The other day I happened upon this video of Shostakovich performing his own Prelude and Fugue in E Minor:
It's a piece I have been wanting to pull out of the closet again because it's one that, through the years, has given me an incredible glimpse of another culture through the window of music. When I hear or play it I am instantly transported back about 20 years, when I was fortunate enough to accompany a boy's choir to St. Petersburg, Russia, not long after the fall of communism in their country. It was quite a trip - one that opened my eyes, not only through what I myself saw and experienced, but also from watching a group of young American boys take in and process this completely different culture. When we were there we were housed in what seemed to be an abandoned, run-down estate on the gulf of Finland; boys were having a difficult time finding anything they were willing to eat and lived for the moments when we discovered a Coca-Cola vendor on the street; fruit was scarce and purchased from the black market for us by security agents assigned to our choir who realized the boys weren't eating; meals for the entire choir in good restaurants could be paid for using what amounted to only a few American dollars.
Yet in spite of what seemed like hard times to us, the people, landscape, architecture, churches - all had hope and beauty in addition to a sense of history that I don't think we Americans understand in the same way. It was tangible everywhere we went. There was a pride in culture and in who they were as a people. From the security agents, to the babushka docents in the museums who were unabashedly protecting their country's treasures from a flock of young boys, to the singers in the Russian Orthodox churches, they all made it clear to us that they wanted us there, wanted to hear our music, and wanted to share whatever they had to offer with us, including their love of music.
Their incredible love of music.
Most of the festival was held in the St. Petersburg Philharmonia, pictured here. It is a hall whose walls have absorbed the magic of Liszt, Berlioz, Mahler, Wagner, Rubinstein, and Shostakovich just to name a few. It is a stunning a hall that was completely filled every performance. And afterward we would leave in a post-concert daze to be greeted at the stage entrance by a mob of enthusiastic fans wanting autographs and handshakes from us all. There was one woman in particular that made a point of always finding us and greeting us. She was a choir director herself in St. Petersburg and was always wanting to know more about the pieces we had sung, and in particular, Mozart's "Ave Verum." She told us through our translator one evening that it was very difficult to obtain sheet music so she had little exposure to pieces like that and regretted that she couldn't share them with her choir. The next day she appeared at the stage door yet again, full of tears, handshakes and compliments. Our choir director quickly gathered up the boys, retrieved their folders from them, and pulled out each copy of "Ave Verum," handing them all over to her. The look on her face is permanently embedded in my memory. It was a look of shock, disbelief, and gratitude. The scenario threw me, and a I think the boys in our choir, for a bit of a loop. It was difficult for me to fully comprehend the situation in Russia at that time which made it virtually, if not completely impossible for the people to obtain scores for some of the most loved pieces - scores that in the United States could be found in practically every choral library and that could be purchased fairly easily. Needless to say it made me appreciate our local music store. (And yes, those used to exist.)
So what does this story have to do with Shostakovich's Prelude and Fugue? What I hear in this music is something that might have been incomprehensible in the same way had I not had those experiences in Russia. At first listening this set might seem dark, desolate, and hopeless but what I sense is the light, warmth, and hope I sensed inlaid in everyday life, creating a complex beauty that I see in the beautiful inlaid woodwork that we saw everywhere in St. Petersburg. I sensed this throughout the tour and since then, through reading Russian literature and taking in their history and culture. And in this most incredible fugue, a double fugue, in which two themes and their countersubjects intertwine to create a complex, musical design, the Russian sentiment is poured on top of me in an undeniable way. It never fails to make me want to weep and cheer, all at the same time.
Yet in spite of what seemed like hard times to us, the people, landscape, architecture, churches - all had hope and beauty in addition to a sense of history that I don't think we Americans understand in the same way. It was tangible everywhere we went. There was a pride in culture and in who they were as a people. From the security agents, to the babushka docents in the museums who were unabashedly protecting their country's treasures from a flock of young boys, to the singers in the Russian Orthodox churches, they all made it clear to us that they wanted us there, wanted to hear our music, and wanted to share whatever they had to offer with us, including their love of music.
Their incredible love of music.
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| Photo from Wikimedia Commons |
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| © Popova Olga - Fotolia.com |
And one final note about this particular performance. I simply love listening to composers playing their own compositions and this example is no exception. Is it note perfect? Far from it. Is it still effective? In my mind, definitely, if not more so!
Something for me to keep in mind.
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