orchestras, inclusion into the repertoire of pop and rock groups (giving them an ethnic colour) or using them as a “raw material” for contemporary art music (which itself is experiencing a crisis all over the world) is a way to achieve cultural assimilation. What has to be done? First of all, we should realise that traditional music is a huge part of the overall spiritual heritage, which has to be preserved as an invaluable cultural and historical experience of thousands and thousands of generations of Kazakhs. Secondly, we should understand that as a non-material area of culture, traditional music at the stage of post-industrialisation and globalisation is placed in very strict conditions of preservation and survival, and this threatens it with complete disappearance. Thirdly, we should start total educational and promotional activities together with the creation of a State programme for the full functioning and development of national musical traditions.8 Particular steps in this direction could be: (а) opening a Republican Centre of Traditional Music, which would coordinate the works in all areas, including performance (educational) activities of traditional musicians, promotion of national music heritage (mass media), as well as its collection, archiving and study (Omarova 2009); b) implementation of a circumspect programme of training Kazakh musicians together with the creation of special schools for holders of traditional forms of art (Academy of the Kazakh National Culture and Art); (c) the creation of a modern system of aesthetic education of schoolchildren, which 8 The issue of not only the preservation, but also the development of national music in urban conditions is indeed a controversial one. It seems to me that if music really functions in culture, it has the right to development. It is difficult – there are no conditions for development. The question is to find adequate forms of functioning of national music in modern culture. My idea is that the carriers of this music should not only be performers, but also creators (improvisers and composers). Otherwise, this music may become ‘dead’, and now it is necessary to prevent that. 285

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should be based on national classics– masterpieces of poetic and musical culture of the Kazakh people. With regard to the latter – the creation of a modern system of aesthetic education of children in Kazakhstan – we find the concepts of mass musical education by K. Orff, Z. Kodály and Т. Sharoshi relevant, as well as the views of the Indian musician-educator Narayan Menon, who believes that at a time of rapid social changes, cultural figures bear a huge responsibility for the preservation and development of the musical heritage of their people. For that, we need to save connections with national musical wealth, “assign it a purpose and meaning, oppose vulgar perversions in music, prevent its use for commercial purposes, carefully considering each step” (Kabalevsky et al. 1973: 78). The scientist also notes that it is necessary to develop such general principles of musical education that would combine all the best that is in the traditional and modern systems of musical education in order to grow full-fledged members of society. We note the musical and pedagogical achievements of our Hungarian colleagues, who are still successfully working under the system of Zoltán Kodály and using his methods of musical education with dignity, brightness and convincing results. Noting the special role of singing as the primary artistic manifestation of a person, Т. Sharoshi wrote: “What exactly should children sing? Obviously, we can only talk about something that is familiar to children, close to their thinking and at the same time something that has artistic value. Such qualities are inherent only in folk songs” (ibid: 132). He also continues: “The child should receive his first musical experiences in his native language. This seems to us logical and natural; and at the same time, this feature of our system often gives rise to misunderstanding and even condemnation abroad. On the one hand, it is seen as a reflection of some folkloristic tendency; on the other hand, in some connection with this, this attitude is rejected, considering it as a means of educating nationalism, chauvinism” (ibid.).

In Kazakhstan, since the mid-1990s, there has been a similar concept and system of mass music education, “Murager” by Abdulkhamit Raimbergenov (dombra player) and Saira Raimbergenova (musicologist), based on national musical traditions. It has something in common with the abovementioned systems and methodological principles of education in the field of mass music education. However, as А. I. Mukhambetova writes: “Bartók and Kodály take choral singing as the basis of musical education, and Orff – children’s noisemaker instruments, А. and S. Raimbergenov’s took dombra, an instrument-carrier of the national musical tradition, as the basis of musical education. Dombra and kuis are the concentration of all the riches of the Kazakh culture, as they are all accompanied by myths, legends, historical legends, and stories about the life of the kuishi. And when children learn to play dombra, along with music, their native history, poetic folklore, the fate of folk musicians and the richness of their native language deeply enter their souls” writes А. I. Mukhambetova (Amanov and Mukhambetova 2002: 424). 286

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One of the great advantages of the “Murager” programme is that when playing dombra, performing traditional songs, instrumental kuis and epic small forms (tolgau, terme), the children actively make music. It should be kept in mind that, according to the most advanced systems of musical education, the main thing is the moment of performance and creative activity of children, which is of great importance for the formation of personality, because “susceptibility to catharsis can only be awakened by one’s own musical activity” (Kabalevsky et al. 1973: 131). Passive methods (listening and intellectual assimilation) will not lead to the desired results, since only active participation in the “creative process” can bring great joy to a child. Thus, creative music-making as the main form of musical education is “the only and most important factor that can foster a healthy attitude to the musical traditions of the Past and Present” (ibid: 315).

Problems of Modern Education of Traditional Musicians in Kazakhstan We associate our hopes regarding the possibility of “a healthy attitude to the musical traditions of the Past and Present” (ibid.) through mass musical education with progressive systems of professional education in modern educational institutions of Kazakhstan. These institutions provide the most favourable environment for the study and revival of the most valuable qualities of cultural heritage. That is, the task of the modern education system in the field of art is to preserve and develop the best features of the Kazakh national culture and revive creative traditions in special educational institutions, along with the development of modern types of creativity. Akyns, zhyrau, kuishi, and sal-seri (traditional singer) were creators and, first of all, they created remarkable artistic samples in musical, poetic and instrumental genres. In fact, now, in contemporary culture, we do not have these creators (akyns, sal-seri, kuishi and zhyrau), only the performers – singers (anshi), instrumentalists (dombra, kobyz, and sybyzgy players), zhyrshy (now they are performers of small forms of the epic tradition) remain and are functioning. We understand that only the reproducing activity of modern traditional musicians is a consequence of irreversible socio-cultural changes. However, within the European education system (in music schools and colleges, conservatories, and academies of art) it is impossible to raise full-fledged representatives of the performance branch of traditional culture. In this regard, it should be said that the education system in modern Eastern musical cultures has fully experienced the vicissitudes of all historical stages of modernity– industrialisation, expressed in the “Europeanisation” or “Sovietisation” of national cultures, and their subsequent “Westernisation” and “Americanisation”, the large-scale manifestations of which, in the post-industrial era (due to the unprecedented scale of information technologies), are still taking place. The processes of globalisation in music education were reflected, 287

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in particular, in the accession of almost all post-Soviet countries to the Bologna Process. Kazakhstan signed the declaration in 2010 and since that time we have had a single three-step system of higher education, which, unfortunately, has no alternative in Kazakhstan. However, after ten years of experience of the Bologna school system, it is time to conduct a thoughtful analysis and total monitoring of the education system in the Republic in order to give an objective assessment of its condition and quality. While waiting for this to happen, it is necessary to use the advantages and positive qualities within this model of education, and learn to respond to the challenges of the time. The main idea that we expressed in a number of conferences on modern musical education of traditional musicians is that, at this stage, we need to use the positive aspects of the Bologna system: it is a variation and specialisation with its narrower, but more in-depth focus in specific areas (if for some reason this specialisation is not good enough, it is possible to study at several higher educational levels or to obtain a Master’s degree in another specialty). Considering the position of Kazakh traditional music in the new socio-cultural contexts associated with the processes of globalisation, it is necessary to pay great attention first of all to the issues of the performance and training of traditional musicians and, in particular, to: (а) search for performance forms that more adequately (compared to the European concert form) reflect the nature of Eastern musical cultures, (b) transform the current system of professional music education in Kazakhstan. So, within the framework of the Bachelor’s programme, we propose the introduction of specialised training based on the development of various specialisations, taking into account their demand in the modern labour market. In our opinion, specialisations such as “professional performer (anshi, kuishi and zhyrshy)”, “art manager” and “teacher in children’s music school and additional educational institutions” prove to be the main challenges of our time. Why is it so? First of all, if we briefly outline the socio-cultural modifications that are significant for national music in Kazakhstan compared to the period of 1990– 2000, the main ones are: (а) Villages have stopped supplying traditional musicians (including orally trained children and young people), that is, the rural branch of the tradition has almost ceased to exist in many regions; (b) There is almost no club work in the villages that promotes amateur forms of creativity; (c) Both in cities and villages, there are very few institutions of additional education that could develop a traditional (not notational) system of education. Only children’s music schools that form a professional branch of traditional music at an early age are really functioning. However, first of all, the programmes of these schools are focused on a unified (written) education system, and secondly, tuition fees in children’s music schools are increasing every year, and not many people can afford to give their children a five–seven year musical 288

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education. That is, in essence, music and music education are becoming elite spheres. In this situation, the centres of education of traditional musicians are only special music schools that the State still finances. Issues of education are important on the national scale, and among them is the issue of specialists that are needed. The following questions should be answered: Is there a department in the Ministry of Education or the Ministry of Culture that studies the labour market in the field of musical culture and are there appropriate specialists (sociologists, cultural specialists, managers, etc.) who study the current socio-cultural situation in society? What are the spheres and institutions of culture, to which the traditional musicians that are being trained will be directed? These questions arise because there is a feeling that a model of education is being reproduced that works by inertia from year to year and, as a result, graduates join the ranks of the unemployed in the country. Meanwhile, it is necessary to take full advantage of the Bologna system and through careful filtering of the classifier of special and other disciplines, an opportunity for more optimal profiling should be provided, taking into account the current needs in specific specialties. It is necessary to really look at what areas a person who receives a Bachelor’s degree in “traditional music” can go to work. The functions of musicians in culture need to be clearly defined. Unfortunately, the process of weaning modern Kazakh society from its own culture, which began in the middle of the last century, is actually continuing. There are very few concert venues or TV shows (with live performances), and no real promotion of the musical heritage as a national classic that should be known and honoured. Therefore, it is not clear why so many performers are produced every year, and performing is the main qualification of our musicians. The second qualification is a teacher, but we do not have many educational and musical institutions in the Republic, and everyone tries to gain employment in the central institutions where all the positions are filled. Therefore, traditional musicians mostly become pop performers or organisers of toi (family celebrations) – it turns out that, in the end, public funds are spent on the development of the entertainment industry. Based on the realities of the present day, the education system should rely on an analysis of the domestic social reality and training standards should be formed and adjusted accordingly. So, where can a traditional musician go to work and how can an efficient profiling system for graduates be provided in accordance with the existing qualification characteristics of the specialty? Seven profiles could be named promptly: (1) The first is certainly a classical performer, a carrier of national musical classics (anshi, kuishi, or zhyrshy); (2) The second is a teacher; (3) The third is a kui player/band member and a specialist in folk instrument orchestras (bandleader, conductor); (4) The fourth is a researcher, notator (teacher of so-called ethnic solfeggio); (5) The fifth is a propagandist/promoter (editor, concert host); 289

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(6) The sixth is a manager; (7) The seventh is an archivist (specialist in sound recording and recording archiving). In accordance with the existing qualification profile of a specialty, every holder of a Bachelor’s degree should master all these “skills”! Under the existing State standard, it is an unrealistic goal. Therefore, there should be specialisation: after two years of study, the student must decide on his professional inclinations and priority choice and get what he needs. It should not be just individual elective disciplines, but a set of disciplines, which would define “the face” of the chosen profile and let the student receive a real specialised training. Naturally, such a set of elective specialisation disciplines must be well thought out; however, the overall minimum mandatory component remains. Specialisations such as “professional performer (anshi, kuishi, and zhyrshy)”, “art manager” and “teacher in children’s musical school and institutions of additional education” are particularly relevant. They are in demand in the sphere of musical culture now. The quality of training these specialists is far from good, due to the same modern challenges. What the true qualities of the professional anshi, kuish,and zhyrshy are and how to educate and train them in modern conditions could be the topics of another article. Regarding the problems of performance, the question of the functioning of traditional music in modern culture should be addressed once again. It has already been remarked that, in the practical musical sphere, forms of performance should be sought that are more appropriate to the nature of traditional genres and that differ from concert genres, that is, Western art music genres. Eastern musical cultures are known to have developed their own special types, genres of musical creativity and forms of their performance over the course of their history. At the same time, the forms of artistic performance were a kind of locomotive of the oral-improvisational process, which took place in front of the audience. In this regard, the requirements of the bearer of certain Kazakh musical traditions should finally change: he should now act not just as a performer (instrumentalist or singer), but also as an expert in his field. That is, a professional should be able to present all the information encoded in the music in the “verbal” part (“legend” or “story”) of his performance. More precisely, today, the educational function of the traditional musician is most important and his activity should be directed towards a revival of traditional music. Accordingly, a specialisation of the most talented performers from different regions of Kazakhstan should be considered. This profession should be especially supported by the State as it is particularly valuable for culture. Another very relevant specialisation connected with this performing activity of musicians is that of the art manager. Maybe the basics of management should be taught to everyone, but we need the specialisation today, because when culture and art are put in market conditions, the creation and then the embodiment of any creative idea (project) require professional knowledge and skills. These are associated with the study of the market and the competitiveness of this field of art, as well as the implementation, organisation and crea290

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tion of conditions for the performers’ creative activity. Art managers should also be prepared for the time when the right policy both in the sphere of culture and economy – through “coercion to patronage” (Satpaev 2019) – will contribute to the emergence of private sources of funding for culture and art, in addition to public sources. At that point we will need specialists who possess certain knowledge in the field of art (in particular, traditional art), as well as economics, finance, business, law, administration, etc. Finally, one more specialisation is the teacher of the appropriate performance specialty, which requires close attention. As already mentioned, under the contemporary conditions the student who receives a Bachelor’s degree is just a performer, and is still at the stage of the formation, development and improvement of performing skills. However, there must be a pedagogy based Bachelor’s degree, as in children’s music schools. The percentage of students learning to play dombra or kobyz has significantly increased, and the specialty “singing with dombra” is opening in many regions. The education system in music schools should be optimised so that the proportion of oral forms of work are increased, and ethnic solfeggio is introduced into the cycle of theoretical subjects. Specific mention should be made of the necessity to give students the opportunity to master the unique method of children’s oral education on dombra, which has existed in Kazakhstan for many years. It is the abovementioned Abdulkhamit Raimbergenov’s programme “Murager” (it is now very well known in the Central Asian region due to cultural initiatives of the Aga Khan Foundation). This programme can become the basis of the system of additional education – in the club activity of school and out-of-school education. As my own experience of two–three years of work in the city gymnasium No. 140, named after M. Makataev, shows, children from ordinary schools have a great interest in dombra and zhetygen and other Kazakh instruments, which is supported by the parents of these children. Therefore, despite stagnation in the management system, the people themselves initiate certain requests “from below” and this should find wider support than is currently the case. It is to be hoped that in the near future a special educational institution will be created in Kazakhstan for carriers of national (solo) musical traditions and, more broadly, national types of arts. In this special educational institution, there should be suitable conditions for study for the most talented teenagers, young men and women who have already shown their outstanding abilities and would like to devote their lives to the preservation and development of national traditions. This institution should develop carriers of classical national traditions, who will be accepted by the people and the outside world. There are examples of such separate training (both in different universities and at different faculties) in some Eastern republics (Azerbaijan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan), and this is not perceived as a manifestation of national isolationism: cultural figures in these countries, as well as the State itself, understand that it is necessary to preserve the identity of their musical cultures. In Kazakhstan, at present, all higher education institutions of arts have faculties of traditional 291

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musical art, which, however, do not differentiate the education systems of traditional and modern “pop” musicians. Meanwhile, back in the Conservatory in the mid-1990s, we proposed the introduction of a specialty “traditional performer” with its own individual programme instead of the old Soviet system that we had inherited, focused on an average standard, aimed at educating orchestral musicians. Time shows that in the era of globalism, with its tendency to universalise and internationalise cultures, on the one hand, and the aggressiveness of mass culture, on the other, a catastrophic “erosion” (weathering) of fine cultural heritage, like sound and intonation systems of music, as well as of the whole layer of national cultures, is taking place. Therefore, the system of State music education in Kazakhstan must necessarily perform its “cultural and environmental” function, especially since “the world is eager to listen to authentic music performed by authentic musicians. Authenticity, not eclecticism, corresponds to a time when the ecology of culture became as vital a concept as the ecology of nature” (Amanov and Mukhambetova: 455).

References ABISHEV, G. (2020) “Nedoponyataya programma: pechal’naya sud’ba Ruhani zhangïru v Kazakhstane” [Misunderstood program: the sad fate of Rukhani zhangyru in Kazakhstan], Dialog, 9 January 2020,

AKISHEV, A. K. et al. (1993) Istoriya Kazakhstana s drevneyshikh vremen do nashikh dney [History of Kazakhstan from ancient times to the present day], Almaty: Izdatel’stvo Dauir. AMANOV, B. Zh. and A. I. Mukhambetova (2002) Kazakhskaya traditsionnaya muzïka i ХХ vek [Kazakh traditional music and the twentieth century], Almaty: Dyke Press. GUMILEV, L. N. (1993), Ritmy Evrazii: epokhi i tsivilizatsiy, [Rhythms of Eurasia: Epochs and civilisations], Moscow: Progress. HANTINGTON [Huntington], S. (2003) Stolknovenie tsivilizatsiy [The Clash of Civilizations], Moscow: AST. ISABAEVA, Saule (2019) “Kul’turnaya degradatsiya Kazakhstana: est’ li svet v kontse tonnelya?” [Cultural degradation of Kazakhstan: is there light at the end of the tunnel?]. Interview with Gulzada N. Omarova, Central Asia Monitor, 27 September 2019, KABALEVSKY, D. B. et al. (1973) Muzïkal’noe vospitanie v sovremennom mire. Materialï IX konferencii Mezhdunarodnogo obshchestva po muzïkal’nomu 292

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vospitaniyu (ISME) [Music education in the modern world. Materials of the 9th Conference of the International Community for Music Education (IСМЕ)], Мoscow: Sovetskii kompozitor. LESKIN, D. (2011) “Chelovek v postindustrial’nuyu epokhu: novaya paradigma ili posledniy akt” [Man in the post-industrial era: a new paradigm or the last act], Pravmir.com – Daily Website of How to Be an Orthodox Christian Today, 17 November 2011, NAZARBAEV, N. A. (2017) “Vzglyad v budushchee: modernizatsiya obshchestvennogo soznaniya” [The course towards future: modernisation of public conscience], 12 April 2017, Official website of the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan,

NAZARBAEV, N. A. (2018) “7 graney Velikoy stepi” [Seven facets of the Great Steppe], 21 November 2018, Official website of the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan, OMAROVA, G. (2009) “Sovremennost’ i muzïkal’noe nasledie” [Modernity and musical heritage], Mysl’ 11: 71–76. OMAROVA, G. N. (2013) “Gosprogramma ‘Madeni mura’: proektï kazakhskoy traditsionnoy muzïki” [‘Madenimura’ state program: the projects of the Kazakh traditional music], Mysl’ 12: 51–54. OMAROVA, G., G. Alpeissova and A. Kuseubay (2015) “National Traditions of the 21st Century: Problems with the Preservation and Translation of Kazakh Traditional Music”, Acta Histriae 23 (2): 285–296. OMAROVA, G. N. (2016) “Kazakhskaya traditsionnaya muzïka v epokhu globalizacii” [Kazakh traditional music in the era of globalisation], Vestnik KazNUim.Al’-Farabi (Series: Filosofiya, politologiya, kul’turologiya) 2: 204–2011. OMAROVA, G. N. (2018) “Istoriko-kul’turnoe nasledie kak osnova nacional’noy identichnosti i dukhovnogo vozrozhdeniya“ [Historical and cultural heritage as the basis of national identity and spiritual revival], Muzykal’naya kul’tura i natsional’noe soznanie: globalizatsiya, modernizatsiya, kommuniaktsiya. Materialï Mezhdunarodnoy nauchno-prakticheskoy konferentsii [Musical culture and national consciousness: globalization, modernisation, communication. Materials of the International scientific and practical conference], Astana: KazNUI [Kazakh National University]: 13–18. ORAZBAEVA, A. I. (2005), Tsivilizatsiya kochevnikov evraziyskikh stepey [Civilisation of nomads of the Eurasian steppes], Almaty: Dajk-Press.

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RADZHABOV, A. R. et al. (eds.) (1990) Borbad i khudozhestvennye traditsii narodov Tsentral’noy i Peredney Azii: istoriya i sovremennost’. Tez. dokl. i soobshch. Mezhdunar. simpoz. [Borbad and artistic Traditions of the peoples of Central and Western Asia: History and modernity. Abstracts, report and mess. of int. symposium], Dushanbe: Donish Press. RASHIDOVA, D. A. and T. B. Gafurbekov (eds.) (1987) Traditscii muzïkal’nïkh kul’tur narodov Blizhnego, Srednego Vostoka i sovremennost’. Sbornik materialov Vtoroy Mezhdunar. muzïkoved. simpoz, Samarkand, 7–12. okt. 1983 [Traditions of musical cultures of the peoples of the Near and Middle East and the present. Conference proceedings of the 2nd International Musicological Conference, Samarkand, 7–12 Oct. 1983], Moskow: Sovetskii kompozitor. SATPAEV, D. (2019) “Tsentral’naya Aziya: riski, vïzovy i vozmozhnosti” (Doklad na XV Mezhdunarodnoy konferentsii po risk-menedzhmentu) [Central Asia: risks, challenges and opportunities (Report at the 15th international conference on risk management)], Kazakhstan Forbes, 12 April 2019,

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CHAPTER 15

Euphoria and Creativity: Bulgarian Music in the Time of Transition Claire Levy (Sofia)

The democratic changes after 10 November the 1989 (a milestone in modern history of Bulgaria), seemed to stimulate the sense of freedom in artistic activities, especially in those areas which had been traditionally a subject of ideological control and censorship during the years of totalitarian rule. In the field of music such areas, quite diverse in their nature, related to the artistic avant-garde of the twentieth century, but also to the youth underground rock culture, as well as to some heatedly discussed popular music developments touched more or less by the regional Balkan ethnic sounds. A logical step in this sense, for example, points to the beginning of the 1990s, when Georgi Tutev, a composer and representative of the Bulgarian musical avant-garde, established a Society for new music named Musica Viva. The Society aimed to promote achievements of contemporary Bulgarian and international musical culture, which had been somewhat neglected in the previous years by the official circles of the Union of Bulgarian Composers. More than forty concerts were organised during the very first year of the music society’s existence, offering premiere performances of a number of modern Bulgarian and foreign musical works. Compositions by Pierre Boulez, Konstantin Iliev, Karlheinz Stockhausen, AndréBoucourechliev, Anton Friedrich Wilhelm Webern and Ilya Zelenka were performed during the first concert, held on 27 April 1991. A few years later, in 1993, the Society initiated the New Music Festival. This event hosted the presentation of works by composers from different generations, who significantly influenced Bulgarian musical art developments during the last decade of the twentieth century. Particular inputs in this direction were made by outstanding figures such as Simeon Pironkov, Georgi Tutev, Vasil Kazandjiev, Lazar Nikolov, Stefan Dragostinov, Georgi Arnaudov, Roumen Balyozov, Russi Tarmakov, Bozhidar Spasov, Julia Tsenova, Dragomir 295

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Yossifov, Adrian Pervazov, and Yasen Vodenicharov, among others. The founding of Musica Viva Society and New Music Festival meant as well an intention in terms of systematically educating new audiences, open for avant-garde ideas in the world of contemporary musical culture. It must be pointed out that at that time, generally speaking, the state withdrew its monopoly and financial support for musical activities and new opportunities for private initiatives opened up. For example, along with the national state radio and television, a number of private radio and television stations with different types of coverage started broadcasting, and cable television also became available. New entrepreneurial labels, recording studios, and record companies began operating. The country’s peculiar financial situation experiencing the transition time to a free-market economy, and the lack of clearly stated copyright laws (at least up to 1995), created favourable conditions for uncontrolled illegal trading of pirated CDs and audio and video products. Having in mind the context of the newly establishing decentralised cultural politics during the 1990s which rejected the dictate of any ideological considerations and took advantage of the free market economy developments, the democratic process observed in the flexible field of popular music turned to be quite more dynamic, unpredictable as well as controversial.

Alternative Voices on the Rock Scene At the beginning of the 1990s Kolio Gilana (nick name of Nikolay Yordanov that hints a fun wink to the name of Ian Gillan, the lead singer and lyricist for the rock band Deep Purple), lead vocalist of the rock group Control, somewhat unexpectedly surprised the public space with Nay-shtastlivia den [The Happiest Day] – a song which troubled the more traditionally tuned ear.1 The song imitated but also inverted in a comic way retro-musical lexis in the spirit of conventional pop music structures from the 1960s and no less conventional, unassuming melodramatic lyrics. The absurd way in which the song expresses its central message (“[...] and here comes the happiest day – when you will be far away”) reveals an ironic view, as if in front of a curved mirror (not as much satirising as laugh-inducing) which demonstrates a cheerful personal attitude towards the tearful world of the melodramatic experience. Many would recognise the signs of particular decline of the sublime romantics, stimulated by the changing social and artistic values in the years following 1989. Others might note the signs of a mentality which does not see “the strength of feelings” in black and white, and does not measure them according to the decibels of the noisy, showy tearfulness and the moralising aspect of the melodrama, deeply rooted in music at least since the times of Verdi’s operas and the classical operetta. Although it provided a certain aesthetic alternative, at least in reference to the prevailing perceptions observed in Bulgaria at the time, this type of mentality does not overshadow the popularity of traditional clichés in interpreting the love theme – especially considering the well known 1 296

The song is included in the album Lele kako! (Sofia Music Enterprises, 1992).

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passion for the “happy end” formula in movies or the sentiment towards a key song phrase such as “all dreams come true”, or the nostalgia for stylistics which dominated the not-so-distant past, typical of the song repertoire of emblematic Bulgarian pop singers such as Lili Ivanova and Emil Dimitrov. Moreover, the “bitter-sweet” emotion (if we could use this euphemism to denote melodrama) is indicative in terms of people’s psychology, observed in various musical traditions. Such a sentiment, dressed in particular stylistics, seems to be more often associated with the music of the East – even though the idea in this direction has its parallels in the context of different cultures, of different communities. The “bitter-sweet” emotion is specifically blended also in much of the music created in Western Europe under the influence of, say, the aesthetics of the nineteenth-century romanticism. Not to mention many of the musical traditions of Bulgarians, especially in the field of everyday vernacular culture. Seen through the eyes of the youth underground from the beginning of the 1990s, however, the parody gestures of rock group Control arrived at the right time and in the right place. Indicative of a consistently applied parody approach are most of their songs in the albums Boom (1990), Lele kako! (1992), Luboff [Love] (1994). Having been an expression of overall musical and behavioral attitude, characteristic of almost all of the group’s songs, this approach has obviously shown the accumulation of certain values related not only to Western models under the punk stylistics, but also to the specific projections of informal communication and non-conformism, previously cultivated during the 1970s and 1980s in a number of songs by some of the most successful and popular rock groups like Shturtsite, Tangra and FSB. Seen in the context of the cultural situation in Bulgaria, the inverted interpretation of melodrama was substantially developed not by chance in the music of the youth underground in the beginning of the 1990s, who were oriented towards topical rock music trends of the time – especially in terms of the particular verbal creativity within the punk stylistics which, as a rule, searched for the biting, non-conformist, sometimes even anarchical metaphoric language of irony and double-meaning. Without romanticising the halo of rock music as a carrier of alternative ideas, it is worth remembering that such developments reflected the specific history of rock music in Bulgaria. Having been a subject to ideological sanctions and restrictions under the conditions of the centralised cultural policy in the years preceding 1989, rock music in Bulgaria has now acquired a different public status, stimulated to a certain extent by “the wind of change” and the inceptive democratic processes in the country. Rock musicians found themselves in the focus of public attention, their voices sounded over the crowds gathered in the squares during political rallies, songs by the rock poet Alexander Petrov, including Vremeto e nashe [The Time Belongs to Us], Posleden vals [The Last Waltz], and Razvod mi day [Divorce], acquired the fame of national hymns. The rock singer Milena Slavova with the group Review were spreading socially engaging messages, Vasko Krapkata with Poduene Blues Band was riding the liberalising wave coming from the Mississipi Delta, while Let It Be by the Beatles, which was not allowed for na297

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tional broadcasting until then, dominated the public sound spaces, acquiring new rebellious connotations. This environment, new to Bulgarian rock, stimulated in a new manner the affinity towards playfulness, was perceived as a peculiar symbiosis between aesthetic, social and political perspectives. A manifestation of this were, for example, the songs by the Review from their album Ha-ha (Unison, 1991), and particularly the song Oholen jivot [Affluent Life], written by Milena Slavova and Vasil Gyurov. The cultivating of a taste for this kind of metaphoric expression reveals specific musical and behavioural accumulations in the context of the youth culture which several years later, in the late 1990s, culminated in a different manner in the shrewd rhymes of the rapping boys from the band Upsurt, who played around with funny lyrics, jokes, self-irony, and the paradox – in the spirit of the globalised, but still local interpretation of affinity towards the informal, uncensored, aggressive vocabulary, associated with the hip-hop culture.2

The Balkan Touch: Paradoxes of Identity In 1995, when the American magazine Newsweek declared that the Bulgarian master kaval player Theodosii Spassov had created a new musical genre that was seen as representing a particular direction in the field of contemporary jazz, the dominant soundscape in Bulgaria was already showing signs of a revitalised tradition in local vernacular music. Musicians drew freely on the tangled regional skein of local Balkan roots, but also from a wide spectrum of globalised sounds projected onto the field of contemporary popular music. At approximately the same time, astounded Westerners were struck by the whirlwind tempi, complex metric and rhythmic patterns, passionate tunes and unusual (for the Western ear) timbres and modal structures heard beyond the Balkans as early as the eighties—say, for example, in the playing of Ivo Papasov3 and his orchestra Trakia.4 The West begun to talk about the legendary performers of Bulgarian wedding music, described as a new phenomenon that “in the 1980s transformed the East-European musical terrain with its mighty blend, woven from Balkan folk, spiced with jazz, rock, Gypsy, Turkish, and Indian music.”5 2 A good example in this sense is the album Chekay malko [Wait a Minute] (Free Agents, 2001). 3 Bulgarian master clarinetist of Turkish-Rom origins, innovator of local wedding music. 4 Papasov formed Trakia orchestra in 1974. Joe Boyd, producer of the albums Orpheus Ascending (1989) and Balkanology (1991), had a fundamental role in the popularisation of Ivo Papasov and Trakia orchestra outside Bulgaria. The albums were issued by the British company Hannibal Records. 5 Adapted from Carol Silverman’s publicity notes for the US tour of Yuri Yunakov, Ivo Papazov, Salif Ali and Neshko Neshev and from their album Together Again, issued in 2005 by the American record company Traditional Crossroads, which specialises in world music. 298

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There is no doubt that the Western world had noticed the alternative impulses in the new ethnomusic from Bulgaria, touched as if by the wild blast and somehow irrational waft coming from those zones which, in the words of Richard Middleton, were formally abused but subconsciously desired in postrenaissance Europe (2000: 61). Connected mainly to the traditions of rural folk and urban vernacular music, such zones remind in a particular way of the “other” in Europe, as well as of that Dionysian sensitivity presently observed in the ubiquitous mosaic of non-standard phenomena teeming along unknown paths in the variegated context of the global postmodern situation. At the end of the twentieth century, it appears that the West, shedding layered taboos and simplifying cultural interpretations, is looking for new stimuli in the notions of “roots” and “authenticity.” Weariness with the mimicry of rational and somehow sterile strategies in the creation of musical artifacts or boredom with the slick brilliance of the refined expression of pop culture has activated a taste for difference, for those not quite known but inspiring cultural spaces connected with the symbolic and enigmatic nature of regional traditions that ignite the imagination, although not always at a conscious level. Even the growing global interest in the peculiar literary world of Marquez6 and Radichkov7 or in the non-standard musical journeys of Ibrahim Ferrer, Ivo Papasov, Boban Marković and Goran Bregović can be seen as symptomatic. Apparently, the Western world has become more curious about the characteristic energies of regional cultures. Similar attitudes, it seems, are unfolding under that logic of general cultural processes which gave rise to such trans-border phenomena as, say, world music.8 The global craze for regional cultures created new prospects for the already innovative sounds of Bulgarian wedding music. Fitting, in a sense, the famous postmodern motto “Think globally, act locally!”, it is these sounds that feed, to a great degree, the contours of the new wave in Bulgarian jazz, as well as colouring other non-traditional genre trends in the field of Bulgarian popular music that emerged in the beginning of the 1990s. It is worth noting, however, that the flourishing of local ethnomusic, based strongly on multi-ethnic fusions between regional Balkan sounds, was perceived at that time as a peculiar novelty in the soundspace, not only by Westerners but also by Bulgarians. The paradoxes in the dynamic between concepts of “self ” and “other” had pushed identification processes in such a way that, at the end of the 1980s, the sound profile of popular music within 6 Gabriel García Márquez, Columbian Nobel-prize winning novelist noted for his style of magical realism. 7 Yordan Radichkov (1929–2004), Bulgarian writer who also wrote novels infused with magical realism. 8 Although world music is sometimes realised as a condescending nod of the modern West to the “exotic” nature of its “others”, it is a phenomenon that hints in a particular way at the decline of the “big narratives” and the upsurge of “small” ones. Placing fragments of heterogeneous musical traditions in new relations with global popular culture, the trend of world music proves to be a chance for non-Western musicians to be noticed outside their regional environments and to be included more effectively among the most recent phenomena in the world of contemporary music. 299

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Bulgaria—at least the one that dominated the public media space and influenced an essential part of the Bulgarian musical mainstream—was related more to the vocabulary of a pro-Western oriented, modernising sound lexicon than to the traditional vernacular language of the local self. Despite ideological restrictions, the result of centralised cultural politics that ran for nearly half a century, the leading trends in the development of pop, rock and jazz in Bulgaria during the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s revealed an insatiable striving toward the acquisition of just such modernising intonational orientations. In a sense, the view toward dynamically changing global fads prompted tendencies that reformulated local concepts of “everyday music,” especially those which had a bearing on the attitudes and preferences of the generations formed in the context of urbanised Bulgaria during the second half of the twentieth century. In this way the local self, understood as a polyphonic set that ranged over musical traditions of different local ethnic communities, was for a long time pushed out to the periphery of the public space, mostly because of its Balkan flavour and of complicated sociopsychological connotations dominated by negative signs and the allusion of “backwardness” and because of the dogmatic understanding concerning the “civilisation choice” which pervaded some circles within Bulgarian culture. Now, the rise of some postsocialist trends in the field of popular music, strongly influenced by the Balkan touch, revived an old national identity syndrome and a dilemma that has accompanied Bulgaria at least since the time of its liberation in 1878, after five centuries of being part of the Ottoman Empire – long enough to explain the visible “oriental” cultural traces in the language and music of Bulgarian culture in the present. This dilemma is more political than musical, but it is also shared by other Balkan countries with a similar political history and likewise located at the crossroads between East and West (see Stokes 2000: 213–233). Underlying it are calls for a clear orientation of the national “civilisational choice”. Which is the road to national prosperity? East or West? Orient or Europe? Or – translating the largely popular interpretations of this geographical binary – cultural backwardness or modern progressiveness? According to some of the most common ideological trends now penetrating the new Bulgarian history, such a dilemma is mainly rhetorical. Cultural elites in this country have repeatedly propagated and encouraged – in the name of the right cultural choice – acceptance and acculturation of the values associated with the European Enlightenment and the implicit idea of “catching up” with the European West, which embodies the “Promised Land” and is the rose-coloured icon of human progress. Such a choice presupposes, however, that the cultural heritage of Bulgaria in its broadest sense (its ethnically mixed culture, language, and music vocabulary, expressed in ways comparable with the lively local inter-ethnic exchanges taking place throughout the Balkans) is something different and dispensable. Instead of looking at the dilemma as a possible expression of complementary conditions, rather than as a choice between alternatives, that is East and West rather than East or West, cultural

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elites persist in trying – in the name of social, political, and cultural progress – to distance Bulgarians from some of the multi-ethnic traces of their past. Needless to say, debates of this sort have revealed “essentialist” views close to the rather anachronistic idea of the national as a single, frozen concept, while remaining somewhat vague with respect to the place of local minorities in the context of the national discourse. Such an anachronistic point of view is evidently quite opposed to the idea of interpreting identities in a multiple, pluralistic, and flexible way, according to which the inherited and the acquired do not necessarily contradict each other and may construct the specific identities both of individuals and groups. Quite paradoxically, in this particular case, the inherited (the Balkan) was conceptualised as the culturally horrifying “other,” that is, as an enemy inside the nation, while the acquired (global Western-influenced and Western-oriented pop music trends) was considered as a promising friendly sign outside the nation leading to modern civilisation and future prosperity. Some observers suggest that such negative attitudes to the particular Balkan cultural notions could be seen in general as a reflection of one taken for granted ideology developed by Europe itself – this Europe which, in looking for its positive image in the age of modernity, constructs its “reverse others” with negative connotations. In this sense, Maria Todorova states that “by being geographically inextricable from Europe, yet culturally constructed as ‘the other’ within, the Balkans have been able to absorb conveniently a number of externalised political, ideological, and cultural frustrations stemming from tensions and contradictions inherent to the regions and societies outside the Balkans” (Todorova 1997: 188). Thus, “the Balkans have served as a repository of negative characteristics against which a positive and self-congratulatory image of the ‘European’ and the ‘Western’ has been constructed” (ibid.). In his book Europe Count Hermann Keyserling even stated that “if the Balkans hadn’t existed, they would have been invented” (ibid.). This paradoxical statement, expressed still in 1928, implies again the motives for deliberate ideological construction of the “other” – this “other” who may serve as a negative mirror in the construction of the positive European self, even if this self is otherwise quite amorphous and controversial. Whether or not such presuppositions have their well grounded arguments and maintain their validity at present, it is not difficult to suggest that the national discourse in Bulgaria still very much excludes, or at least pushes to the margins, not the “distant other,” but that “local other” who reminds of the existence of particular Balkan stock in music. In Bulgaria today it is much more prestigious to follow musical canons from the “distant different”, including what is heard, for instance, in the productions of Britney Spears or Marilyn Manson. In other words, the Western European and North American canons, and the idea of a “pure” folklore, the folklore of ethnic Bulgarians, shape the idea of what should be called “national values” in art and culture. The local multi-ethnic musical mixtures of the present provoke the highbrow syndrome and a capacity for sanction supposedly owned by the “cultural elites”. 301

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Without wishing to generalise too readily, it might be suggested, however, that such a paradoxical reception of the “other” in which the “local different” is considered as a horrifying enemy, is not only a Bulgarian national syndrome. People from other national cultures also embrace more easily the “cultural other” or the “different” that comes from afar and tend to be suspicious of the “others” around them. However, because of various trends in cultural globalisation which expose more and more people to a mosaic of different cultures, attitudes to the “others” have progressively changed. The music itself re-affirms this condition, given that the process of music making is often fueled by intuition, not in response to ideological taboo and speculation. Moreover, modern creative attitudes are no longer dominated by single cultural canons. Since we live in an era of ex-centric attitudes, it is a function of the late modernity to resist cultural essentialism, regardless of whether it derives from a Western European or North American canons. There is, in effect, another side to cultural globalisation, one which stimulates not the McDonaldisation (Ritzer 2000) of the world, but cultural differences. Whether we like it or not, the process of globalisation is progressing. Yet, the more intensive it is, the more evident is the need for the survival of ethnic memories. Although the category of world music – a vague and quite amorphous label, indeed – was devised in the West, its emergence has none the less appeared to emphasise the need for cultural diversity emanating from the stored or survived experiences from all over the planet. It has appeared to celebrate “the beauty of the small” and to stimulate cultural differences in a new flexible way through a variety of mosaics made of many ethnic fragments. World music has also appeared to avoid the hegemonies of the Western world, which – in music, at least – were held until recently by dominant anglo-american sounds. The roles of the “different other” and the “self ” are often easily replaced or just mixed with each other under the sign of an increasingly lively multi-ethnic traffic as geographical and cultural barriers are crossed. Modern people of today are learning to appreciate the “different”, not solely as a source of the exotic, just for a change, but as a challenge to their own cultural identity. In a world in which behaviour in art is increasingly characterised by cultural, ethnic and aesthetic pluralism, the imposition of concepts that adopt a centric point of view already seems anachronistic. Considering things optimistically and not in a quasi-liberal populist way, one would venture to suggest that in the context of the new modernity the exotic is no longer thought of as a primitive/horrifying source of cultural difference. The question remains, however, as to whether or not cultural elites around the planet who, in their way, are responsible for setting the tone of public opinion and taste, can acknowledge the potential of such ideological developments. Directing our attention toward folk as a process, such a point of view brings with it a particular perspective. Although already distant from the semantics of the ritual-ceremonial tradition, the folk idiomatic, felt now more as a convention for a given artistic expressiveness, finds its place in the contemporary world. The most natural environment in this regard is the non-formalised sphere 302

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of life, long neglected in the public space of the Bulgarian situation. This is especially true for those of its niches in which the link between the intimate and communal experience is difficult to subject to external sanctions or forms of centralised control. Such a niche in the Bulgarian case turns out to be the peculiar cultural territory of the village wedding, a space in which, during the 1970s and 1980s, the sentiment toward folkloric tradition lived in the context of changed current conditions. Split between “past” and “present,” between “traditional” and “modern,” between “rural” and “urban,” the cultural space of the village wedding outlines a new stage in the inescapable process of modernisation, as well as in the revitalised contours of that eclectic feeling for semirural-semiurban living that to a certain degree has accompanied Bulgarian culture at least from the time of Diko Iliev.9 In this sense, the wedding orchestras’ boom during the 1980s was not accidental. The existing vacuum in the sphere of locally-oriented vernacular music as well as the new sociocultural situation stimulated liberating impulses in the function of folk music, defined at that time usually as “wrong” and “distorted.” It is also not accidental that wedding playing, that other folk music, is realised as a kind of underground — that is, as a tendency that has turned from the orthodox, from the “right” path, and from hidebound notions of the preservation of the folkloric heritage. Formed under the strong impact of the romantic idea concerning the existence of “pure” folklore, the Bulgarian, eagerto-become-modern and Westernised, correlates wedding-music more with the concept of some kind of local “home-grown” exotic, understood in conjunction with the valued marks of cultural backwardness and ignorant primitivism. Even during the 1990s, when the dominant notions in the wide vernacular sphere and the already partially deregulated media space were largely influenced by the intonations and innovative artistic approach developed in wedding music, the majority continued to perceive the characteristic accents of this updated Balkan expressivity, rich as it was in specific and generous intonations of “Eastern” sensuality, as a “foreignism” in the vocabulary of Bulgarian music. In a sense, such an attitude is a reflection of public polemics, undertaken still in the mid-1980s, on the countenance of wedding music, which at that time was experiencing a powerful new development. The proponents of these public polemics criticised the “anarchism” that had swept through the folk instrumental tradition, that is, an artistic freedom sublimating a set of spontaneously arising innovations including a line of ostentatious, uncontainable virtuosity and improvisational approaches that crossed ethnodialects from different regions and also fused intonations with a far from local origin. Defined also as a particular form of non-conformism (see Kaufman 1995: 49–57), this “folk in opposition” revealed the course of irreversible processes, as well as the potential of a liberated artistic self-reflection which imitated but also added new elements to the previously existing conventions alluding to “pre–modern” archetypes and traditional “rural” music. And if the 9 Diko Iliev – Bulgarian musician and composer (1898–1985), who based his compositions on motifs from the folk music of northwest Bulgaria. One of his most famous pieces is Dunavsko horo. 303

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revival of the self-other – or, in other words, the return to the self-but-alreadyother – starts from the boom of wedding orchestras, the subsequent reflections of this development reach a far wider genre zone. Observed in the revitalised, locally-coloured modifications of the concepts of pop, rock and jazz, these reflections touch far more than just the nonstandard folk-jazz kaval of Theodosii Spassov, the vocal experiments of Yildiz Ibrahimova (Balkanatolia 1997), the jazz compositions of the Zig Zag Trio (Ralchev, Yuseinov, Yankulov) (When The Bees Are Gathering Honey 2000), or of the ensemble Bulgara (Bear’s Wedding 2005). They stretch to the episodic folk interpretations of rock musicians like, for example, the young men of Er malŭk (Bŭlgari 1992) and the group Control (1991), as well as to the funny cover-versions of emblematic pop and rock hits interpreted “in the Gypsy manner” by Gypsy Aver (1993–94). Looking still more widely, such reflections also dominated in the growing repertoire connected with the festival Pirin Folk (that started with an original orientation mainly toward the Macedonian folkloric dialects), in the ensuing “orientalisation” of increasing numbers of pop folk singers and instrumentalists in the 1990s, and in the artistic attitudes sublimated in the dimensions of polysemic fusion presented, for example, by music formations like Ku-Ku Band. The wedding orchestras initiate characteristic nuances of a current, topical intonational milieu that combines the essence of at least two lines, two continuities, two sociocultural logics, all seemingly incompatible or at least independent of each other. Viewed historically, these two lines are at first glance in opposition to each other, as they embody respectively concepts of a tie with “premodern” and “postmodern” attitudes in cultural self-awareness. The one line, understood as “premodern,” we perceive in the dynamics of Balkan folk, especially as it relates to developments in those of its parts whose roots lead toward the tradition in vernacular playing known as chalgiya10 – a tradition which, at least from the middle of the nineteenth century, is connected with the prolonged, specifically Balkan transition from a rural to an urban way of life. The other line, which arose in the postmodern context of Western culture, leads toward the cosmopolitan profile of the phenomenon world music. Although an offspring of Western pop culture, world music turns out to be one of the paradoxical stimuli in the turn toward the “local other”, which plays the role of a valued mirror, the role of the other, of the “external” view. The global mode of the folk revival, sublimated in the amorphous nature of world music, inspired new, prestigious connotations vis-à-vis the semantics of regional vernacular vocabularies of various origins, including also those of a panBalkan lexical stock that had entered the vernacular traditions of the Balkan cultures. As noted by Gaytandzhiev, no one is a prophet in his or her own place: “Life had to impose its own demands in order to correct some stereotypes, in order to reassess familiar views [...] and maybe it really was necessary for the 10 It is worth noting that the tradition of chalgiya, developed originally mostly by traveling musicians of Gypsy and Jewish origin, also stands at the foundation of the music designated with the name Klezmer, one of the widely discerned folk musical trends of the twentieth century Jewish diaspora. 304

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Misteriyata na balgarskite glasove [The Mystery of the Bulgarian Voices]11 to intrude into the British pop charts, for the Trio Balgarka to be photographed with George Harrison, for Joe Boyd, Kate Bush and others of their compatriots to display an interest in our folklore and, mainly, in the possibility that it might be successfully ‘implanted’ in one or another style of popular music, in order to change the public atmosphere [...]” (1990: 122). Looking through the eyes of the “other” stimulates a perspective in the modern world, which in many ways correlates and connects the creative energies of subjects from different geographic and cultural zones towards particular tendencies in music, towards particular musical cosmopolitanism. Regardless of the way in which we look for the motivations for the revival of the local self, the phenomenon undoubtedly renews the intertextual link and the wanted dialogue with “memory”, with that aspect of Bulgarian musical culture that acknowledges the tangled skein of its Balkan origins. Besides, the phenomenon questions traditional social-psychological attitudes concerning “Bulgarianess”, understood as a flat ideologeme or as a frozen, static, nondynamic category. The revitalised intonational environment that took shape during the 1990s integrated the experience of different local ethnoses and unfolds beyond the concept of a music associated with one only minority group. In this sense it does not carry the marks of some narrowly differentiated ethnic or socially determined affiliation. Premised to a certain extent by the new sociocultural situation, which had liberalised Bulgarian culture in terms of a more apparent legitimisation of minority ethnic groups, it reflects on diverse cultural spaces inhabited by heterogeneous social communities. They say that everything new is simply well-forgotten old, hidden in the folds of the collective memory. The metaphoric sense of this popular saying brings us to the understanding that the world is big and yet small; that time is long but also short; that the cultural phenomena springing here and there are unique and at the same time similar, and that the eternal exchange of cultural information back and forth in time is at the ground of the “new old events”. When referred to the processes in ethno-music, such a viewpoint illustrates the logic and dynamics in re-signifying of the past – as much as this type of music suggests an already gained experience, already differentiated collective memory, already sublimed syntheses in the music making of a given community. Yet, is the panorama of the “new old events” from the end of the twentieth century actually a hint of nostalgia? Or does it mean that the relationship between tradition and modernity is brought to life in a new perspective – in a manner, related to the values and meanings they have accumulated, defined by some ethnomusicologists as post-rural folk movements (see Slobin 1993: 68), and Bulgarian scholars traditionally define as urban folklore? Do such developments shape the contours of a particular neo-folklore, motivated by 11 Usually known by its French name, Les mystères des voix Bulgares. This was the name given to the Bulgarian State Radio and Television Female Vocal Choir (founded in 1952), by Marcel Cellier, Swiss record producer, when he released the choir’s first album in the West in 1975. 305

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an essentially pluralistic vision regarding the “roots”; a vision that leads to the awareness concerning a variety of communal traditions and their natural and inevitable interweaving? In the mid-1990s the folklorist T. Iv. Zhivkov spoke not just of renewal processes in the area of wedding music but rather of a notable folkloric boom which had pervaded various levels of Bulgarian popular culture. The author underlined that the new folk song “turned inside out the notion of some people of folklore as antiquity and questioned the premature forecasts of the collapse of Bulgarian culture” (1994: 6). By providing arguments in favour of the idea of folklore as a changing necessity, the author drew a parallel to the wise words of Rayna Katsarova, said decades earlier and turning attention to the recognition of the view that “the music and dance heritage of the Bulgarian people has experienced influences of diverse character [...]” (Katsarova 1967: 61). Referred to also as a chronicle of the transition period, the new folk song turned to be a particular mirror that reflected the “new times” and inspired, speaking generally, two relatively distinct aesthetic tendencies. The one is related to quasi-realism and the commercial language of the “magazine gloss”, of the “soap opera”, of a particular escapism in which the utopia is held captive by the aggression of the new pragmatic values. It almost by rule exposes clichéd images of the female seductress. The other tendency, on the contrary, seeks creative arguments – mainly in the area of the comical, humorous notions, in the irony and self-irony whose hidden line usually parody the new social myths. A major prolific contribution to the cultivation of this second tendency was made by the musicians of Ku-Ku Band, the group which since the early 1990s have accompanied a quite popular satiric TV talk-show. Perceived namely as a specific reflection of topical events and processes “in times of transition”, the music of Ku-Ku Band is to a great extent a testimony to the new cultural situation which during the 1990s stimulated not only the social and political but also the artistic liberalisation, offering multiple options in the context of an artistic culture otherwise overloaded by a plethora of information. Among the emblematic examples to be noted is the diptych Do Chicago i… nazad [To Chicago and …back] (included in the album Nyama ne iskam, BMC, 1999) – a peculiar musical replica to the travel notes under the same title of the Bulgarian novelist Aleko Konstantinov, published in 1893 after his returning from the World Fair held in Chicago of that same year. Why is it that 106 years after the occurrence of this literary event in Bulgarian life, the musicians of Ku-Ku Band decide to play around with the words of this famous title in Bulgarian literature? Is it in search of some self-serving association with the clearly expressed humour of the literary work? Or is it for this particular aspect of the writer’s talent which engraved his name in the public memory as the master of satire and parody? Or is it the story of the novel, told by means of lavish self-irony and turning the readers’ attention to a rather typical phenomenon of those times (and probably of our times as well?): a self-reflection of “the planetary provincialist”, gaping in surprise at the miracles of the big, civilised world? Or is it because of the distant association with 306

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the “uncivilised” Bulgaria from the end of the nineteenth century? Whatever the reason, the dialogue with Aleko Konstantinov’s work is a humoristic hint about the identity dilemmas which occupied the mind of Bulgarians in the transition years. Peculiar “game of identities”, although in a quite different psychological way, is also observed in the improvisations of the Bulgarian-born jazz singer Yildiz Ibrahimova. No doubt, the music in her album Balkanatolia (Virginia Records, 1997)12 questions static notions concerning the “self ” and the “other”. The minority ethnic background of Yildiz does not overshadow her “Bulgarianess”, despite the bitter experience during the years of the so called “revival process” during the 1980s, when Turkish minority in Bulgaria were forced to change their names to non-Muslim Bulgarian names amid much official intimidation. Yildiz Ibrahimova herself was forced to change her name – at that time she was known by the name Susana Erova. Yet such a “double identity”, familiar to people belonging to any minority group in the context of a given national culture, brings a particular meaning to the message in this album. It is based on a non-verbal metaphor, helped by specific musical play, juxtaposition and fusion of Turkish and Bulgarian folk tunes. The similarities in terms of melody are obvious, while the differences point mainly to stylistic nuances in terms of vocalising and the melismatic intonation. The encounter between the “Turkish” and the “Bulgarian” in a seemingly pure musical plan can be recognised in the piece Pravo horo [Straight Horo]. It is clearly expressed also in the composition Dilerim bari hudadan [A Prayer], based on the Rumelian folk song of the same name (performed in Turkish) as the starting point for the further developing free improvisation. The logically expected reprise in the end of the composition presents not the initially performed melody, but the strikingly similar Bulgarian one (sung in Bulgarian), Lale li si, zyumbyul li si [You Are a Tulip, or a Hyacinth?] – as if to suggest that there is no false reprise; that the opening and the closing themes work with a melodic material which for centuries has pointed to common roots of music asscociated with different Balkan ethnicities. The idea to juxtapose old Turkish and Bulgarian folklore through the means of the free improvisation is also an expression of the intention of relieving one historically burdened tension between two ethnic groups whose music traditions are related in many terms. “To me, as a Bulgarian citizen of Turkish origin, it was natural to look for the common features in a land which everyone tries to separate” (Ybrahimova 1997). By these words Y. Ibrahimova synthesises the idea concerning the lack of grounds for isolationism, particularism, extreme nationalism and the small-minded focusing on the “own self ” – categories of identity which aquire new meanings in the context of the globalising world. 12 The records in the album were realised in 1997 with the participation of Yildiz Ibrahimova (vocal), Vasil Parmakov (key boards), Vesselin Vesselinov-Eko (electric bass), Ivo Papasov (clarinet), Stoyan Yankulov (drums), Tahir Aydogdu (quanun), Ylidan Dirik (oud), Okey Temiz (percussions). 307

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References GAYTANDZHIEV, Gencho (1990) Populyarnata muzika – pro? contra? [Popular music – pro? contra?], Sofia: Narodna Prosveta. KRASTEV, Venelin, Petko Staynov and Rayna Katsarova (eds.) (1967) Entsiklopediya na balgarskata muzikalna kultura [Encyclopedia of Bulgarian musical culture], Sofia: Institut Za Muzika—BAN. KAUFMAN, Dimitrina (1995) “Savremennite svatbarski orkestri kato ‘disidentski’ formatsii” [“Contemporary wedding orchestras as ‘dissident’ formations”], Balgarski Folklor 6: 49–57. MIDDLETON, Richard. “Musical Belongings”, in Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh (eds.) Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 59–85. RITZER, George (2000) The McDonaldization of Society, Thousand Oaks (California), London and New Delhi: Pine Forge Press. SLOBIN, Mark (1993) Subcultural Sounds: Micromusics of the West, Hanover: Wesleyan University Press. STOKES, Martin (2000) “East, West, and Arabesk”, in Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh (eds.) Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 213–233. TODOROVA, Maria (1997) Imagining the Balkans, Oxford University Press. ZHIVKOV, Todor Ivanov (1994) “Folklorniyat bum” [“The folkloric boom”], Folk Panair 2 (94): 6.

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The phenomenon of Slavic metal. The case of Poland Anna G. Piotrowska (Krakow) By addressing various phenomena such as religion, mythology, imagery, politics and ideology, as well as authenticity and transgression of cultural codes, this chapter explores a topic under-researched in the realm of popular musical studies, that of Slavic metal. With special focus on Slavic metal music from Poland, the phenomenon is situated in a broader cultural perspective. The main aim of the chapter is not only to shed more light on the version of Slavic metal proposed by Polish metal bands active in the postcommunist times,1 but also to draw attention to its various entanglements – on the one hand its socio-political indebtedness to postcommunist legacy, while on the other its preoccupation with Western paradigms. The chapter is also concerned with idiosyncratic, typically Polish features of Slavic metal as manifested both in visual and aural layers. The phenomenon of Slavic metal still receives relatively little recognition in the existing literature, particularly given the extensive and growing interest in metal studies as such (Walser 1993; Weinstein 2000), and especially its extreme sub-genres (Moynihan and Søderlind 1998; Mudrian 2004). In the contemporary scholarship most researchers tend to focus on relations between music and the message conveyed by heavy metal bands and usually address both aesthetic and musicological issues. Hence, for example, the popularity of examining the ways that Nordic mythology is exploited in heavy metal music, predominantly by the bands stemming from Scandinavian countries (Piotrowska 2015). There is, however, a significant gap in heavy metal studies as little interest is shown in discussing parallel tendencies in how Slavic mythology was harnessed by 1 The terms ‘communism’ and ‘postcommunism’ in reference to Poland (between 1952 and 1989 officially known as the Polish People’s Republic, i.e. Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa, PRL) are applied as conventional labels, encountered in scholarly literature. 309

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heavy metal bands from Eastern European countries. Consequently, this chapter offers an insight into the nature of Slavic metal, providing also the necessary historical backdrop, discussing Slavic metal in Poland in the context of post-1989 reality, and making the claim that Slavic metal should be situated at the crossroads of Western (Scandinavian-dominated) metal influences and Eastern (more precisely Polish) specificity. In order to understand the claims put forward in this chapter, in the first part it offers some observations on the general development of popular music in communist and postcommunist Poland. That introductory section underpins the fact that several tendencies erupting after 1989 had been actually present in Poland long before the collapse of communism. The suppressed or sometimes previously unrecognised trends only surfaced in a radicalised form in the democratic state. That was certainly the case of Polish metal music: Western paradigms had profoundly infiltrated the local scene already in the 1980s, while by the end of the decade the idiosyncratic features manifested both in the visual and aural layers, leading to the emergence of Slavic metal. The situation of Polish metal music scene of the 1990s and the early 2000s is thus briefly introduced to contextualise the appearance of the ephemeral, yet influential phenomenon of Slavic metal as conditioned by the delicate political situation. While acknowledging the role of the geo-cultural heritage shared by Poland with other Slavic, postcommunist countries, the chapter shows how the Polish version of Slavic metal music was aimed at redefining not only Polish but also Eastern European identity in general, negotiating it in the new, post-1989 political reality. Hence the main part of the text is dedicated to the study of Slavic metal relationships with such issues as religion, Slavic mythology, authenticity, and it further hypothesises about the role of Slavic metal in transgressing cultural codes in the context of the supposed enchantment with the West. For the purposes of this chapter, lyrical analysis was predominantly applied since lyrics serve as tools for framing certain ideas. Additional analyses of musical layers with stress on their sonic qualities offer further insight into the genealogy of Slavic metal by revealing its close relations with other popular musical genres.

Introduction: Musical Pop-Panorama of Poland after 1989 It seems crucial to underline that the Polish musical scene after 1989 did not undergo any fundamental changes. As in other postcommunist countries it received “a fashionable if questionable facelift” (Kürti 2012: 95). Most researchers agree that the political breakthrough in East Central Europe only seemingly opened new perspectives (Pekacz 1994: 41). While the fall of communism entailed the transformation of the economic and political aspects of Polish life, the cultural development was far from being revolutionised. Hence, aesthetics inherited from the previous epoch were willingly continued. Never310

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theless, the transition to democracy profoundly and rapidly affected the forms of organising, distributing and financing musical culture. Among other things, the diminished state patronage forced more self-sustainability, while privately owned radio (e.g. RMF) and TV channels (e.g. Polsat) were established alongside new major record labels. Especially the onset of commercial media in the 1990s stimulated the creativity of several domestic acts. At the same time considerably larger (than in the past) numbers of records with Western music became available in shops (which had been hitherto unthought-of). That situation resulted in the constant rise of record sales continuing until the turn of the twenty–first century, the reverse of the tendency of the trends observed worldwide (Metz 2012). The fascination with pop music was not dwindling in Poland, as if listeners were trying to compensate for the previous decades when access to foreign music was limited, trying to make up for that ‘lost time’. Generally, in the realm of cultural production Poland seemed to be greedily catching up with the Western tendencies (Chmielewska-Szlajfer 2018: 2). However, the influx of Western products, ideals and aesthetics was not perceived as sudden or overwhelming, since the so-called Western music was quite well known in Poland even in communist times. The communist doctrine was rather flexible in that respect (Pekacz 1994: 42). Although openness to the West was not unique to communist Poland, several researchers underline the fact that Polish contacts with the West were “unmatched within the eastern bloc”, among other things because of “the scale of physical emigration from Poland” (Burrell 2011: 144). Connections with the West were also established through the possibility of listening to the radio broadcasts on the Voice of America, especially the Jazz Hour and Music USA, hosted by Willis Conover (Pietraszewski 2014: 59). In the period of the 1970s access to Western music became even easier as the decade was characterised by increased consumption and political attempts to regularise relations with capitalist states. In that decade foreign super stars were invited to perform in Poland, often at prestigious events (for example Boney M. performed at the Intervision Festival of 1978 held in Sopot). Worth noting is, however, that as early as 1958 the Dave Brubeck Quartet performed in Poland and in 1967 the Rolling Stones gave their concert in Warsaw. Hence the year 1989 – a significant temporal marker in the history of Poland and symbolic as it was – neither entailed essential changes in the stylistic development of Polish popular music nor did it bring any astoundingly new artistic endeavours. For a long time before the fall of communism various music genres were welcomed in Poland, with jazz or rock developing quite intensely. Polish popular music had always remained under the strong influence of Western styles: rock’n’roll craze swept across Poland already in the late 1950s. Franciszek Walicki (1921–2015) – a father-figure of Polish pop music – talked about the explosion of rock music in Poland as a kind of revolution imported from the West, although with some delay (Walicki and Kawecki 1996: 8). Truly original acts contributing to the advancements of Polish popular music emerged in the 1960s and 1970s (among others, Czerwone Gitary or Czesław Niemen), while during the punk explosion in the ear311

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ly 1980s several innovative bands were formed (e.g. Brygada Kryzys, KSU) – heavily influenced by the British punk movement. In communist Poland it was jazz that enjoyed particularly high status: although it “did not tear apart the Iron Curtain between the East and the West, […] undoubtedly […] it was the first one to rip through it” (Fułek 1996: 43). Jazzmen were generally perceived in a very positive light as opponents of the communist system (or at least those who did not agree to follow the rules imposed by the regime in the realm of musical culture, which were plainly articulated at the Łagów conference of 1949). Also, musicians performing the so called big-bit (the term being the polonised version of the word ‘big-beat’) were adored, especially by the youth. In communist Poland stylistically diverse bands and soloists often performed literally on the same stage, and are today oftentimes categorised under the unifying term ‘Estrada’ (from the French ‘estrade’ meaning ‘stage’). On the one hand chanteuses like Irena Santor, Maryla Rodowicz, Urszula Sipińska – cultivating the soft type of popular music related to French chansons or German Schlagers, but on the other hand bands like Skaldowie or Breakout (with music and image modelled upon Western rock patterns) were treated similarly as musical entertainers. Consequently, they would take part in the same type of events, festivals and competitions. Only in the 1990s did the notion of popular music become more associated with rock and its sub-genres, even if typical Estrada performers still continued their careers (e.g. Irena Santor). In the 1990s several genres enjoyed in communist Poland were still eagerly listened to, while new ones – mostly those imported from the West – were being developed. In the period of transition old traditions were thus continued and continuously valued although the audiences were opening up towards novelties. The time of regaining democracy in Poland coincided with a world-wide fascination with hip–hop which came to be favoured also by Polish youngsters (Pasternak-Mazur 2009). The first Polish rapper to enjoy commercial success already in the early 1990s was Piotr Marzec aka Liroy, soon followed by a number of various bands including WzgórzeYa-Pa 3 or Kaliber 44. While discernible categories of Polish rap were established (street rap, esoteric/psychedelic rap, and intellectual rap), in time several acts representing Polish hip-hop scene became highly commercial, often melding with pure pop (Metz 2012), losing their initial social impact and originality. While rap initially thrived in Polish cities, it was disco music in its polonised version, known therefore as disco polo, that dominated the rural areas. Disco polo – perceived as a truly, uniquely Polish genre (Pasternak-Mazur 2009) yet often criticised in the media as a fake-folkish invention only for pleasing the masses, was enthusiastically received in the first years of the political and economic transformation. It was performed during traditional countryside dances, serving as default party music at provincial fun-fairs, weddings, etc. While disco polo was born as a Polish sub-genre of Euro disco, and modelled upon Italo disco, it was deeply rooted in the local folk traditions. Perhaps its most typical feature were naïve lyrics, always in the Polish language, exploiting rather simplistic figures of speech (motifs and similes) and unsophisticated rhyming structures. Emerg312

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ing already in the mid-1980s the genre reached the peak of its popularity in the 1990s, but lost its initial impetus at the turn of the century, only to be rekindled in the face of Poland’s accession to the European Union in 2004. While disco polo was based on light poetry reproducing (often sexist) clichés, more sophisticated ‘poezja śpiewana’ [sung poetry] – sometimes described as ‘kraina łagodności’ [the land of gentleness] was also still cultivated in post-communist Poland. It managed to retain its extraordinary status assigned to it in the communist times when it was beloved by the Polish public, specially valued in the 1980s. It was hailed as so called politically involved song (in Polish: ‘piosenka zaangażowana’), predominantly functioning by then as a commentary to the state of affairs, often symbolically referring to the Polish political situation (e.g. strikes, martial law) and propagating the ethos of the Solidarność [Solidarity] movement. In a nutshell, in the Poland of the 1990s, older musical traditions were continued, restored, or adapted to the changing political and economic situation, while the audiences became widely exposed to the variety of offerings coming from all over the world.

Metal Music Scene in the Poland of the 1990s and the Early 2000s The metal scene in Poland has developed very dynamically since the 1980s in close relation to the international scene. In the 1990s, because of the domestic situation (re-gaining the Polish democratic state) and under strong influence of radical metal sub-genres imported from the West, the new tendency of incorporating Slavic elements came to be established. In the 1980s and still under authoritarian rule of the Communist Party the popularity of rock music was growing extensively (Patton 2012: 429). This tendency was sustained in the 1990s. By that time heavy metal music, among other genres, was quickly gaining recognition, although in the 1980s it was already appreciated by younger Poles (Bugajski and Pollack 1989: 221). A few distinctive Polish metal bands like TSA, Kat, Acid Drinkers, or Vader launched their careers back then. In the decade of the 1980s the recognition of the metal scene was gradually growing, with internationally renowned acts like the Iron Maiden performing in four Polish cities in 1984 (as a part of their World Slavery Tour). In the year 1986 the first edition of the festival Metalmania took place in Katowice, soon to become the flagship event of the Polish metal scene welcoming, in the following years, such prominent metal performers as Therion or Dimmu Borgir. In the early 1990s Polish metal music thrived with even more new bands formed. Several of them decided to look for ingenious inspirations by including Slavic references in their lyrics. Among them were: Behemoth (est. 1991), Graveland and North (both est. 1992), Oppressor (est. 1992, in 1998 renamed Baphomets Throne), Sacrilegium (active between 1993 and 2000, reactivated in 2016), Arkona and Thy Worshiper (both est. 1993), 313

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Blakagir (est. 1998), Łza Zeschniętej Róży [A Tear of the Withered Rose] (est. 1993), Hellveto (est. 1995), Saltus (est. 1997), Casus Belli (est. 1999), Barbarous Pomerania (est. 2002) and so on. Bands like Behemoth or Decapitated (est. 1996) soon attracted international attention and still today are successfully competing with their Western counter-partners. Following the fall of communism heavy metal bands were teeming in Poland, mostly presenting an ambiguous melange of various influences: while borrowing imported musical and ideological codes of Western heavy metal culture they imprinted them profoundly with their own Polish ballast that resulted – inter alia – from their communist upbringing and education. During the critical period of the early 1990s heavy metal music “became a passion for the culturally critical intelligentsia in Poland, emerging as a cultural bridge across generations as well as social classes” (Kotarba 2012:84). Thus several members of heavy metal bands were exposed to and immersed in the musical sensitivity inherited from, among others, sung poetry or punk ideology. The impact of Western heavy metal culture was predominantly manifested in the visible tendency to radicalise musical language, be it the form of the introduction of distorted sounds, the over-use of amplifications leading to noisy instrumental effects, or the adaptation of the growling technique. At the same time, in the layer of lyrics, most Polish heavy metal bands advanced their own versions of metal music as hinged on local historical heritage – internalised and adapted to the current needs. To begin with they often proposed lyrics in the Polish language. On the one hand this can be explained by insufficient command of English (although by that time it was taught at most schools, substituting for the previously compulsory Russian language), but on the other hand it could be read as a symbolic choice. The power of English in postcommunist Poland was immediately recognised and assessed as ‘enormous’, for English was believed to be “the language of modernisation, of the future: it is impossible to imagine the transitions to democracy and to a market economy without close contact with the West, with English its chief medium” (Wilczyński 1993: 145). In that context clinging to the Polish language in the lyrics exploiting Slavic topic seems to be dictated by the need to sustain authenticity of the message. Heavy metal bands in Poland purposely used an array of Slavic symbols and described visual representations and stereotypes, and in this way produced their unique aesthetics celebrating the memory of Slavic legacy.

Religious Implications In order to appreciate the role of Slavic mythology as a source of inspiration it is necessary to realise the irony of the fact that relying on Slavic pagan mythology connected Polish metal to the Western heavy metal scene. While religious components were important elements of overall heavy metal ideology from its very outset (Weinstein 1991: 36–41), it is crucial to contextualise the fixation 314

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of Slavic metal bands with paganism vis a vis Polish traditions and their acclaimed Catholicism. It (almost) goes without saying that heavy metal – notwithstanding the impressive array of its sub-genres – remains infatuated by religious ideologies (often glorifying heathens and pre-Christian mythologies). This obsession with paganism mostly manifests in the lyrics, but also in the appearance of some bands as evidenced during live performances, the graphics used in the iconography of albums’ covers or designs of jewellery worn by musicians and fans alike, etc. In the early 1990s in several European countries – mostly in Scandinavia – heavy metal even became linked with the rejection of the dominant religion, especially Christianity, on the grounds of various anti-Christian acts. Demonstrating highly destructive behaviour, individual Scandinavian heavy metal musicians became notorious for militant, widely publicised episodes including arson and desecration of churches (Williams 2012: 60-61). The attention of the media was attracted, among other things, by some Norwegian metal musicians who were convicted of extreme violence and even murder (Moynihan and Söderlind 1998). In that situation, considering the anti-Christian aura accompanying Western heavy metal acts, Polish heavy metal musicians found themselves in a potentially difficult, rather delicate situation, being confronted by contradictory tendencies. On the one hand the adoration of the long idealised West remained prevalent, while on the other Poland remained deeply embedded in the Catholic tradition. Polish heavy metal bands needed to negotiate their position manoeuvring between the trends in the Western heavy metal culture (and its anti-Christian ideology) while relying on their own understanding and assessment of the local situation. Polish spiritual and cultural life was connected with the privileged role of the Roman Catholic religion acting as a guarantee for sustaining national integration. Furthermore, the Roman Catholic Church established its position when Poland was being shaken by dramatic historical events. It gained importance in the difficult times of the partitions, when Poland ceased to exist on the European map as a political entity (i.e. between 1795 and 1918). Moreover, the Church provided spiritual leadership during various armed upheavals and sustained its influential role during the rule of the communist regime. Once again the Church confirmed its position in the 1980s, for political dissidents (often representing the Solidarity movement) sought refuge in sacral buildings (for example at parishes) when hiding from the chasing militia. Before 1989 it was also common that religious services, e.g. Sunday masses, or festive processions held on holidays, etc. would turn into public demonstrations against the communist rule. Thus the cultivation of religious practices (bordering on devout piety) was traditionally linked with the idea of Polish national unity, while the concept of ‘Polishness’ was sometimes even perceived in religious categories (the doctrine of Poland as the ‘Christ of Europe’, i.e. the oppressed nation suffering in the name of others). Religious feelings were further consolidated when the Polish cardinal Karol Wojtyła was elected pope in 1978 (assuming the name John Paul II). His status was reinforced in Poland following 315

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the news about an attempt to shoot him in 1981, and was further solidified by his numerous pilgrimages to Poland in the 1980s and the 1990s (Łatka 2015: 226, 237–239). The position of John Paul II strengthened the power of the Roman Catholic Church in Poland, although secularisation of social life, especially in post1989 times, was also clearly noticeable. Polish society, slowly yet surely, began to search for new forms of spirituality and alternative religions. New religious movements and associations appeared and were officially registered, such as Native Polish Church [Rodzimy Kościół Polski (RKP)] (see the official website of RKP). Interest in Slavic mythology thrived and was endorsed, among others, also by the heavy metal bands: it has been argued that metal music performed the role of a ‘vestibule’ contributing to the birth of Slavic neo-paganism in Poland (Simpson 2000: 83). However, it can be also argued that, in the case of Polish heavy metal bands established in the 1990s, their interest in Slavic mythology was a natural response to the Western contributions propagating ancient legends, myths as well as different forms of occultism, esotericism, even shamanic, gnostic or atheistic positions (Till 2010: 125). At that time the world of heavy metal became fascinated with “marginal religions like neo-paganism and Satanism, and confrontational stances against more established religions” (Farley 2009; Granholm 2011). Satanism with its pervasive Satanic imagery (Sylvan 2002: 178) became one of the most recognisable clichés associated with heavy metal. The links between heavy metal and religious ideologies have already been explored, with anti-Christian attitudes (especially of black metal and death metal) extensively discussed in interdisciplinary contexts (Purcell 2003: 41). However, these relationships are not only complex but also very complicated and of a delicate, even “peculiar” nature (Moberg, 2012). In the face of the acknowledged antagonism of heavy metal to Christianity, Polish metal bands chose to shun direct references to Satanic elements, yet sometimes still nourished anti-Christian sentiments. However, in parallel to Slavic metal the tendency to dwell upon devilish allusions in the layer of lyrics was also evolving in Poland as favoured by certain bands orientated more towards black metal. Soon it developed into the neo-pagan type of metal credited to be “really a ‘post-Black Metal’ form of music” (Weston 2011: 106). Slavic heavy metal as cultivated in Poland resembled a hybrid in which Western ideas were confronted (or constrained) by national traditions and fuelled by the desire to be liberated from the persisting conservatism of ideas imposed by the Catholic Church.

Resurrection (?) of the Slavic Mythology While the anti-Christian views propagated by the so-called pagan metal often evoked negative connotations and comments (Sylvan 2002: 178), it can be argued that Polish metal bands embarking on an exploration of the Slavic past 316

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were more interested in discovering the potential for togetherness by exploiting themes derived from Slavic mythology, than in nourishing anti-Christian sentiments. In the years of transformation, with the unstable political situation of the 1990s, heavy metal music was still assessed as promoting antagonisms and viewed somewhat suspiciously. It was for example harshly assessed by Polish musicologists who claimed that Polish heavy metal was superficially influenced by German or Celtic mythology, and vague concepts taken from the Dark Ages. The strategy of uniting fans around a few carefully selected slogans emphasising the ideal of belonging was scrutinised as consolidating “against the ‘Others’”, “fighting against anyone different” (Jabłoński and Stęszewski 1997: 20). While it is difficult to say why Slavic metal was not considered in this analysis (perhaps deemed to be niche), Jabłoński and Stęszewski’s diagnosis was accurate in pointing to the fact that Polish heavy metal of the 1990s sought to consolidate fans. In general, the tactics of building a web of close relations is crucial for the heavy metal scene (Weinstein 2016: 11). It can be achieved through the ritual of performance, by creating the feeling of solidarity (Eyerman and Jamison 1998: 25, 45), and by sharing “cognitive codes, aesthetic principles,” and even by producing “collective identity” (Futrell et al. 2006: 275). Similar attempts to unite musical fandom around one identity are observed, for example, in post-communist Hungarian pop music where “some performers aim at representing a longer, mythical view of Hungarian history using folk revival music in a special brand called ‘Scythian pop’ or ‘Scythian rock’” (Kürti 2012: 111). In Poland of the 1990s Slavicness was treated as a source of inspiration by some heavy metal bands who chose to use it as a tool enabling evocation of feelings of belonging and unity among all Slavic peoples. The concept of Pan-Slavism, glorifying Slavicness, was already well recognised and promoted in the nineteenth century also in the realm of musical culture. Mythical notions, figures, or motifs idealising Slavicness were in fact re-created in the nineteenth century, partially derived from folklore, literature, imagination, and some historical accounts, although some of them were simply forged (Kalik and Uchitel 2019: 3) But the concept of Slavicness ossified in the twentieth century, for it was vigorously endorsed under communism as the ideological backbone facilitating the cooperation between communist states in the region (Petrov 2015: 21). Although the idea of Pan-Slavism had such a long history and carried its own intellectual tradition, in the case of Polish metal bands established in the 1990s and the 2000s it can be argued that their references to Slavic myths and legends were not embedded in the ideology of Pan-Slavism and Slavic brotherhood but predominantly conditioned by the current political situation and the need to counter-balance Western influences. Most bands embarked on creating their unique versions of Slavic metal, which entailed the introduction of several themes characteristic for pagan metal in general. Slavic metal was, consequently, obsessed with the topic of oppression (for example imposed by the Christian ideology), although it was not preoccupied with the Judeo-Christian eschatology or apocalypticism), and commonly dwelt on notions of death, war, alienation and suffering. Arguably then, Slavic 317

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heavy metal developed as a sub-genre of pagan metal, provided that the word ‘pagan’ denotes various forms of beliefs. Analysis shows that Polish metal bands endorsing Slavic metal in the early 1990s saturated their songs with intellectual and historical innuendos, extensively drawing from a wide variety of sources. To begin with, they often referred to Western patterns without actually copying them, trying instead to re-create the atmosphere of Slavic mysticism as a parallel to Norse mythology. Polish metal bands were not interested in propagating Nordic mythology (so earnestly promoted by the Scandinavian metal bands), treating Slavic legends and myths as their alternative. Alas, it was often merely the atmosphere (of mysticism) which worked as an ersatz of Slavic mythology for – contrary to Nordic beliefs – Slavic lore remains, still today, somewhat obscure with no historical accounts preserved describing it in a systematic way (Lajoye 2019). Even contemporary researchers state that “Slavic mythology does not exist” (Kalik and Uchitel 2019: 1) pointing to the fact that Slavs never produced anything comparable to the Icelandic Eddas, or Finnish Kalevalic epic poetry etc. Furthermore, it is also claimed that “Slavic pagan religion on the eve of the Christianisation and Slavic mythology are not one and the same. The Slavic religion and its cult, as medieval chroniclers described them, were relatively recent innovations, heavily influenced by Christian culture, which was well known to pagan Slavs for centuries prior to their formal Christianisation” (ibid: 4). In other words, there is “no certainty” when Slavic mythology originated (ibid: 3). In communist Poland knowledge of Slavic mythology was also rather limited and not popularised widely (despite the well-established scholarly tradition represented, among others, by ethnographer Kazimierz Moszyński), even if the 1980s witnessed the publication of a few texts intended for general readership (Brückner 1980 [1918]; Gieysztor 1982). Accordingly, and quite unsurprisingly, allusions to Slavic mythology proposed by the bands were mostly based on assumptions and suppositions. It is often claimed, though, that ancient Slavs perceived the world as a dichotomy ruled by oppositional, yet complementary cosmic powers. Mostly fragmentary sources are still not sufficient to reconstruct, for example, the pantheon of Slavic gods and deities, especially as they had been known under several names. It remains to be determined whether they indicated hypostases of the same god, or denominated different gods, or whether they were regional versions of the name of the same god. In fact, not only the worshipped gods could be different among different Slavic groups, but also the sets of beliefs, even myths and legends could vary quite substantially. With no cohesive interpretation of the ancient Slavicness available, attempts at creating Slavic heavy metal struggled with inconsistencies while depicting the Slavic world. The lack of transparency of the conveyed images could, ultimately, have been one of the reasons why Polish bands endorsing Slavic metal in the early 1990s soon discovered its limitations and abandoned it.

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Dominant Themes, Motifs and Concepts A thorough analysis of lyrical and musical layers of songs alluding to Slavic concepts and topics reveals a specific spiritual atmosphere characteristic for Slavic metal. In “a dialectical process of the re-enchantment of the secular and the secularisation of the sacred” (Partridge 2004: 44). Slavic bands overtly idolise the role of nature in the lives of Slavs, re-defining its secular significance as sacral. A few Slavic gods – predominantly male – are clearly preferred, as those who protect the Slavic people. Mighty Slavic gods were shown as caring and protective although ferocious at the same time. Additionally, songs often styled as prayers featured descriptions of pagan rituals while emphasising the idea of a return to the old Slavic ethos by glorifying mythologised ancestors (warriors). Although favouring visions of destruction connected with the devastating force of Christianity, Polish bands usually aimed at demonstrating pre-Christian Slavic beliefs as uniting various Slavs, and allowing them to live in harmony with nature, inspiring them to be brave and noble. In Slavic metal the sacralisation of nature stands out as a recurring feature. Natural powers were usually personified and accordingly presented as worshipped and adored. Depictions of nature, characteristic for various sub-genres of metal music (Lucas 2010: 45) clearly specified the Polish version of Slavic metal, as most bands localised them by resorting to descriptions of particular places known from Poland’s topography. Furthermore, in Slavic metal the notions of naturalness and beauty were equal, treated as indispensable attributes of the depicted sacral landscapes. Idolising the naturalness of the past implied concerns with “modern invasive technologies” (Partridge 2005: 18) which invaded Poland as a result of opening to the West. Hence in several songs ancient, i.e. Slavic, Poland was described in terms of purity and unaffectedness. For example, the band Behemoth in the song Lasy Pomorza [The Forests of Pomerania] described Poland covered once by woods with sacral status: their purity was guaranteed by nature itself (torrential rains). Similar depictions can be found in Saltus’ Wielki las [The Mighty Forest], while even one of the instrumental interludia from their album Słowiańska duma [Slavonic Pride] of 1999 is titled Pośród starych borów [Among the Ancient Forests]. The band Łza zeschniętej róży in Pieśń dla zapomnianej osady [A Song for the Forgotten Village] proposed quite a similar image of uncontaminated Polish countryside, abundant with lakes, trees, wild animals and birds. They claimed that all these natural riches attested the blessing of gods. Such friendly holy spirits were portrayed, for example, by Slavland in their song Imperium Słońca [Empire of the Sun] not only as controlling nature, but also protecting Slavs, gifting Polish warriors with strength to fight and to defeat enemies. Most songs portray Slavic gods. While “neither Slavic creation myths nor stories about the Slavic netherworld have survived” (Kalik and Uchitel 2019: 1), and it is rendered almost impossible to re-create the family relationships of Slavic gods, their adventures, conflicts, etc., Slavic metal seemed to remain preoccupied with male gods endowed with supernatural powers, duly omit319

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ting the notion of omnipresent Supreme God (Dragnea 2013: 20), possibly because it would dangerously reproduce a similar Catholic notion. The most popular god remained Perun. His looks and physical abilities (reminiscent of those attributed to Zeus) were presented, for example, in Pieśń perunowa [Perun’s Song] by North. The idol shielded warriors, but also – despite his ferocious character – other people. Perun was usually hailed as a guardian of all Slavs, for example in the song Gniew Świętowita [Swiatowid’s Wrath] by Slavland. Since Perun was the god of thunder he was also often presented as the ruler of thunders, to mention the song Taran [Battering Ram] by Hellveto. Often the mere reference to the phenomenon of thunder sufficed to hint at the presence of Perun.2 He was the personification of masculine force rapturing (perhaps even raping)3 the delicacy of the sky, thus symbolising rapidness, decisiveness, and vitality. These features were sought after in the early 1990s when Poland was quickly re-establishing its democratic status, actively promoting new economic endeavours. The songs proposed by metal bands, driven by inner vigour and verve, hailing energetic Slavic gods, resonated with the spirit of the times. Next to Perun, another eagerly chosen god depicted was Svarog (other names: Swarog, Swarożyc) who was associated with the power of life, and – as described by Slavland in Chwała Swarożyca [Glory of Svarog] – responsible for protecting the unity of the Slavs. Also the god Weles (other names: Veles, Volos) would be enthusiastically featured in the lyrics as a god defending the Slavs (for example in songs by Slavland). At the same time female Slavic goddesses – few as they were (for example Makosza [Makosh] personifying the wetness of the earth) – were rarely mentioned. Slavic metal bands obviously privileged male gods, often endorsing the ethos of fighting. However, that preoccupation with masculinity as a display of male power and promoting the aesthetics of combat needs to be revisited in the realm of Slavic metal. To begin with, promoting visions of blood or sounds of iron – as captured for example by Thy Worshiper in the song Popiół [Ash] – was practiced by most heavy metal bands representing various sub-genres of metal. It can be, moreover, argued that presenting such images gained a new dimension in the Polish version of Slavic metal, for it can be interpreted as an immediate response to the post-1989 situation and the need to celebrate the spirit of fighting undertaken 2 It is worth noting that in 1993, i.e. at the time when Slavic metal was developing, the second edition of the collection of poems Mr Cogito (1974) authored by a very influential and respected Polish intellectual, Zbigniew Herbert, was published in Poland. It contained a very telling poem titled Pan Cogito a pop [Mr Cogito and Pop] about the aesthetics of noise. While ‘noise’ may be understood metaphorically as propaganda (blackout of independent news, etc.), the poem could be also read more literally as a reflection on pop music in which noise is compared with thunder, and the ability to rule it – with a divine power. Even if associating the poem – the time of its publication, etc., with the origin of Slavic metal in Poland with its adoration for Perun may seem quite far-fetched, the simple coincidence of the re-edition of the collection and the revival of similar ideas among its readers (young people usually learnt about Herbert and his poems at schools) seems rather striking. 3 Not only thunder but also the sword were Perun’s attributes, as described by Saltus in Gniew czterech twarzy [Wrath of Four Faces]. 320

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in the name of freedom but also in the name of a better future. This elevation of the idea of battle (resistance and protest) can be thus understood as a hidden allusion (maybe even proposed without realising its political context) to the contemporary Polish circumstances. Songs, especially those written in the early 1990s, glorifying the brave, ancient Slavic warriors craving a better life were in fact portraying Polish people actively taking control over their destiny. In other words, it can be suggested that ancient heroes were presented as alter egos of anti-communist dissidents, while the images of the battlefield, so popular in Slavic metal, seemed to work as a parallel capturing the postcommunist reality. Members of Polish metal bands were raised in an atmosphere dominated by the ethos of active resistance, most of them still well remembering the events of the 1980s – strikes and protest actions. Their lyrics abounded thus with political hints, often hidden between the lines: Slavic warriors were portrayed as united in their fight for freedom like Slavic nations before 1989 (for example in the song Gniew Świętowita by Slavland or in Na drodze ku wojnie [On the Way to War] by Saltus). In the song Słowiańska jedność [Slavic Unity] the band Saltus proclaimed the unity of all Slavs as a legacy of ancient times and interpreted it as an eternal brotherhood. While predominantly domestic Slavic gods were shown as taking care of all Slavs (although, as mentioned, warriors fighting in the name of freedom were favoured), they were also portrayed as revengeful and unforgiving. In Slavic metal Slavs were shown as courageous people prepared to die in the name of their ideals, as for example in the song Słowiański odwet [Slavic Revenge] by Slavland. The position of Slavs was defined by their bravery and willingness to fight. The black and white moral codex introduced by Slavic metal was thus radical, and rigoristic. To dramatise the effect, the lyrics employed drastic language – with severe admonitions and warnings against any attempts of treachery. The betrayal was to be punished bitterly, as proclaimed in Pieśń Bojana [Bojan’s Song] by Slavland. Another powerful concept permeating the lyrics of Slavic metal was the idea of ‘return’ which corresponded well with the overall Polish discourse of the 1990s, when the return to the Western hemisphere was being discussed. In the case of metal music, the idea of return was shifted to the spiritual dimension. Clear-cut, black and white contrasts were used to juxtapose the Slavic world as pure and authentic against the contaminated invaders (often disguised as representatives of Judaism as in the song Zniszczone królestwo [Ruined Kingdom] by Slavland or Christianity – in Slavland’s song I chrześcijańska poleci krew [And Christian Blood Will Be Spilt]). Christianity was declared to be the ultimate malady, even a plague, for example in the song Symbole przodków [Ancestors’ Symbols] by Saltus. It was often presented as a destroying force, imposing new rules upon the Slavic heathen culture and impacting thus on its destiny. Most bands, including Behemoth in the song Chwała mordercom Wojciecha [Glory to the Murderers of Adalbert] focused on the Slavic side of the story, praising Slavs for defending their beliefs and their independence. Furthermore, Christian symbols were verbally desecrated, for example in the song Słowiańska duma the band Saltus openly declared 321

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war on the “Jewish bastard”, identifying Jesus as a false prophet whose followers tyrannised Slavic lands, infesting them with the omnipresent symbol of the cross. In the song Bałtyckie wspomnienie [Baltic Reminiscence] Slavland referred to the symbol of the cross, describing it as a sharp weapon stabbed into the pagan heart. At the same time, however, there were no musical allusions to well-known and popular religious tunes, no instrumental innuendos (e.g. in the form of introducing the sound of the organ), no hints at performative practices associated with the church (e.g. resembling Gregorian chant), etc. Some songs were, nevertheless, styled as prayers. While the idea of heavy metal’s liturgical nature was already recognised and discussed (Scott 2014: 13), and it was pointed out that such Scandinavian bands as Bathory readily introduced prayer-like fragments into their songs, or resorted to anthems (Piotrowska 2015: 105), it can be suggested that in the case of the Polish version of Slavic metal, the presence of religious intimations was determined by the dominant position of the Roman Catholic Church in Poland. Hence even the term ‘prayer’ appears in the titles of songs, for example in Modlitwa wojownika [Warrior’s Prayer] by North, although the addressees of these prayers are Makosh and Perun, i.e. Slavic (rather than Christian) gods. Some songs, although not directly called ‘prayers’ demonstrate their religious character, either by striking resemblance to the litany, such as Stara baśń [The Old Tale] by Łza zeschniętej róży or bearing similarity to hymns, such as Triumf [Triumph] by Saltus. Slavic metal featured detailed descriptions of pagan rituals. For example Thy Worshiper referred to Dziady [Forefathers’ Eve] – a Slavic feast commemorating dead ancestors,4 or the custom of drowning in rivers or lakes the effigy (e.g. the puppet) of Marzanna, the goddess of winter. In the song Marzanna – abounding with vulgar yet very expressive linguistic figures – the band mention that ancient tradition still cultivated in Poland in spring-time and held every March, symbolising the end of winter’s rule and the beginning of spring. While still well-known in Poland, such traditions seem to be dying out, hence several Slavic metal bands expressed their belief in restoring forgone rituals, just like Saltus in Zapomniane pieśni [Forgotten Songs] or Łza zeschniętej róży in Stara baśń. The idea of return to the old ethos was closely connected to restoring such values as freedom (as treasured by the Slavs), but also simplicity and honour as guarantees of re-establishing the lost independence – for example in the song Ojcowska ziemia [Fathers’ Land] by Slavland. Slavs are presented as the ones willing to return to the roots, marking thus the “new beginning of the old world” as proclaimed in the song Biada cherlawej krucjacie zdrajców [Woe to the Pitiful Crusade of Traitors] by Slavland. The notion of Slavic pride appears as a crucial element of Slavic heritage. In the song Wrota nocy [The Gates of the Night] the band Saltus talks about Slavic identity as based on wisdom and self-appreciation, while the band Arkona in the song Kiedy głaz nadaje kształt 4 Notably, Dziady by Adam Mickiewcz is the title of one of the most renowned Polish dramas, published in 1823, also presenting the tradition of honouring the dead. 322

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boskiej naturze – krąg ognia [When Stone Shapes Divine Nature – a Circle of Fire] describes Slavs as despising vanity. All songs glorify the mythologised ancestors, e.g. in the song Krak, syn Ludoli [Krak, Ludola’s Son] the band Casus Belli presents Krak – the legendary duke who founded the city of Krakow as a half-god, and in other songs the figure of Samo (circa 600–658/661) is mentioned as a leader who established the first political union of Slav peoples officially mentioned in history, known also as Samo’s Empire.

Liaisons with NSBM The narratives proposed by Slavic bands, especially those active in Poland in the 1990s and the early 2000s are often interpreted as supportive of right-wing politics, including extreme forms of nationalism.5 Indeed, the lyrics of Slavic metal usually evoked violent associations, describing rituals and acts of worshipping thus creating a mystical, although at the same time also quite radical image of powerful Slavs. Furthermore, Slav warriors would be presented in racial terms as Białe bestie Swaroga [White Beasts of Svarog], for example in the song by Graveland. Accordingly, some Slavic songs reverberated with narratives encountered among black metal bands supporting ultra-nationalist ideas (Dornbusch and Killguss 2005), or bands eschewing metal aesthetics altogether but promoting so-called ‘White Noise’/‘White Power’ by focusing on white (male) supremacy (Piotrowska 2018: 190). Others, like Thy Worshiper pointed to such categories as blood and honour in the song Popiół (na gruzach domu Boga) [Ash (on the Ruins of God’s House)] alluding to Hitler jugend’s notorious motto Blut und Ehre, which in its anglicised version Blood & Honour was used in 1987 as the name for a right-wing organisation promoting neo-Nazism in music (Shaffer 2013: 478). In 2004 Saltus released a song titled explicitly Krew i Honor [Blood and Honour] openly alluding to right-wing inclinations. Slavland in their song Orli sztandar [Eagle’s Flag], appropriated the symbol of the eagle associated with Perun, for most Polish listeners would recognise the white eagle as featured on the Polish national emblem. Advancing dark, even sinister and malevolent lyrics with national undertones resulted in categorising such bands as Graveland or Thy Worshiper as representatives of pagan metal, or even NSBM (National Socialist Black Metal). It is claimed that “the main cultural resource for the contemporary extreme-right neo-pagan movement is to be found in the black metal music scene. Born out of an eccentric merger of Satanism and neo-Nazism, the Polish National-Socialist Black Metal (NSBM) scene followed its Western counterparts in discovering neo-paganism” (Pankowski 2012: 6). Associating Slavic 5 See for example the text “Saltus: hands raised toward the sun” (M.K. 2009), published in the bulletin of the Nigdy Więcej [Never Again] Association that claims to be Poland’s leading anti-racist organisation, concerned with educating against racial and ethnic prejudices among the young. It has existed since 1992 (“Never Again Association” n.d.). 323

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metal with racism and discrimination was based also on the fact that some Polish metal bands of the early 1990s followed a rather radical path paved by so-called Rock Against Communism (RAC) obsessively exploiting issues of whiteness, pride, honour, etc. These ensembles – among others Honour (est. 1989), Legion (1990), Konkwista 88 (est. 1990), Dark Fury (1998) or White Devils (est. 2004) – were not interested in Slavic mythology as the source of their inspiration, but some – such as Saltus, Graveland or Veles – incorporated Slavic elements into their lyrics. Most of them were listed (alongside bands representing core RAC) by the Anti-Defamation League (ADL) as performing “sounds of hate” (“The Sounds of Hate: The White Power Music Scene in the United States in 2012” 2012). While some bands referring to Slavic mythology clearly followed the footpath established by the first or second generation of black metal bands and expressed similar views (Kahn-Harris 2004), most of them focused on Slavic heritage, omitting overt exposition of NS slogans. Marcin Gąsiorowski (alias Gonzo), a member of the infamous Thy Worshiper clearly stated in an interview in 2014 that as far “as the ideology is concerned, I have always been far away from any totalitarianism” (Huncwot 2014). Also Robert Fudali (alias Rob Darken), the frontman of the notorious Graveland (the band publicly accused of supporting NS, and described by ADL as performing the sound of hatred), defied such allegations. In an exhaustive interview from 2006 he urged listeners to regard Graveland as a musical band (for whom only music matters) irrespectively of his political views. He declared: “I do not think Graveland is a NSBM band” (Bennett 2006). In the same interview Fudali admitted Graveland to be inspired by “pagan mysticism and cult of a warrior” (ibid.). These words seem to support the thesis put forward by Radovanović that “the majority of the metal community rejects accusations of being racially intolerant. However, some of ideologies of extreme sub-genres are in fact formed around the ideas of self-conscious elitism expressed through interest in, on the one hand, the pre-Christian aura of pagan mythology, and, on the other, racism, Nazism and fascism” (Radovanović 2016: 53). The evident infatuation of bands performing Slavic metal with extremist ideologies can be read as a form of artistic activism, i.e. an artistic metaphor simulating disturbances and acute problems permeating Polish society which the bands deemed worth addressing. While the narratives were rather drastic, their overall appeal was somehow softened by the indulgence in the Slavic past. At the same time the songs were characterised by the excessiveness of musical layer, though often revealing amateurish approach. These contrasts underpinned the ‘backward–forward’ axis pointing at, or perhaps symbolising, the crossroads at which Polish society found itself. Several Polish Slavic bands, but by no means all of them, who were active in the early 1990s strove to define and secure their position within the international metal community and eventually opted for black metal, such as Abused Majesty (est. 1998). Other bands became obsessed with pagan metal, for example Norden (est. 1993) or Veles (with the name suggesting typically Slavic connotation), some – like Perunwit (est. 1994) were smitten by folk metal or 324

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even Viking metal, e.g. Iuvenes (est. 1996). The band Graveland, being one of the most recognised representatives of Slavic metal in Poland, was described by Deena Weinstein as “influenced by Viking metal” with “various folk styles […] added to the group’s black metal, and lyrics about Polish history” (Weinstein 2014: 60). Associating Slavic metal performed in Poland with folk styles is rather far-fetched as most bands avoided attempts at crafting their sound to fit the folkish ‘vibe’, popularised at that time by other bands, associated for example with disco polo. It seems that – as observed by László Kürti – in postcommunist times it was the prerogative of heavy metal, especially its more extreme versions, to allow some connections with national – if not nationalistic – subcultures, for as he writes “extremism is clearly not only the prerogative of national rock of the extremist kind as a number of heavy metal bands have also swung to the right” (Kürti 2012: 110).

The Myth of Authenticity The idea of return to the roots appearing in the layer of the lyrics of Slavic metal bands can be inscribed into the even larger concept of Slavic authenticity. All the same, the myth of authenticity was almost immediately appropriated by Polish Slavic bands as an auto-stereotype and songs composed in the 1990s became idealised as manifestations of genuine spirit of Slavicness, thus re-inventing Slavic legacy and tradition (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1992). While it cannot be denied that Slavic metal never shunned violent motifs (preoccupied with the topic of combat and masculinity), it was predominantly infatuated by the (re)discovery of Slavic mythology. Obsessed with the idea of Eastern identity, it did not over-emphasise the concept of shared Slavic roots, which was more common even in the times of the Iron Curtain (Panova-Tekath 2015: 153). Yet, heavy metal bands referring to Slavic mythology privileged their native (Slavic) languages (although also sung in English). Their lyrics were describing the localised folklore by juxtaposing “the foreignness and deracinating influence of Christianity” and the authenticity of their Eastern European heritage (Kurtagić 2010: 32). In Polish Slavic metal, especially of the 1990s, the common Slavic heritage was celebrated in pagan, often mythologised, past. The lyrics were imbued with indirect claims of authenticity presenting Slavic legacy as a unique, Eastern European value and as a crucial contribution to the idea of Europeanness. For example, in I chrześcijańska poleci krew by Slavland, Slavic resistance against foreign invasion is described with stress on the unity of Slavic army fighting against foreign invaders. Reviving ancient Slavic inheritance in the post-1989 situation was aimed at inducing “the unity of blood and soil, of race and nation, and of spirituality” (ibid: 32) among metal fans from the postcommunist states. Thus Slavicness became appropriated by bands, be it from Poland or Serbia, as their trademark of authenticity and the symbol of their faithfulness to the (heavily mythologised) past (Jones 2009: 134). The authenticity of these bands was deeply 325

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embedded in “networks of relationships between objects, people and places” (ibid: 136–137) captured in their songs, or evoked when listening to them (as a part of aesthetic experience). In that sense the emergence of Slavic metal can be understood as a response to the political changes, for it mediated between the desire to adapt to Western influences and the desire to preserve local traditions. The celebration of heritage was “not simply about the past” but “vitally about the present and future” (Palmer 2008: 8). Slavic heavy metal bands tried to define the essence of what it meant to be Slavic in the face of changing circumstances, sustaining the impression of authenticity by combining visions of the past and references to (predominantly re-invented) Slavic mythology in the layer of the lyrics with allusions to the present, or even future prospects (observed in the musical layer influenced by Western heavy metal trends). As a sub-genre oriented towards cultivating Slavic heritage it involved “continual creation and transformation” (ibid.) simultaneously restoring and forming new understandings of the concept of Slavicness at the turn of twenty-first century. Restoring the roots was by no means equated with ‘recovery’ of the history (facts, names) but, as happened also in the case of other musical genres, it was affected more by “hybridised globalised technologies” (Gunkel 2012: 73), while striving to sustain its Slavic uniqueness and originality. That omnipresent preoccupation with the notion of heritage becomes immediately and clearly apparent while listening to the lyrics focused – as has been discussed – on the mythologised past, studded with names of various Slavic gods, conveying Slavic symbols, etc. At the same time the analyses show that music (the tune, harmony, instrumental arrangement) seems to be treated as a medium merely transmitting the message. The past becomes re-enacted by means of the rhythms (suggesting marching, as if to the battlefield, or resembling declamation reminiscent of ritual recitations, etc.). The introduction of such symbolic representations suggests the desire to recreate the bygone Slavic world, and rekindling simple but distinctive values ascribed to Slavs. By mingling musical and linguistic measures Polish heavy bands proposing Slavic metal succeeded in producing a quasi-mythical atmosphere, reinforcing the imaginarium of the most popular underpinnings connected with Slavs. However, Slavic metal defied the ideal of self-destructive Slavic romanticism or the famed Slavic melancholy, shifting the focus onto the idea of glorious re-birth, and belief in powerful Slavs.

Transgression and Appropriation of Cultural Codes Following Western fashions without losing Slavic identity was a challenge faced by most Slavic bands in Poland. Most of them dealt with that by adapting Western codes while creatively transgressing them, partly as a result of their indebtedness to the local scene (punk influence), partly because of technical restrictions such as limited availability of equipment and poor access to re326

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cording studios (hence some production functioned only as demos, for example Inexploratus Saltus by Saltus). Even in communist times Polish connections with the West were maintained, inter alia, due to the tradition of westward emigrations. For over 200 years successive waves of emigration among aristocrats, artists and the intellectual elite regularly marked the tragic events of Polish history, but after the Second World War particularly large numbers of Poles chose to live outside Poland as the result of the political situation imposed on countries in proximity to the USSR. In the literature, “the allure” of the West for the Polish population has been well documented, often described as “Poland’s ‘Imaginary West’” (Burrell 2011: 143). In 1990s Polish metal bands found themselves in the in-between sphere, confronted by the strong impact of Western heavy metal with its aesthetic and musical preferences, and the need to accommodate to local tastes. While often “contemporary metal music explores aesthetic and lyrical themes that run counter to those found in more popular performing arts” (Halnon 2006: 28). Polish metal bands decided on a compromise, adapting Western paradigms and accommodating them to domestic needs by introducing Slavic themes. Although far from “revolutionary” (Cushman 1991), these codes enabled expressions of various ideas – either politicalized, or socially relevant, often in the form of radical messages (Mayer and Timberlake 2014: 28). The very attempt at creating Slavic heavy metal may be read as a form of transgressing and appropriating cultural codes. Sonically Polish heavy metal bands of the 1990s relied, among others, on punk aesthetics promoting authenticity of performance (such as Behemoth’s early recordings revealing the aesthetics of raw sounds) while concealing the obvious shortcomings in the quality of the equipment used for recordings. Slavic metal was indebted to punk rock also for its rebellious ideology underlining the unruly character of the Polish version of metal music (as manifested in shouts and shrieks). In terms of their sonic qualities, the albums recorded by Slavic metal bands resemble those produced by post-punk bands (e.g. Farben Lehre, notably their Insekty [Insects] of 1994). As punk one decade earlier, so did Slavic metal stand a real chance of becoming a voice of the generation of Poles maturing in the 1990s (Darski and Eglinton 2015) for it swiftly, yet with some panache, merged with punk stylistics (Weinstein 2014: 60). At the same time Slavic metal bands were actively contributing to the end-of-the-twentieth-century postmodern legacy by adding new ideas to old ones, creatively cultivating their heritage (Palmer 2008: 8). Old Slavic mythology served as a pretext to interpret contemporary situation: allusions to the hegemonic position of Western countries can be deduced in the lyrics of several songs, such as I chrześcijańska poleci krew by Slavland. Young members of heavy metal bands intuitively referred to Slavic inheritance since it anchored their – perhaps imagined – sense of belonging (Anderson 1983) and provided extra space, and tools to grapple with the complicated issue of cultural identity at a time when national identity

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(Gellner 1983) urgently needed to be (re)constructed vis-à-vis the idea of returning to the Western hemisphere. At the very same time Polish metal bands, as Polish society in general, were “consuming, colouring and domesticating the West” (Burrell 2011: 147), eagerly assimilating Western models, resorting to sound distortions and aggression in the treatment of instrumental and vocal parts. Influenced by the punk stylistics, Polish bands gave up on instrumental virtuosity preferring rough and quite a lot faster sounds (beats on bass drum and snares). Oral analysis reveal that while vocals remained emotionally loaded and ideologically charged, they relied on performative manner typical for heavy metal, often juxtaposed with quasi-declamation fragments. Additionally, several artistic tools were exploited for better articulation and expressive accentuation of the presented ideas, for example in Stara baśń by Łza zeschniętej róży shrieks were combined with metal growling, and coupled with speeding up the tempo and symphonic sounds. Thematically the songs were indicative of the regional situation and abounded with references to (pseudo)historical events, mythological names, and symbols. Many songs described battles led by Slavs, burying the dead under barrows was referred to in the song Wśród kurhanów [Among Barrows] by Slavland, while the idol with four faces, Svetovid, being one of the most prominent Slavic deities, appeared in Symbole przodków by Saltus. The extremeness and radicalism of the proposed narratives were softened by the incorporation of mystical elements derived from Slavic mythology (achieved by such sonic elements as shouts and shrieks, juxtaposed with melancholic solo guitar introductions such as in the album Słowiańska duma by Saltus), thus allowing widespread adaptation of pagan metal in various Slavic countries. That manoeuvre helped also to blur boundaries between various metal sub–genres, endorsing their fluidity by eradicating fundamental differences between Slavic, Viking, pagan, or black metal, and even NSBM. Transgressing metal codes was not, however, characteristic only for the Slavic metal scene of that time: re-inventing and re-shaping ideals borrowed from, inter alia, Scandinavian metal, was also observed in other European countries, among others in Italy (Frangioni et. al. 2018). Neither was Slavic metal a sub-genre unique to the Polish metal scene of 1990s: some scholars note that “an attempt to apply some of the primary postulates of black metal ideology to a ‘local’ context is noticeable in Serbia as well. The most important feature lies in marking Slavic paganism as a starting point. Emphasizing Pan-Slavism accesses an even larger political and geographical space, thus opening the door to the great music scene of Slavic extreme metal” (Radovanović 2016: 56).

Conclusions: Summarising Remarks This chapter focused on Slavic metal in Poland as an idiosyncratic movement in metal music encountered in postcommunist countries. The main aim of the chapter has been to illustrate the specificity of Slavic metal as a trend origi328

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nating at the junction of the enchantment with the West (tendency to follow imported paradigms) and local restrictions and influences (infatuation with punk aesthetics, re-discovery of Slavic mythology). As is commonly known, raising the Iron Curtain had various consequences and the emergence of Slavic metal can be credited as one of its immediate results. Slavic metal was a distinctive trend in metal music observed in postcommunist countries, for example in Poland where several heavy metal bands embarked on pursuing references to Slavic mythology. While most of these bands abandoned this option, often in favour of NSBM or other metal sub-genres, and went on radicalising their lyrics and underpinning the politicised message, in the 1990s and early 2000s they were actively seeking their musical identities in the acclaimed Slavicness. They exploited various alternatives and provocations as artistic tools: in Poland they often were “distancing themselves in a self-conscious attempt to explore the radical potential of metal” (Kahn-Harris 2007: 29). While (neo)pagan metal bands had already shifted their attention towards controversial paradigms expressing right-wing ideas, Slavic metal bands rarely referred to the concept of purity of the race so overtly – with some exceptions. For example, the band Saltus hailed the Aryan race in the song Symbole przodków and suggested following the Aryan codex in Perunie prowadź [Perun, Show the Way]. Most importantly, however, the lyrics of Slavic metal focused on the idealised, long-lost Slavic world – free and independent, authentic and natural, which symbolised the regained democracy and was used as a protective shield in the confrontation with the new reality (the overwhelming dependence on Western capital, etc.) Even if it was impossible to restore the Slavic arcadia, the mythologised Slavicness functioned as a mental construct and served as a reference point allowing the promotion of certain values, especially “an ethos of integrity and authenticity that deplored its own commercialisation” (Kurtagić 2010: 35). Slavic mythology was also treated as a textual resource enhancing esoteric inclinations without neglecting national undertones. Slavic metal enabled the transfer of cultural codes into the Polish context. However, it failed to acquire the status of an export product promoting Slavic culture in the Western world, and its potential remained unrecognised. Consequently, it was gradually renounced only to be rediscovered again in the 2010s. The sound of the early Slavic metal bands – crude and unsophisticated as it undeniably was – come to be appreciated once again (Huncwot 2014). Also, new bands such as Slav (est. 2010) started to revisit the reservoir of Slavic legends and myths, still relatively under-represented in the metal world in comparison to Nordic mythology (Karjalainen 2018). In 2013 the company Werewolf Promotion released a compilation album (with limited number of copies) titled In Dark Slavic Blood United (WP293) featuring Slavic metal songs by Grzmot, Slav, Helevorn, Ślęża, Wizun and Quercus. While Slavic references in metal music of the 1990s were predominantly oriented towards native audiences (because of, among others, the use of the Polish language), most of these songs were recorded in English and thus stood a better chance of gaining wider 329

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recognition. Nevertheless, even today Slavic metal seems to be treated as a niche sub-genre of metal music, although back in the 1990s and in the early 2000s it played a crucial, if rather marginal role in the process of re-defining the musical scene in several postcommunist countries.

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Index A Abadžija, Maja 180 Abamelek-Lazarev, Seymon 222 Abdrazakov, Askar 235 Abdrazakv, Ildar 235 Abishev, Galïm 281, 292 Ader, Lidia 12, 26, 221 Adorno, Gretel 32 Adorno, Theodor W. 23, 32, 80 Akishev, Kimal A. 273, 292 Alchevsky, Alexei 222 Alekperov, Vagit 231 Aleksiychuk, Iryna 94, 96 Alexander II [Emperor of Russia] 223 Alexandrovna, Maria [Empress of Russia] 223 Alexandru-Draga, Maria-Sabina 205 Alexandru, Tiberiu 263, 269 Ali, Salif 298 Almasi, István 263 Alpeissova, Gulnar 293 Amanov, Bagdaulet Zh. 277, 279, 282, 286, 292 Amzulescu, Alexandru 246, 269 Anderson, Benedict 327, 330 Andrásfalvy, Bertalan 213

Andreescu, Horia 203 Ansari, Emily 74, 84 Antkiv, Yuri 99 Antohi, Mona 207 Antohi, Sori 207 Arakishvili, Dimitri 71, 72 Aranovskiy, Mark 73, 75, 84 Arensky, Anton 192 Arevshatyan, Ruben 270 Argerich, Marta 204 Arnaudov, Georgi 295 Avdiyevsky, Anatoliy 99 Azarashvili, Vaja 73 Azmaiparashvili, Shalva 72

B Bach, Johann Sebastian 10, 51, 52, 95, 124–128, 131, 134, 173, 193, 194, 201, 203, 259 Bacs, Ludovic 202 Badea, Christian 203, 204 Baeva, Alena 178 Bailyn, John Frederick 16 Bakhmin, Vyacheslav 231 Bakhrushin, Alexey 222 Bakuradze, Teimuraz 79, 80, 81 Balakirev, Mily 192 337

Music in Postsocialism

Balanchine, George 72 Balanchivadze, Andria 72, 73, 74, 75, 76 Balanchivadze, Meliton 71, 72 Balashov [family] 222 Balassa, Sándor 209, 210, 211, 216, 218 Baldassarre, Antonio 167 Balmont, Konstantin 95 Balsys, Eduardas 47 Balyozov, Roumen 295 Bányai, Gábor 216 Barbirolli, Sir John 194, 195 Barbo, Matjaž 23, 24, 32 Bărbulescu, Mihai 206 Bardanashvili, Ioseb 81, 82 Barenboim, Daniel 204 Bargielski, Zbigniew 202 Bârleanu, Viorel 263 Bartók, Béla 77, 195, 216, 246, 247, 248, 269, 286 Bartulis, Vidmantas 51, 52 Basarab, Mircea 189, 194 Bashkirov, Dmitri 195 Bashmet, Yuri 232 Baudelaire, Charles 46, 48 Bauman, Zygmunt 24, 32 Bavdek, Dušan 162 Bayer, Gerd 331 Beck, Ulrich 31, 32 Becker, Howard S. 32 Beethoven, Ludwig van 25, 173, 193, 194, 234 Beissinger, Margaret H. 256, 257, 264, 269, 270 Bekker, Paul 22, 32 Belghazi, Taieb 169, 170, 180 Belousov, Konstantin 12, 221, 222, 226, 239 Bench-Shokalo, Ol’ha 104, 107 Bennett, Andy 334 Bennett, J. 324, 330 Bense, Max 27, 32 Bentoiu, Pascal 202 Benzi, Roberto 195 Berdzenishvili, Nikoloz 84 Berezovsky, Maksym 90, 97 338

Berg, Alban 47, 203, 205 Berio, Luciano 202 Berlioz, Louis-Hector 194 Bernasconi, Robert 64 Bigović, Radovan 110, 118 Bilokur, Kateryna 91 Birgel, Willy 126 Blažeković, Zdravko 134, 167 Blažič, Miha (N’toko) 23, 34 Bloland, Sunni 264, 270 Blumröder, Christoph von 21, 32 Bonini Baraldi, Filippo 248, 265, 269 Born, Georgina 308 Borodin, Alexander 192 Borodina, Olga 235 Bors, Jenő 212–217 Bortnyansky, Dmitry / Bortniansky, Dmytro 90, 91, 97, 114 Boucourechliev, André 295 Bouët, Jacques 264, 269 Boulez, Pierre 152, 202, 295 Bourdieu, Michael 88 Bovsunivs’ka, Tetyana 96, 107 Boyd, Joe 298, 305 Boyer, Dominic 2, 16 Bozay, Attila 209–213, 215–219 Božić, Svetislav 112, 115–118 Brahms, Johannes 93, 173, 193, 199 Brăiloiu, Constantin 188, 247, 248, 264, 265, 269 Brâncuși, Constantin 193 Braun, Wernher von 126 Brediceanu, Mihai 189, 198 Bregman, Albert S. 31, 32 Bregović, Goran 299 Britten, Benjamin 195 Brkljačić, Ivan 144, 152, 156, 157, 158, 160, 163, 164 Brubeck, Dave 311 Brückner, Aleksander 318, 330 Bruckner, Josef Anton 199 Bucescu, Florin 263 Buck-Morss, Susan 32 Bugajski, Janusz 313, 330 Buluță, Gheorghe 186, 206

Three Decades in Retrospect

Buñuel, Luis 125 Burrell, Kathy 311, 327, 328, 330 Bush, Kate 305 Buske, Norbert 122, 134 Butler, Robert N. 23

C Camus, Albert 80 Capoianu, Dumitru 189, 194, 195, 202 Caraman, Marius 267 Carp, Paula 263 Cazacu, Marin 203 Ceauşescu, Elena 197 Ceauşescu, Nicolae 11,190, 194–199, 207 Celibidache, Sergiu 12, 197, 199, 203, 205 Cellier, Marcel 305 Ceribašić, Naila 29, 32 Ceschina, Yoko 228 Chabashvili, Eka 83 Charles I [King of Romania] 187 Charles II [King of Romania] 206 Chavchavadze, Ilia 70 Chekan, Yuriy 89, 107 Chesnokov, Pavel 111 Childress, C. Clayton 65 Chlaidze, Giorgi 81 Chmielewska-Szlajfer, Helena 311, 330 Chopin, Frédéric François 52, 64, 65 Ciobanu, Gheorghe 263, 269 Ciocârlie, Livius 207 Ciomac, Emanoil 189, 191, 206 Ciubotaru, Ioan 263, 264, 270 Clayton, Martin 247, 269 Clever, Edith 123 Cliburn, Van 195 Cocea, George 189, 191 Cohn, Richard 53, 54, 63 Comișel, Emilia 263, 269 Constantinescu, Paul 200, 202 Corigliano, John 175 Cosma, Octavian Lazăr 186, 187,192, 206 Cosma, Viorel 187, 189, 196, 206 Costin, Gheorghe 202 Cotrubaș, Ileana 200 Cristescu, Constanța 264, 269 Crvčanin, Milivoje 109

Csemiczky, Miklós 209, 218 Csoóri, Sandor 212, 213, 216 Currentzis, Teodor 233, 236 Cushman, Thomas 327, 330 Cvejić, Bojana 142, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 164, 165 Cvejić, Žarko 165

Č Čavlović, Ivan 173, 175, 176, 180 Čivilis, Marius 60, 61, 64

D Dahlhaus, Carl 39, 50, 63 Dalos, Anna 12, 209, 211, 217 Dănceanu, Liviu 202 Daney, Serge 135 Danielsson, Sarah K. 334 Danuser, Hermann 21, 23, 37, 63 Darski, Adam ‘Nergal’ 327, 330 Datsko, Myron 99 Daunoravichene, Grazhina/ Daunoravičienė, Gražina 7, 37, 39, 47, 50, 57, 60, 61, 63, 64 David, Catherine 134, 135 Davidović, Dalibor 9, 10, 121, 128, 134 Debussy, Claude 21, 195 Dediu, Dan 202 Dejeu, Zamfir 263, 264, 270 Deletant, Dennis 191, 194, 198, 199, 206 Delzell, Robert 230, 236 Denisov, Edison 77 Deripaska, Oleg 232 Derrida, Jacques 38, 64 Despić, Dejan 148 Dessay, Natalie 235 Diaghilev, Sergey 236 Dicks, Bella 170, 180 Diklić, Radomir 155 DiMaggio, Paul 64 Dimitriu, Andrei 190, 203 Dimitrov, Emil 297 Dinicu, Dimitrie 187, 188, 189 Doja, Gheorghe 192 Dolidze, Victor 71, 82, 84 Dolzhansky, Roman 232 339

Music in Postsocialism

Donizetti, Gaetano 71 Dorati, Antal 195 Dornbusch, Christian 323, 330 Dragićević-Šešić, Milena 159, 165 Dragnea, Mihai 320, 330 Dragostinov, Stefan 295 Drücke, Florian 22, 32 Dujmović, Zora 172, 173, 183 Dumitrescu, Gheorghe 192 Duraković, Esad 171, 180 Durkó, Zsolt 209–212, 214–129 Dvořák, Antonín 173, 228 Dvoretsky, [Ivan] 113 Dychko, Lesia 93, 106

Đ Đaković, Bogdan 9, 109, 112, 113, 114, 116, 118 Đinđić, Zoran 153 Đoković, Predrag 110, 119 Đorđević, Aleksandra Anja 161

E Eggebrecht, Hans Heinrich 21, 32, 33 Egge, Klaus 62 Eglinton, Mark 327, 330 Eisler, Hanns 195 Ella, István 210, 213, 214 Elvers, Paul 29, 33 Eminescu, Mihai 193, 206 Enescu, George 188, 191, 193, 196, 197, 202, 205, 207, 250 Eötvös, Peter 229 Erić, Zoran 151, 152 Erjavec, Aleš 139, 140, 165 Erova, Susana 307 Eyerman, Ron 317, 330

F Falassi, Alessandro 169, 181 Falk, Barbara J. 1, 16 Farkas, Martin 126, 128 Farley, Helen 316, 331 Fekete, György 213, 214 Feldman, Walter Zev 247 Ferrer, Ibrahim 299 340

Feuer, Mária 211, 214, 215, 217 Filts, Bohdana 94 Fink, Monika 64 Finscher, Ludwig 63 Fischinger, Timo 29, 33 Földes, Imre 209, 217 Forrai, Katalin 212 Frangioni, Tommaso 328, 331 Franko, Ivan 90, 100, 103 Frigyesi, Judit 247, 270 Frolova-Walker, Marina 5, 17 Frolyak, Bohdana 91, 106 Fuchs, Christian 30, 33 Fudali, Robert (Rob Darken) 324 Fuhrmann, Wolfgang 29, 33 Fułek, Wojciech 312, 331 Furlanetto, Ferruccio 235 Futrell, Robert 317, 331

G Gabichvadze, Revaz 79 Gábor, István 212, 217 Gabrieli, Andrea 97 Gabrieli, Giovanni 97 Gabunia, Nodar 73, 76, 80 Gafurbekov, Tukhtasinbek B. 276, 294 Gakov, Vladimir 222, 240 Galuzin, Vladimir 235 Ganslik, Eduard / Hanslick, Eduard 84 Garfias, Robert 251, 265, 270 Garcia Düttmann, Alexander 133, 135 Gąsiorowski, Marcin (alias Gonzo) 324 Gatti, Daniele 204 Gaytandzhiev, Gencho 304, 308 Gellért, András 213, 214, 218 Gellner, Ernest 328, 331 Genette, Gérard 51 Georgescu, Corneliu Dan 248, 263, 270 Georgescu, George 11, 187, 188, 189, 190, 193, 194, 203, 204 Georgescu Stănculeanu, Lucilia 248, 263, 270 Gerencsér, Rita 210, 217 Gergely, Zoltan 264 Gergiev, Valery 125, 232, 233, 234 Gerő, Katalin 214, 217

Three Decades in Retrospect

Getz, Donald 169, 170, 181 Gheorghiu-Dej, Gheorghe 193, 194 Gheorghiu, Valentin 194, 202, 203 Ghlonti, Felix 73, 79 Giddens, Anthony 31, 32 Gieseler, Walter 58 Gieysztor, Aleksander 318, 331 Gillan, Ian 296 Gille, Zsuzsa 2, 17 Giurchescu, Anca 256, 264, 269, 270 Glazunov, Alexander 192 Glier, Reyngol’d 192 Gligorić, Lidija 3, 16 Glinka, Mikhail 192 Glushkova, O. R. 240 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 126, 195 Golemović, Dimitrije 111, 112, 113, 115, 119 Göler, Daniel 3, 16 Gombos, László 210, 217 Gombrowicz, Witold 48, 121, 133, 135 Gönczy, László 215, 217 Gorbachev, Mikhail 88 Gotovac, Jakov 173 Gottshalk, Simon 331 Govedarica, Miodrag 112, 113, 115, 118 Govorin, Boris 234 Granholm, Kennet 316, 331 Grechaninov, Alexander 111 Greenblatt, Stephen 37, 64 Greimas, Algirdas Julius 38, 64 Grieg, Edvard 194 Griffiths, Paul 21, 33 Grigore, Dan 190, 199, 200, 203 Groys, Boris 127, 135 Gruescu, Valentin 203 Günzburg [family] 222 Gubaidulina, Sofia 77 Guillot, Matthieu 40, 64 Gulyanitskaya, Natal’ya Sergeevna 109, 119 Gumilev, Lev Nikolayevich 277, 292 Gunkel, Ann Hetzel 326, 331 Gutseriev, Mikhail 232 Győri, László J. 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 216, 217, 218 Gyurov, Vasil 298

H Hába, Alois 58 Habe, Katarina 26 Hadžić, Fatima VI, X, 11, 169 Haiduk, Vitali 97 Halnon, Karen Bettez 327, 331 Hamann, Marlies 121, 122, 123, 125, 126, 128 Handel, George Frideric 95, 126, 173, 203 Hann, Chris 16 Hanslick, Eduard 74, 84 Hanslick, Eduard / Ganslik, Eduard 74, 84 Hanson, Howard 74 Hantington Samuel / Huntington, Samuel 277, 292 Haplea, Doina 264, 265, 270 Haplea, Ioan 264, 270 Harrison, George 305 Hartwig, Jennifer 128 Havrylets, Anna 91, 97, 98, 106 Haydn, Joseph 173, 201 Hebert, David 34 Hedman, Jens 41 Heesch, Florian 334 Heidegger, Martin / Haidegeri, Martin 80, 84 Heile, Björn 21, 33 Herbert, Zbigniew 320 Herțea, Iosif 263 Hesmondhalgh, David 308 Hill, Rosemary 332 Hindemith, Paul 195 Hitchins, Keith 187, 206 Hitler, Adolf 135, 136, 189, 323 Hobsbawm, Eric 325, 331 Hochkeppel, Oliver 30, 33 Hofman, Srđan 141, 155, 157, 160 Hofman-Sretenović, Neda 160 Holender, Ioan 207 Holt, Fabian 37, 46 Honchar, Oles 89 Horska, Alla 90 Hrabovsky, Leonid 91 Hristić, Stevan 109 Hrushevs’kyy, Mykhaylo 87, 104, 107 341

Music in Postsocialism

Hubarenko, Vitaliy 91 Huba, Volodymyr 96 Humphrey, Caroline 2, 16 Hurezeanu, Emil 207

I Ibrahimova, Yildiz 304, 307 Ilić / Stamatović, Ivana 141, 143–145, 147–150, 153, 155–157, 166–168 Iliescu, Ion 198 Iliev, Diko 303 Iliev, Konstantin 295 Ioachimescu, Călin 202 Iordan, Florin VIII, 268 Iorgulescu, Adrian 202 Isabaeva, Saule 281, 292 Isaković, Smiljka 163, 165 Ishchenko, Yuri 94, 96, 98 Ivanova, Lili 297

J Jabłoński, Maciej 317, 331 Jacobchuk, Alexander / Yakovchuk, Oleksandr 91, 97, 107 Jacobs, Frank 334 Jagamas, Janos 264 Jakopin, Edvard 3, 16 Jálics, Kinga 211, 217 James, Joyce 48 Jamison, Andrew 317, 330 Janashia, Simon 84 Janković / Janković-Beguš, Jelena VI, X, 10, 139, 140, 148, 154, 159, 163, 165, 166 Janssons, Maris 204 Janulytė, Justė 51 Javakhishvili, Ivane 69, 84 Jelača, Dijana 2, 16 Jerea, Hilda 192 Jóhannsson, Jóhann 24, 33 John of Chrysostom 93 John Paul II, Pope (Karol Wojtyła) 101, 315, 316 Johnson, Julian 22, 33 Jones, Siân 325, 331 Jovanović, Zoran M. 118 342

Jurgutis, Vytautas V. 52 Jurkėnaitė, Audronė 55, 64 Jurlin, Krešimir 27, 35

K Kabalevsky, Dmitriy 279, 286, 287, 292 Kabelis, Ričardas 52–56, 65 Kádár, János 210, 214, 217 Kaden, Werner 65 Kagel, Mauricio 62, 202 Kahane, Mariana 248, 263, 269, 270 Kahn-Harris, Keith 324, 329, 332 Kalik, Judith 317, 318, 319, 332 Kalishchuk, Olexandr 99 Kallberg, Jeffrey 37, 64 Kalynets, Ihor 89, 90 Kamenka, Boris 222 Kaminsky, Victor 91, 93, 98, 106 Kampoš, Goran 24, 33 Kancheli, Giya 68, 73, 76, 79, 80, 81, 85 Kaniža, Rijad 175, 181 Karabyts, Ivan 91, 97, 106, 108 Karjalainen, Toni-Matti 329, 331, 332 Kastal’sky, Alexander 111 Katsarova, Rayna 306, 308 Kaufman, Dimitrina 303, 308 Kawecki, Jan 311, 334 Kazandjiev, Vasil 295 Kazovskaya, Tat’yana 240 Kechakhmadze, Ioseb 77 Kempff, Wilhelm 195 Kenessei, András 214, 218 Keym, Stefan 17 Keyserling, Hermann 301 Khachaturian, Aram Il’yich 259 Khamatova, Chulpan 233 Kholodenko, Vadim 178 Kholopov, Yuriy Nikolaevich 56, 58, 64 Khrushchev, Nikita 8, 76, 89 Kiknadze, Revaz 83 Kiladze, Grigol 72 Kilar, Wojciech 202 Killguss, Hans-Peter 323, 330 Klokun, Olha 105, 107 Klumpenhouwer, Henry 64 Kocsis, Zoltán 214, 215, 218

Three Decades in Retrospect

Kodály, Zoltán IX, 210, 211, 215, 216, 286 Kolodub, Levko 91 Kondrashin, Kirill 77, 84 Konjović, Petar 173 Konshin, Nikolay 222 Konstantinov, Aleko 306, 307 Körber, Annegret 123 Kortner, Fritz 129 Koshyts, Oleksandr 94 Košir, Izak 28, 33 Kostenko, Lina 89, 90 Kotarba, Joseph A. 314, 332 Kotevska, Ana 144, 155, 164, 165 Kovács, Dénes 219 Kovács, Júlia 210, 218 Kozak, Yevhen 99 Kozarenko, Oleksandr 91, 94, 95, 96 Krajčinović, Nemanja 118 Krapkata, Vasko 297 Krastev, Venelin 308 Krilovici, Marina 199 Krilov, Sergey 178 Krpan, Erika 144, 165 Kudryk, Borys 97, 107 Kuljić, Todor 109, 119 Kundera, Milan 30 Kurtág, György 202 Kurtagić, Alex 325, 329, 332 Kürti, László 310, 317, 325, 332 Kuseubay, Amankeldi 293 Kutavičius, Bronius 41 Kuzan, Maryan 94 Kuzmanović, Milorad 115 Kvantaliani, Tamar 72, 84 Kvernadze, Bidzina 73, 76, 79, 81 Kyshakevych, Joseph 99 Kyyanovska, Lyubov 8, 9, 87, 102

L Lacoue-Labarthe, Philippe 129, 135 Laghidze, Revaz 73 Lajić Mihajlović, Danka 1 Lajovic, Anton 25 Lajoye, Patrice 318, 332 Lajtha, László 211 Lakatos, Éva 210, 211

Lang, Fritz 126 Láng, István 217 Lanyuk, Yuri 91 Lash, Scott 31, 32 Lastovetska-Solanska, Zoryana 105 Lastovetsky, Mykola 91, 96 Łatka, Rafał 316, 332 Lavryshyn, Zinoviy 94 Lebič, Lojze 7, 23, 24, 25, 29, 30, 33 Lečić, Branislav 148 Lee, Monica 65 Lehmann, Hans-Thies 42, 64 Lehmeier, Holger 3, 16 Leković / Srećković, Biljana 158, 159, 167 Lena, Jennifer C. 37, 65 Lendvay, Kamilló 210, 211 León, Javier F. 2, 16 Leontovych, Mykola 94, 97 Leskin, Dmitriy 276, 293 Levy, Claire VI, XI, 14, 295 Liadov, Anatoly 192 Licareț, Nicolae 200, 201 Liszt, Franz 22, 173 Lloyd, Albert Lancaster 269 Longchamp, Christian 123, 132, 135 Loos, Helmut 17 Lortat-Jacob, Bernard 254, 264, 269, 270 Lovinescu, Eugen 185, 206 Lucas, Caroline 319, 332 Lugarić, Danijela 2, 16 Lun’ov, Sviatoslav 95 Lupașcu, Marian 264, 270 Lupu, Radu 199, 204 Lutosławski, Witold 195 Lychkovakh, Volodymyr 105, 107 Lysenko, Mykola 98, 99

M MacGregor, Joanna 152 Machavariani, Aleksi 73, 74, 76, 79 Mačiliūnaitė-Dočkuvienė, Rita 41, 42, 44, 45, 65 Magaloff, Nikita 195 Maglov, Marija 9, 16 Mahler, Gustav 234 Maksimović, Rajko 111 343

Music in Postsocialism

Mamardashvili, Merab 74, 84 Mamisashvili, Nodar 73, 79, 81 Mandeal, Cristian 187, 190, 199, 200, 203, 205, 206 Manson, Marilyn 301 Manulyak, Ostap 91, 92, 93, 95, 100, 108 Maranda, Ana-Maria 247 Marbe, Myriam 202 Marchuk, Ivan 90 Marcovici, Silvia 199 Marghita, Ioana 205, 207 Marić, Ljubica 111 Marinescu, Camil 203, 204 Marinković, Milorad 112, 114, 115, 118 Marinković, Miloš 144, 145, 165 Marjanović, Đorđe 333 Marković, Boban 299 Marquard, Odo 133, 135 Márquez, Gabriel García 299 Martinaitis, Algirdas 46–51, 63, 65 Martinů, Bohuslav 228 Martyniuk, Halyna 99 Marx, Wolfgang 37, 65 Mârza, Traian 263 Marzec, Piotr (Liroy) 312 Masina, Filippo 331 Masleša, Zemira 175, 176 Masnikosa, Marija 153, 154, 166 Masur, Kurt 195 Matsuev, Denis 234 Maychyk, Ivan 99 Maychyk, Ostap 99, 108 Mayer, Adam 327, 332 May, Karl 125, 126 Mazepa, Hetman Ivan 87 Mažulis, Rytis 57–60, 65 Medan, Virgil 263 Medić, Ivana 10, 139, 140, 148,154, 160, 163, 166, 333 Medić, Milena 147, 166 Mehner, Klaus 39, 65 Mehta, Zubin 195, 234 Mel’nyk, Lidiya 90, 102, 108 Mendelssohn, Felix 173 Mendrun, Vasyl 99 344

Menuhin, Hepzibah 196 Menuhin, Yehudi 194, 196 Merkelis, Remigijus 51 Merrill, Bryce 332 Messiaen, Olivier 58 Metelitsa, Natal’ya 236 Metz, Piotr 311, 312, 333 Michael I [King of Romania] 191 Mickiewicz, Adam 48 Middleton, Richard 299, 308 Mihajlović, Milan 144, 145, 147, 148, 150 Mikeladze, Evgeni 76 Mikić, Vesna 141, 143–145, 147–150, 153, 166–168 Miladinović Prica, Ivana 160, 167 Milanović, Biljana 1, 9, 16 Milhaud, Darius 41 Milin, Melita 1, 9, 16, 17, 147, 166, 167 Miller, Carolyn R 38, 65 Milošević, Slobodan 3, 10, 143, 148, 163 Milosz, Oscar 57, 60 Minsky, Nikolai 95 Miroshnichenko, Alexey 229 M.K. [Martin Kornak] 323, 332 Moberg, Marcus 316, 333 Moisil, Costin 256, 270 Mokranjac, Stevan Stojanović 16, 111, 112, 113, 114, 117, 118, 157, 161, 162 Moldovan, Mihai 202 Moszyński, Kazimierz 318 Motte-Haber, Helga de la 38, 60, 63, 65, 66 Moynihan, Michael 309, 315, 333 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 10, 124–128, 134, 173, 193, 199, 201, 228 Mudrian, Albert 309, 333 Mukhambetova, Asii︠ a︡ Ibadullaevna 277, 279, 282, 286, 292 Mulić, Dino 176 Musorgsky, Modest 85, 192 Mustafić, Dino 172, 183 Muzïchuk, V. Yu. 227, 240 Müller, Martin 2, 17 Мyuray, Tristan 57, 65

Three Decades in Retrospect

N Nadareishvili, Zurab 81 Nadel, Siegfried Frederick 69, 84 Nakas, Šarūnas 58, 65 Narbutaitė, Onutė 41, 51 Nasidze, Sulkhan 73, 76, 79, 81 Năsturică, Vasile 267 Nazarbaev, Nursultan Abishevich 280, 281, 293 Négrier, Emmanuel 170, 182 Nekrošius, Eimuntas 48 Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir 222, 240 Neshev, Neshko 298 Netrebko, Anna 234–235 Neubauer, John 27, 34 Newton, Isaac 88 Nicoară, Raluca 200, 206 Nicomachus of Gerasa 52 Niculescu, Ștefan 201, 202 Niemen, Czesław 311 Nikisch, Arthur 188 Nikolić, Marija 158 , 167 Nikolov, Lazar 295 Nodia, Gia 74, 84 Nogo, Rajko Petrov 115 Nordgren, Åsa 41 Novak, Jelena 41, 42, 65, 153 N’toko (Miha Blažič) 23, 34

O Oberth, Hermann 126 Odăgescu, Irina 202 Odobescu, Alexandru 189 Ogdon, John 195 Oistrakh, David 194, 195 Olah, Tiberiu 202 O’Loughlin, Niall 34 Olsen, Solveig 127, 128, 134, 135 Omarova, Gulzada N. 13, 14, 273, 281, 283, 285, 292, 293 Omigie, Diana 33 Orazbaeva, Altayï Iranbekkïzï 278, 293 Orbán, György 209, 210, 216, 218 Orbeliani, Sulkhan–Saba 80

Orff, Karl 286 Orjonikidze, Givi 73, 78, 79, 85 Ostafiychuk, Ivan 89–90 Osterc, Slavko 156 Ozawa, Seiji 203, 204

P Petrovics, Emil 209, 213, 214, 219 Petrović, Tatjana Tanja 148 Pickles, John 4, 17 Pieroni, Giulio 331 Pieslytė, Jūratė 64 Pietraszewski, Igor 311, 334 Piotrowska, Anna G. 15, 309, 322, 323, 334 Pironkov, Simeon 295 Platt, Kevin M. F. 2, 17 Pleșu, Andrei 199 Pletnev, Mikhail 233 Pogorelić, Ivo 178 Pollack, Maxine 313, 330 Pol’ova, Victoriya 91, 94, 99, 106 Polyakov [family] 222 Pompe, Gregor 24, 34 Pon’ko, Аleksey 240 Pop, Adrian 202 Pop, Ioan 267 Pop, Liviu 264 Popa, Aurelian Octav 203 Popenko, Mykola 99 Popova, Olena 94 Popović, Branka 163–164 Popović, Mića 148 Popović, Zoran 154–155 Pousseur, Henri 62 Preda, Tania 186, 207 Preljocaj, Angelin 236 Premate, Zorica 141, 146, 147, 150, 167 Prêtre, Georges 195 Previšić, Boris 175 Primorac, Jaka 27, 35 Pritchard, John 194 Prodanov Krajišnik, Ira 109, 110, 119 Prokhorov, Mikhail 228, 233 Prokofiev, Sergey 73, 77, 192, 194, 228, 234 Prunner, Iosif Ion 203 345

Music in Postsocialism

Pshavela, Vazha 75 Puccini, Giacomo 52, 102 Purcell, Henry 203 Purcell, Natalie J. 316, 334 Pušnik Kramar, Alja 24, 35 Putin, Vladimir 234

R Rachmaninoff, Sergei 111, 114, 116, 192, 259 Radichkov, Yordan 299 Radovanović, Bojana 324, 328, 334 Radovanović, Vladan 161–162 Rădulescu, Speranța 13, 245, 251, 252, 256, 263, 264, 265, 266, 269, 270, 271 Radzhabov, Amirhamsa R. 276, 294 Raičković, Miloš 115 Raimbergenov, Abdulkhamit 286, 291 Raimbergenova, Saira 286 Ralchev, Petar 304 Rameau, Jean-Philippe 52 Ranger, Terence 325, 331 Ránki, Dezső 215 Rashidova, Dilbar A. 276, 294 Rátki, András 213 Rattle, Simon 204 Ravel, Maurice 173 Repin, Vadim 235 Reynold, Peter 41, 42 Richardson, Neil 241 Riemann, Hugo 54 Rilke, Rainer Maria 41 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai 192 Ripko, Olena 92, 108 Ritzer, George 302, 308 Rodan-Kahane, Mariana 269 Rodin, Oleksandr 95 Rodionova, Irina 241 Rodowicz, Maryla 312 Rogalski, Theodor 191 Rojko, Uroš XIII, 24 Roncea, Ion Ivan 203 Ross, Alex 27, 34 Roșu, Michaela 201, 207 Rotaru, Doina 202 Rouget, Gilbert 269 346

Rozhdestvensky, Gennady 195 Rubinstein, Arthur 194, 195 Runchak, Volodymyr 91, 94 Ruabushinsky [family] 222 Rykowski, Mikołaj 27, 34

S Sabo, Adriana 141, 167 Sabo, Anica 141 Saint-Säens, Camille 173 Sakalauskas, Jonas 41 Salgado, Juliano Ribeiro 126 Salgado, Sebastião 126 Salvini, Andrea 332 Samson, Jim 37, 65, 66, 166 Sandner, Wolfgang 79, 80, 85 Sándor, Anikó 214, 218 Sandu-Dediu, Valentina 11, 185, 187, 192, 193, 207 Santor, Irena 312 Sârbu, Cristina 186, 203, 207 Sargon II [King of Assyria] 69 Satie, Erik 22 Satpaev, Dоsïm 275, 291, 294 Savić, Svetlana 153 Scheidt, Samuel 97 Schlösser, Karl 126, 128 Schnebel, Dieter 50 Schnittke, Alfred 62, 77, 231 Schoellhammer, Georg 270 Schoenberg, Arnold 22, 34 Schoot, Albert van der / Šot, Albert van der 118, 119 Schultz, Klaus 32 Schumann, Robert 173, 195 Schuman, William 74 Schütz, Alfred 27, 34 Schütz, Heinrich 97 Scott, Niall W.R. 322, 333, 334 Secrieriu, Silvia 203 Sehin, Bohdan 91 Sekulić, Mirela 175, 182 Selmeczi, György 209, 218 Serebrennikov, Kirill 232 Shaffer, Ryan 323, 334 Shagimuratova, Albina 235

Three Decades in Retrospect

Shalashov, Alexey 224, 241 Sharoshi, T. 286 Shaverzashvili, Giorgi 81 Shcherbakov, Ihor 91 Shchetynsky, Oleksandr 95 Shchukin, Pyotr 222 Sherstyuk, Volodymyr 107 Shevchenko, Taras 90, 91, 97 Shklovsky, Victor 56, 57 Shlikhta, Natalya 87, 108 Shostakovich, Dmitry 73, 75, 76, 77, 192, 230, 234 Shughliashvili, Mikheil 82 Shukh, Mykhailo 91, 94, 95, 96, 106 Shumejko, Volodymyr 91 Shved, Mykhailo 91 Siegmund-Schultze, Walther 65 Sijarić, Ališer 175, 180 Silver, Daniel D. 37, 65 Silverman, Carol 298 Silvestri, Constantin 189, 191, 193, 202, 207 Silvestrov, Valentin 106 Simi, Pete 331 Simpson, Scott 316, 334 Sipińska, Urszula 312 Skliris, Stamatis 111, 118, 119 Skorokhod, Olʹha 88, 108 Skoryk, Myroslav 89, 97, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 106, 107 Skovoroda, Hryhoriy 90, 91 Skryabin, Aleksandr 192 Slavenski, Josip 173 Slavova, Milena 297, 298 Slobin, Mark 305, 308 Slonimsky, Sergey 77 Small, Christopher 31, 34 Sobel, Bernard 135 Socor, Matei 191, 192 Søderlind, Didrik 309, 333 Sokolov, Grigory 204 Sokurov, Alexander 126, 128 Solovyov, Vladimir 95 Sonevytsky, Ihor 94 Soviak, Roman 99

Spaić, Maša 163, 167 Spasov, Bozhidar 295 Spassov, Theodosii 298, 304 Spears, Britney 301 Spivakov, Vladimir 234 Spracklen, Karl 332 Srećković / Leković, Biljana 158, 159, 167 Sretenović, Srđan 160 Stalin, J. Vissarionovich 192, 193 Stamatović / Ilić, Ivana 141, 143–145, 147–150, 153, 155–157, 166–168 Stankovych, Yevhen 91, 94, 97 Stasiv-Kalynets, Iryna 90 Staynov, Petko 308 St Basil the Great 93 Stefanija, Leon 7, 21, 23, 34 Stefanović, Ivana 144, 154, 155, 159, 160, 164, 168 Stein, Leonard 34 Stelmakh, Bohdan 100 Stelmashchuk, Stepan 99 Stemme, Nina 235 Stephan, Rudolf 22, 35 Stepurko, Viktor 91, 96, 97, 106, 107 Stęszewski, Jan 317, 331 Stetkiewicz, Lucyna 334 Stetsenko, Kyrylo 94 Stevanović, Ksenija 142, 151, 154, 168 Stihi-Boos, Constantin 269 Stockhausen, Karlheinz 202, 295 Stoichita, Victor A. 265, 271 Stojanović / Stojanović-Novičić, Dragana 147, 166, 168 Stokes, Martin 300, 308 Stokowski, Leopold 259 Storozhko, Marina S. 63 Strauss, Johann 194 Strauss, Richard 22, 188, 199 Stravinsky, Igor 23, 77, 114, 192, 194, 195 Strém, Kálmán 214, 216, 217, 218 Stroe, Aurel 202 Sturua, Robert 81 Succow, Martin 126, 128 Sulkhanishvili, Niko 71 Supper, Martin 61, 66 347

Music in Postsocialism

Sutherland, Roger 21, 35 Svanidze, Natela 73, 79, 82 Syberberg, Hans Jürgen 9, 10, 121, 123–136 Sylvan, Robin 316, 334 Sylvestrov, Valentyn 94, 96, 99 Szále, László 212, 218 Szántó, Mária 212, 218 Szenik, Ilóna 263 Szeryng, Henryk 195 Szokolay, Sándor 209, 210, 211, 217, 218 Szőnyei, Tamás 214, 215, 219 Szymanowski, Karol 202

Š Šenk, Nina 24 Šimić, Angelina 173, 182 Škedelj Renčelj, Viktor 24, 35 Šot, Albert van der / Schoot, Albert van der 118, 119 Šušnjar, Adis 172, 183 Šuvaković, Miodrag Miško 3, 17, 119 Švob-Đokić, Nada 27, 35, 148, 168

T Taktakishvili, Otar 73, 74, 75, 79, 81 Țăranu, Cornel 202 Tarmakov, Russi 295 Taruskin, Richard 22, 35 Tasovac, Ivan 160, 161 Tatomir, Virgiliu 186, 207 Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich 108, 111, 114, 173, 192, 193, 232, 234 Telemann, Georg Philipp 194 Temirkanov, Yuri 232, 234, 236 Terfel, Bryn 235 Tertelis, Justas 42 Tiedemann, Rolf 32 Till, Rupert 316, 334 Timberlake, Jeffrey M. 327, 332 Timchenko, Elena 231, 236, 239 Timchenko, Gennady 231, 236, 239 Tïnyanov, Yuriy Nikolaevitch 56, 57, 66 Todorova, Maria 2, 3, 17, 301, 308 Tomašević, Katarina 333 Tomlionova, Al’ona 95 348

Topolski, Jan 57, 66 Toradze, David 79 Toscanini, Arturo 188 Tősér, Dániel 213 Trajković, Vlastimir 150 Trdan, Primož 24, 35 Tretyakov, Pavel 222 Trišić, Ivana 150, 161, 168 Tsenova, Julia 295 Tsenova, Valeriya Stefanovna 63, 65 Tsepkolenko, Karmella 91 Tsereteli, Vasily 233 Tsintsadze, Sulkhan 73, 74 Tsulukidze, Anton 75, 85 Tsurtsumia, Rusudan 8, 67, 69, 84, 85 Tutev, Georgi 295 Tymozhynsky, Victor 94

U Uchitel, Alexander 317, 318, 319, 332 Ukrainka, Lesya 90 Uraev, Andrey 233 Urbaitis, Mindaugas 51 Urbańczyk, Stanisław 330 Usmanov, Alisher 233

V Vaget, Hans R. 134, 136 Vajda, János 209, 218 Vallee, Lillian 135 Varèse, Edgar 23 Várkonyi, Tamás 214, 217 Varsányi, Gyula 209, 212, 213, 214, 219 Varsányi, Zsuzsa 212, 213, 219 Vasiljević, Maksim 118, 119 Vedel, Artem 90, 91, 97 Velimirović, Nikolaj 115 Venturella, Mario 331 Verdery, Katherine 140, 195, 207 Verdi, Giuseppe 199, 296 Veress, Sándor 211 Verne, Jules 126 Veryovka, H. 99 Veselinović-Hofman, Mirjana 111, 119, 141, 143, 160, 164, 166, 168 Vesić, Ivana 9, 17

Three Decades in Retrospect

Vicol, Adrian 246, 263, 271 Victor, Máté 212, 213, 217, 219 Vielgorsky, Mikhail 222 Vieru, Anatol 192, 202 Virsaladze, Maka 83 Vitkauskaitė, Rūta 41 Vivaldi, Antonio 173 Vladimirescu, Tudor 192 Vodenicharov, Yasen 296 Voicu-Arnăuțoiu, Ioana Raluca 191, 207 Voicu, Ion 189, 194, 196 Volodymyr the Great 104 Voropay, Oleksa 104, 108 Vrebalov, Aleksandra 161 Vtorov, Nikolay 222 Vukomanović, Milan 118 Vuković, Sava 112

W Wachmann, Eduard 187, 188, 189 Wachmann, Johannes Andreas 187 Wagner, Richard 25, 134, 135, 191, 206 Walcker-Mayer, Gerhard 186, 207 Walicki, Franciszek 311, 334 Walser, Robert 309, 334 Walsh, Craig 176 Webern, Anton 295 Weinstein, Deena 309, 314, 317, 325, 327, 334 Welsch, Wolfgang 21, 27, 35 Wenders, Wim 126 Weston, Donna 316, 334, 335 Wilczyński, Marek 314, 335 Williams, Thomas J. T. 315, 335 Wilson, Charles 21, 33 Wilson, Scott A. 334 Wood, David 64 Wünsche, Stephan 17 Wyschnegradsky, Ivan 57

Y Yakovchuk, Oleksandr / Jacobchuk, Alexander 91, 97, 107 Yankulov, Stoyan 304, 307 Yarustovskiy, Boris 78, 85 Yordanov, Nikolay (Kolio Gilana) 296 Yossifov, Dragomir 295–296 Yunakov, Yuri 298 Yurchak, Alexei 2, 16 Yuseinov, Ateshghan 304

Z Zabuzhko, Oksana 101, 108 Zaderatskiy, Vsevolod 85 Zarlino, Gioseffo 52 Zelenka, Ilya 295 Zemtsovskiy, Izaliy 85 Zhivkov, Todor Ivanov 306, 308 Ziegler, Susanne 69, 85 Zlobec, Marjan 29, 31, 35 Zosim, Olha 98, 108 Zuk, Patrick 5, 17

Ž Žebeljan, Isidora 150, 151, 152, 161 Živković, Milenko 117 Žuklytė, Rūta 61, 63

X Xenophon 69, 85

349

CIP - Каталогизација у публикацији Народна библиотека Србије, Београд 78:316.75(4-11)”1990/2020”(082) 32:78(4-11)”1990/2020”(082) MUSIC in Postsocialism: Three Decades in Retrospect = Музика у постсоцијализму: три деценије касније / editors Biljana Milanović, Melita Milin and Danka Lajić Mihajlović = уреднице Биљана Милановић, Мелита Милин и Данка Лајић Михајловић ; [English translation from Serbian Zorica Simović]. Belgrade : Institute of Musicology of the SASA = Београд : Музиколошки институт САНУ, 2020 (Mladenovac : GIR MS štampa). - XIII, 349 str. : ilustr. ; 24 cm Tiraž 250. - Notes on Contributors: str. IX-XII. - Napomene i bibliografske reference uz radove. - Bibliografija uz svaki rad. - Registar. ISBN 978-86-80639-60-4 1. Milanović, Biljana, 1967- [urednik] 2. Milin, Melita, 1953- [urednik] 3. Lajić Mihajlović, Danka, 1967- [urednik] a) Музика - Социолошки аспект - Источна Европа - 1990-2020 - Зборници b) Политика - Култура - Источна Европа - 1990-2020 - Зборници COBISS.SR-ID 28288265

MUSIC IN POSTSOCIALISM: THREE DECADES IN RETROSPECT, Biljana Milanović, Melita Milin and Danka Lajić Mihajlović (eds.), Belgrade: Institute of Musicology SASA, 2020. - PDFCOFFEE.COM (2024)

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