Estrada?!: Grand Narratives and the Philosophy of the Russian Popular Song Since Perestroika 0773523715, 9780773523715

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ESTRADA?! Grand Narratives and the Philosophy of the Russian Popular Song since Perestroika

In Estrada?!, the second volume of a three-part series on Russian popular song, David MacFadyen extends his overview of Russian culture and society into the post-Soviet period. Having dispelled several myths surrounding Soviet popular entertainment – known as “estrada” or the “small stage” – in Red Stars, MacFadyen shifts his attention to a newer musical tradition that has emerged from the simultaneous disappearance of Soviet ideology and the loud influx of Western music. The author shows how performance, popularity, and politics have all changed rapidly in Russia following the fall of communism. He highlights the troubled state of Soviet music journalism in the eighties, the deteriorating standards of staging, and the problems of developing a “proper” post-Soviet repertoire given the weakened relevance of songs as propaganda and the tenuous value of an old-style “sentimental education” that performers hoped to offer audiences. MacFadyen shows that for Russia’s most famous performers today singing is still a responsibility of both private and public relevance. Even in postSoviet Europe, song remains the most profoundly consequential of art forms. david m acfadyen, associate professor in the Department of Slavic Languages at ucla, is the author of Red Stars: Personality and the Soviet Popular Song, 1955–1991 and two books on Joseph Brodsky.

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ESTRADA?! GRAND NARRATIVES AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE RUSSIAN POPULAR SONG SINCE PERESTROIKA David MacFadyen

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston · London · Ithaca

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© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2002 isbn 0-7735-2371-5 Legal deposit third quarter 2002 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled) and processed chlorine free. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for its publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (bpidp) for our publishing activities.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data MacFadyen, David, 1964– Estrada?!: grand narratives and the philosophy of the Russian popular song since Perestroika / David MacFadyen. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-7735-2371-5 1. Popular music – Soviet Union – 1981–1990 – History and criticism. 2. Popular music – Russia (Federation) – 1991–2000 – History and criticism. i. Title. ml3497.m142 2002 782.42164’0947’0904 c2002-901047-0 Typeset in New Baskerville 10/12 by Caractéra inc., Quebec City

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With little originality but much affection this book is dedicated to my parents, my brother, and my sister.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction: What Is This Book About? 3

four predicam ents The Decline of a Soviet Repertoire The Absence of Ideology

7

37

Performers’ Untutored Upbringing

64

Directorial Work on the Stage and on the Road

89

evidence of two solut io ns Audio: The Sound of Music and Mutation Video: Estrada on Film since Perestroika

115 132

russian popular cult ure after 1982: the big pic ture “Why Am I Singing Now?” Grand Narratives and Their Hard-Working Survivors 161 Conclusion: Only the Sentimental and Industrious Can Endure 181

appendices Biographies

189

Audio-Visual Sources Notes

211

Index 251

202

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge my colleagues at both Dalhousie and ucla for help during the time of research. Additional, equally valuable support was offered in Canada by Erin Fox, endlessly cataloging thousands of songs. While at the National Library of Russia in St Petersburg I relied, as ever, upon priceless newspaper archives along the Fontanka, and express my gratitude to its most patient curators. The photographs in this book are the work of Slava Guretskii. His offer of both the materials used in this study and the contemporary images in Red Stars was generous indeed. No less munificent were my friends Iosif and Elena, whose hospitality has long been the sine qua non of any book.

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The cabaret traditions of Laima Vaikule, both off and on stage in Riga

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Litsei

Na-Na, with Bari Alibasov

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Alena Apina

Larisa Dolina

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Natasha Koroleva

Igor’ Nikolaev

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Anzhelika Varum, alone and with Leonid Agutin

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Tat’iana Bulanova

Irina Allegrova

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Dmitrii Malikov

Leonid Agutin

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Tat’iana Ovsienko: Two personae

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Alla Pugacheva, with husband Filipp Kirkorov

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Filipp Kirkorov

Vladimir Presniakov

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Kristina Orbakaite, alone and with Vladimir Presniakov

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ESTRADA?!

There’s so little beauty in all our [modern Russian] lives right now that I want to do something, to take a step of some sort and make things more attractive, pleasant, interesting or unexpected. Filipp Kirkorov on matters of music (Liubov’ i stsena, ort 1999) * Kirkorov came up to me and said: “I love you. I’m ready to marry you.” Just imagine … I’m sitting there, next to my husband and there’s [the lyricist Il’ia] Reznik, too, a friend of the family. I told him: “Young man, you do see, don’t you, that I’m sort of married. Here’s my husband.” Kirkorov turned around and said: “No … Well, maybe for now.” (What a nightmare! “Maybe for now!”) “But you should know that one day I will be your husband.” Filipp Kirkorov on matters of the heart, as related by Alla Pugacheva (Subbotnii vecher, rtr 1996)

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INTRODUCTION: WHAT IS THIS BOOK ABOUT?

With this book I continue the research of Red Stars, extending an overview of Russian popular songs into the post-Soviet period, to the end of the twentieth century. The primary objective of that first volume was to dispel several myths surrounding Soviet popular or light entertainment, known to audiences in Moscow, Leningrad, and beyond as the “small stage” or èstrada, a wide-ranging term that includes pop music but also applies to modern dance, comedy, circus arts, and any other performance not on the “big,” classical stage. I aimed to show that Cold War rhetoric was and continues to be extraordinarily damaging to Slavic studies of mass culture. A cursory glance at the Soviet Union’s favourite art form after cinema reveals enormous variation, change, and even quiet deviance from state-sponsored aesthetics. That deviance was initially approved by Soviet concert organizations and instigated a gentle, complicated game of give-and-take between lyrical and civic emphases in songs that sold hundreds of millions of copies. Since the seven singers examined in Red Stars are all still working, that study followed their careers into the 1990s. There is, however, a simultaneous and different tradition of songs today that began to take shape in the early 1980s, one that now dominates the stage. The present book looks at this newer tradition between 1982 and 2000 in order to ask two questions: What makes it new, and does it have any constructive relationship to what was observed in the previous, Soviet study? It would appear that post-Soviet popular songs owe an enormous debt to their Soviet predecessors, yet that kind of risky hypothesis requires considerable proof. The performers discussed in Red Stars, despite being the most famous people in Russia, are unexamined by Western scholarship and very rarely studied seriously in their own country. With regard to the more contemporary singers discussed in this book, the situation

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introduction: what is this book about?

warrants an even louder reprimand. In an attempt to rectify such lacunae, my criteria in choosing objects for this second study were as follows. A performer must be very successful today and represent, even in some small way, modern music’s primary tendency, the lyric song. He or she must express that lyricism in the genre of the (genuinely) popular song or popsa and be neither a modern “bard,” such as the brawny yet brainy Aleksandr Rozenbaum, nor a rock-oriented figure, such as the philosophical Boris Grebenshchikov or the gruff, bearded Iurii Shevchuk. He or she must not be immediately recognizable as working in a wholly Western vein or, worse still, clearly imitating a Western performer. (Parallels, to some degree unavoidable, are nonetheless made with the West where instructive.) Perhaps Russian listeners seek these same generic criteria, because those who qualify are also the most popular entertainers there today. Nevertheless, some Slavic readers will be surprised to see a name or two not represented here, such as Evgenii Belousov or Oleg Gazmanov. Belousov passed away in 1997, while Gazmanov has gradually become a prime exponent of the new civic, Muscovite song, which deserves a separate study. This book is not an encyclopedia. Absenteeism from my list is explained primarily by the desire to show what happened in Russian estrada between perestroika and the new millennium, rather than what became something else, was forgotten, or was even dismissed at the start of the nineties.1 The rapid changes in preferences, popularity, and politics in Russia have led me to examine the reasons why the Soviet tradition among more than twenty-three performers is perhaps not forgotten or dismissed. Such is the main topic of this study. My investigation falls into four areas highlighted by troubled Soviet journalists in the eighties: the decline of a “proper” repertoire, the weakening of ideology, the ethical issues associated with a performer’s upbringing (and the consequences for the audience), and the worsening standards of directorial work. I follow these topics with a theoretically inclined overview of what tradition per se means now, since its troubled status has often led to the horrified question that forms the title of this book, a question asked by millions of Russians raised under Khrushchev or earlier when they look at the stage or the television sets of today: Estrada?!

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FOUR PREDICAMENTS

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THE DECLINE OF A SOVIET REPERTOIRE We must arrange things so that Soviet estrada can solve all four of its key problems in a harmonious manner: the problems of repertoire, of ideological and artistic standards, of how performers are nurtured and how directorial work is undertaken.1

introduction: where’s the truth? there isn’t any! Just prior to communism’s death throes in 1991, the most popular musical ensemble in Russia was the all-male Laskovyi mai (Tender May), which exchanged the jazz, rock, or folk strains of major Soviet performers for something very new: clumsy, weakly produced synthesized pop. The adolescent members had all at some time been housed in state orphanages, and their manager, a certain Andrei Razin, had made good use of these maudlin origins to win both government and audience support for the band’s work.2 Their rapid ascent to mass popularity, however, was swifter than the willingness of Soviet television to embrace the callow upstarts.3 As a result, many young people knew what Laskovyi mai sounded like, but their actual appearance was much less of a certainty. Two strange results arose from this lack of information. First of all, several groups, all claiming to be Laskovyi mai, toured the Soviet Union. Gall on this scale was possible since lip-synching was now much more common than in prior decades. The second, related consequence was that their own manager made good use of their absence from Moscow on one occasion to gather himself a troupe of young men and take the false ensemble on the road for a month to earn some extra cash. His actions led to all but one of the real members quitting, but since the make-up of the group seemed to be of little consequence, new singers were found and Laskovyi mai – despite its feeble, derivative melodies – was declared the most popular band of 1990. This story was especially upsetting to many of the performers who had forged solid careers in Soviet estrada under Brezhnev or before, when lip-synching was anathema, barely excusable even in times of dire illness. Known in Russian as “veneer” or fanera, it soon became a widespread practice, though – perhaps understandable when one considers

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the size of Russia and the lack of funds for financing any type of extended activity across its expanse. It is much cheaper to travel with a tape-recorder and a few amplifiers than with a bus full of musical instruments and all the people who play them. The problems of fanera and funding were made clearer still within the late-eighties band Mirazh, who beefed up the boyish popsa of Laskovyi mai with suggestive, scantily clad chanteuses and the driving percussion of syndrums more oriented to the dance floor. Dry ice, leather, and black lace were much in evidence. One female vocalist, Natal’ia Gul’kina, abandoned the ensemble, only to receive a proposal from the ubiquitous Andrei Razin to form a better Mirazh. She did so, but the original band valiantly kept performing – by using their old tapes of Gul’kina’s vocals, since re-recording an entire repertoire was well beyond a manageable budget. Perhaps unhappy with Gul’kina’s subsequent efforts, Razin soon formed a third Mirazh, hiring this time as a vocalist the winner of the 1988 Miss Moscow contest – who also “sang” to Gul’kina’s increasingly dusty soundtrack.4 Such artistic duplicity was by no means the work of one manager alone, nor was such behaviour necessarily of negative consequence to these performers’ reputations or livelihood. The last member of the band to act in this manner – the Kievan songstress Tat’iana Ovsienko – went on to an extremely successful solo career in the slightly less modish vein of breezy, often acoustic, pop sung gently in a girlish whisper. She is still accepted and admired today. Taken as a whole, the situation was a complete mess, as one newspaper wailed in a series of questions to itself: “Where is the truth?” “There isn’t any!” “How come?” “That’s just the way it is!”5 With the Soviet Union retired, problems increased as an enormous number of performers appeared in Russian popular culture. Almost nobody knew who they were, and even if they did, the songs mattered more than the people singing them, since artistes had no time to establish an aura of “personality” (lichnost’). The seven performers examined in Red Stars survived this transition, but hordes of their contemporaries did not.6 Many well-established Soviet performers took with them into the wings a multigeneric tradition they had lovingly cultivated prior to 1991. A farewell was said to gypsy romances, big band jazz, foxtrots, tangos, and even the clunky, stadium-oriented rock that marks so much pre-perestroika estrada. I organized Red Stars in a wilfully linear fashion to emphasize the sense of tradition among that prior generation, since in part it gives Russian-language, post-Soviet estrada its current significance. This book, however, is designed in a different, somewhat serpentine, manner

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for two reasons. First, contemporary estrada is an alternative to linear narratives. Second, today’s numerous performers make it harder to choose only seven representatives as indicative of anything objective. I have therefore greatly increased the number of people under scrutiny and looked for similar, synchronous events involving them, rather than diachronic developments.7 Those events are discussed as late Soviet “problems,” following the very typical article quoted at the top of this chapter: problems of repertoire, ideology, upbringing, and directorial work. Before we begin examining these problems I should say that neither they nor my list of performers make the slightest pretence towards an exhaustive investigation. They do, however, give an insight into what the Soviet performers who flourished under Brezhnev wrongly dismissed as chaos: “Classics and the avant-garde are all mixed up today.”8 A quiet tear was shed over what had seemingly been abandoned, because “tradition, probably, is the main thing. It forms the foundation of any family, any structure, any state.”9 Despite these gloomy obituaries, the best-selling male performer in today’s estrada, Filipp Kirkorov, is happy to have forged his career at the tail end of that same tradition, so perhaps somebody thinks that Soviet estrada might still be alive and intends to follow certain aspects of it. Kirkorov himself works in a wide range of genres, with scant regard for fashion: big, bouncy pop numbers designed for the widest possible audience and with a type of simple rhythm credited by one researcher to the tradition of German brass or “oompah” bands of the early twentieth century. His deep, powerful voice and lavish concerts – in the style of Las Vegas – easily bridge the strange distance between dance remixes of Soviet civic classics, numbers from The Phantom of the Opera, and remakes (perepevki) of recent Turkish and Latin hits. Why would anybody sing so much? In this quote from Kirkorov we at least hear the reconsideration of constraints, of pedantic and doctrinaire practices that inhibit abundance: I managed to jump on the last wagon in that train or generation of artists for whom the relationship between television and radio professionals was not founded upon money. Talent was the first thing to be recognized; only then would there be empathy for a given performer. If a person had some kind of contact with television, composers, lyricists and so on, then he’d have a chance to get on tv without paying any money, [but] it was the viewer himself who’d decide whether or not to love you as an artist. My own career began in ’85. Perestroika … I don’t want to lecture anybody. I don’t want to give anybody advice. There was a program recently on tv about one particular artiste. A

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four p redicaments famous and beautiful singer, but brainless. She tried so hard to show her intelligence that it was like a high-school lesson. I was really shocked. A beautiful woman, who models different costumes all the time, but being a complete dope, she was trying extremely hard to show that she’s intelligent. It really struck me. I’ve been with friends who’ve told me that she’s very bright. I tell them that in that case I must be a total idiot, because the whole thing looked silly to me, it just looked ridiculous.10

What Kirkorov is questioning here from the old tradition – despite his love and respect for it – is the tendency of Soviet estrada to teach or circumscribe, i.e., its occasional didacticism. Although the most popular Soviet songs of the Thaw and Stagnation often shied away from civic bluster, they were inclined to be slightly schoolmasterish, to busy themselves with the audience’s edification. The vocalist’s sense of self grew from a consciously social role, forged between singer and state or singer and audience. Those roles in society sometimes looked tentative by the time of perestroika, and troublingly rare by the nineties. How did the change to Kirkorov’s messy, multifaceted craft take place? How can he say that he loves, practises, and still greatly respects the very tradition he questions? This chapter will show that – initially – great respect was felt for some aspects of Soviet custom, especially for family members who, as professional musicians, had practised that sensible heritage. Respect diminished or slowly fell silent, and the press after 1991 began to wonder when anybody would now stand out an as innovator. The innate tendency of estrada towards metamorphosis, already operating quietly for several years, then initiated a process of self-definition by deciding what this new estrada would not be, much as Kirkorov did above. Among other things, it would not be overtly commercial or frivolous, said its exponents. Once new estrada knew what it was, it made major changes in the fields of lyricism and the theatrical, socalled “staged song,” as we will see below. A few obstacles, however, endured before a modern style could exercise complete affirmation of its surroundings and begin to change or use remnants of an old tradition. There persisted two marked forms of doubt or derision. The first was towards estrada’s time-honoured links with cabaret or “variety”; the other was condescension towards these lighter genres on the part of some estrada musicians who had enjoyed classical training. Once these attitudes had disappeared – by the mid-nineties – the private consequences of change, of aesthetic metamorphosing, became clear. Initially, though, performers had to deal with the past.

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respect your soviet elders! socialist jazz and prima donnas Лети, лети за облака, Меня с собой зови, зови. Но не забудь, что нить тонка, Не оборви, не оборви. [Fly beyond the clouds and call for me. But don’t forget that the thread’s fragile; don’t break it!]11

In looking at post-Soviet estrada and its traditions, this book begins in the pre-Gorbachev year of 1982. Although the loud deluge of Western music lay ahead, in the mid-eighties, certain “foreign” influences were important even at this stage in Soviet variety, for example, via the work of two Jewish performers from Odessa. The comical, pantomime jazz numbers of Leonid Utesov, who died in 1982, had been instrumental in the development of early Soviet songs. In the eighties they began their new influence in estrada at the Seventh Moscow Jazz Festival, thanks to Larisa Dolina, a somewhat brassy woman raised in the same city as Utesov. With the celebrated musician Anatolii Kroll, Dolina developed a program entitled A Jazz Vocal Anthology to summarize the genre as it was known at the time to Soviet audiences, “all the way from old spirituals to soul and disco.”12 The inclusion of soul and disco hinted at estrada’s anachronistic merging of traditions, which we will encounter throughout this book. Most of the jazz heard in estrada, even today, is subject to the structures of a rather basic dance beat, so that saxophone solos, for example, are incorporated into repertoires where we might expect a guitar. Western pop is guitar-based; estrada has its roots in jazz. Inspired by the work of Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, and Dinah Washington, Dolina brought some fresh air and a hint of freer interpretation to a pre-perestroika audience, thanks to jazzy, unpredictable improvisations. A minor Black discourse began to chip away at Soviet song, for Dolina was deliberately invoking a minor, subversive state twice over: first, the rare presence of a Ukrainian woman inside the jazz canon, and second, minor jazz inside major estrada. She did so in order to be something “lesser” and therefore more “flexible” or able to metamorphose, for “majority is never becoming. All becoming is minoritarian.”13 The characteristic features of a blues vocal are syncopation, a bluesy manner and a gruff timbre, as if coming from the depths of the soul. These features

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four p redicaments are all part of the Black American oral heritage and at the beginning of the Twentieth Century they became the distinguishing features of new music, of jazz … Dolina obviously needs great skill and creative flexibility [ gibkost’] for her “Anthology” of this genre. The greatest difficulty comes from the fact that she has to interpret anew works that recognized masters of the genre have, in their time, already used to conquer listeners’ hearts.14

Dolina’s growing fame in classic jazz, a genre of free reinterpretation, aided the reinterpretation of popular songs as a whole, in particular because she herself would later make the free transition from ragtime to estrada, as explained below. All this shifting or change, however, was made at the expense of a prevailing aesthetic, so what did musicians of the eighties and later say of their elders, of the singers discussed in Red Stars? Did they speak in a way that demeaned or increased “the prestige of the Soviet song”?15 At this time, one or two youthful composers, such as the blond, long-haired, mustachioed Igor’ Nikolaev, were already able to claim that their works – in this case moody, melodramatic ballads – had entered the “gold stock” of Soviet estrada. At precisely the same time they worked to forge post-Soviet songs. As a result we will be looking at the eighties, not 1991, as the time of overlap or transition.16 We obviously need to hear what these people said about jazzman Utesov, the “Patriarch of Estrada,” since by the nineties journalists began to worry that his classy traditions were being forgotten.17 He was always spoken of with boundless respect, but there came a time when younger performers could only know what their elders had told them of the bandleader’s accomplishments.18 Vladimir Presniakov, the broad-shouldered, hirsute falsetto whose songs of loneliness broke millions of young hearts in the eighties, regretted in 1988 that he was too young to have attended the concerts of either Utesov or the impassioned alcoholic bard of the seventies, Vladimir Vysotskii. Presniakov felt that thanks to these two men and others, estrada had once “raised its creativity to the highest possible level.”19 He also saw their achievements as apolitical, free from limits – in the same way that today’s estrada artists should not be bound by any one repertoire.20 Utesov’s most famous, and amusing, contact with today’s performers is enshrined in a story often repeated by Filipp Kirkorov’s father. Bedros Kirkorov was a famous Bulgarian bandleader, once asked by the stocky, ever-cheerful Utesov to join him on a long tour. Kirkorov had to refuse because his son, Filipp, had just been born.21 When the baby was only a month old, Utesov paid a gracious visit and noticed Filipp’s enormous, wide-eyed gaze, which even today makes him look

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permanently surprised or elated: “With eyes like those he’ll surely become a performer!”22 The blessings of a fairy godfather who retreated gracefully into the past were just as evident in the way late or post-Soviet estrada related to the nearer, yet no less respectable, figures of the sixties and seventies. As recently as 1996 Presniakov dreamed of singing a duet with the older, operatically gifted and conservative hero of the Soviet civic song, Iosif Kobzon.23 In 1997 Filipp Kirkorov had several concerts planned in Moscow’s enormous concert hall Rossiia, but suddenly noticed that the dates coincided with the thirtieth anniversary of Moldovan folk-rock diva Sofiia Rotaru’s entrance onto the estrada. He at once cancelled all his performances and ceded the hall to her.24 The younger generation, at least in the eighties, was unwilling to criticize its predecessors, if for no other reason than “I’d been taught since childhood to relate to my elders with respect!”25 Those such as the elegant and wistful Polish chanteuse of the Thaw, Èdita P’ekha, were thus subsumed into “the eternal, brilliant and most deserving generations of our Soviet stars.”26 Unhampered – indeed, honoured – by younger celebrities, they continued to fill auditoria for years on end and set a certain benchmark, one of long-lived success and (in the case of P’ekha) well-tailored beauty.27 While younger singers applauded their elders, those same dignitaries were themselves trying hard to find and maintain a younger audience, sometimes through television projects such as Starye pesni o glavnom (Old Songs About What Matters). Here Soviet estrada classics from the forties onwards were re-recorded in a contemporary manner and strung together in a romantic setting: the hills of a collective farm, the snow-filled courtyard of some Soviet apartments.28 By attempting to be modish, these performers were perhaps taking something of a chance as they risked sacrificing their older “Soviet” listeners and tried to bridge the ever-widening gap between their own age and the youth of their audience.29 The one major player of prior decades who managed to span that inter-traditional divide with the greatest cultural significance was the red-haired Alla Pugacheva, the “recognized maestro of estrada.” She has sold several hundred million records, moving between comic numbers redolent of Bette Midler, incidental songs for films, bold ballads set to classical orchestration, and (for a while) rock designed to fill football fields. Hard-earned status for years allowed her to challenge the creative designs of even the most respected old-world Soviet composers and lyricists with her “unpredictable interpretations.”30

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Unpredictability is what saved Pugacheva’s reputation from the ruins of a Soviet canon. For example, when asked in 1989 how he assessed her work, the then-youthful Igor’ Nikolaev (who has written several songs for her) replied respectfully: “I don’t have the right to make judgments … I just believe in Alla Pugacheva. She’s an unpredictable person. I both admire and envy her multifaceted nature.”31 The work of Pugacheva after the early seventies did serve to introduce the multifaceted, intrinsic nature of estrada to a Soviet audience once again. Beginning in 1975 with her carnivalesque song “Arlekino” and the drunken jollity of the Big Top, she seized upon and developed the idea of dramatized or “staged songs” (teatralizatsiia), changing roles, voices, or costumes for each number. These metamorphoses continued until the mid-eighties, when Pugacheva’s stage personae became confused with her actual person; the audience presumed that her big presence on stage continued off stage too. Today’s stars talk with awe of the first time they met her behind the scenes.32 As a result, Pugacheva – the one star – absorbed and replaced the multiple personae; her grand Muscovite presence began to preside over all estrada, while she somehow still basked in her reputation as the Queen of Transition. When the inexperienced student Filipp Kirkorov worked with her, he exclaimed: “One year of schooling under Pugacheva was as useful as all my academic courses put together!”33 In the late eighties, as Dolina made the metamorphosis from jazz to rock, she was accused of playing Pugacheva’s game, of usurping the “maestro.” She found herself obliged to back off, adding quickly: “These coincidences [of theme and presentation] are completely unintentional.”34 The living tradition was a risky thing to subvert or challenge, especially in the year (1990) that Pugacheva went to MonteCarlo to be crowned “the most popular female Russian singer of all time.”35 The grandest television shows – such as the first edition of Old Songs About What Matters – can still be made or broken depending upon her participation.36 Even her own daughter, the nation’s most popular young artiste and dancer today, has complained that considerable effort is required of someone born into the family of the “Big Myth” in order to break out and forge a different aesthetic.37 In the final full year of the Soviet Union, these established idols wobbled only a little. For the first time in many years the Leningrad newspaper Smena did not name Pugacheva songstress of the year. The official listings by tass placed an aristocratic twenty-year-old male singer-songwriter – Dmitrii Malikov – higher than Pugacheva or other Soviet stars such as Rotaru or Valerii Leont’ev (a dashing, very “thespian” singer who at times recalls David Bowie).38 Nonetheless, the new celebrities respectfully employed sage quotes from her songs in their

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interviews and found themselves required to explain how and why they worked in the genres she had made famous, such as the confessional or lachrymose ballad (ispoved’).39 In this atmosphere of enduring respect and deference, there were strange moments of jarring arrogance or subversion. Take, for example, an incident involving the blonde, petite Petersburg singer Tat’iana Bulanova, who has moved for several years between Slavic folk melodies and rock elements in a way that at times suggests Stevie Nicks. A 1996 article in Smena recounted the notorious incident: Bulanova apparently refused to go on stage at the illustrious Estrada Theatre, insisting on more money for her performance. When the house staff begged her to respect Pugacheva, sitting impatiently in the first row, Bulanova reportedly called her predecessor “an old whore,” threw her congratulatory bouquet of flowers on the floor, and cast substantial doubt upon the sexual orientation of Pugacheva’s husband. The story quickly reached the national weeklies, such as Ogonek, and Bulanova was forced to busy herself with rapid damage control, accusing the newspaper of lying “from start to finish.”40 Pugacheva later used her own journal, the expensive, glossy Alla, to publish a personal review of a Bulanova concert and declare the whole affair “nonsense, of course.”41 The most surprising aspect of Pugacheva’s imposing heritage today is that a man perpetuates it – one who married her and himself subsequently became the most famous (new) singer in post-Soviet Russia: Filipp Kirkorov. Even Tat’iana Bulanova, was – despite herself – impressed by Kirkorov’s transformations of tradition when she worked, early in her career, as part of his solo concerts, bedecked with showgirls, ostrich feathers, and lasers.42 His undying efforts to keep his wife’s heritage alive led him one on occasion to try to actualize the words of one of her most famous lyric songs with the gift of “a million scarlet roses.”43 This man grew up with her work, married it, lauds it endlessly, and works to great acclaim in the same genres, as we shall presently see.44 The composers who worked with Pugacheva to raise her to such dizzy heights form an equally instructive example. Take Raimonds Pauls, the melancholic Latvian composer and backbone (with poet Il’ia Reznik) of Pugacheva’s jazzier, rhythmically complex work in the seventies and eighties, the man who helped establish the predominance of lyric songs over civic.45 He, too, was made into the stuff of legend as singers reminisced about first encountering him. Pauls’s reputation as myth-maker was recorded in 1987 by fellow Latvian performer Laima Vaikule as she spoke of the happy fate that brought them together. (Vaikule is the tall, blonde, rather severe matriarch of the cabaret tradition, very much à la Minelli with the come-hither voice of Dietrich.) Like Pugacheva, Pauls became for Vaikule a wise,

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quiet authority whose presence was felt from afar. When Tat’iana Bulanova worked with him in 1994, his presence in the project had to be negotiated by an intermediary, as if the Latvian had retreated from the possibility of direct contact.46 (The oracle speaks, but remains unseen.) When contact did occur, however, it could be transformational. Bulanova, initially famous as the prime inheritor of the Pugachevian, teary ispoved’, would often cry on stage, but as soon as Pauls began to write songs for her, the papers announced that “Tat’iana Bulanova has stopped crying. No wonder! Raimonds Pauls himself is writing her songs now.”47 Contact with Soviet elders changed everything, even in the mid-nineties. This magic did fade a little with time, though. In a 1998 interview, Pauls admitted that the fragmentation of contemporary Russia and the poverty of its concertgoers made it hard for even the most diligent of performers to cultivate tradition on the scale of nationwide popularity. He also admitted missing the frequent contact he had once enjoyed with huge audiences.48 There was indeed a great discrepancy between the size of Pauls’s prior socialist audience and reputation, and the recent multifariousness and fragmentation of estrada. The one idea that had held everything together now became reflected through many fragments. When that prior “oneness” is encountered today, it can be frightening. Consider a problem that arose in 1995 between Reznik and Vaikule, who remains Pauls’s closest ally in bilingual Latvian estrada. Pauls and Vaikule were preparing a program, and the tall, silver-haired Reznik was asked to participate. According to Vaikule, he demanded a very large fee and a percentage of ticket sales, and also forbade her to work with other lyricists. She refused his terms.49 The arbiters of Soviet estrada grew to such huge proportions that they began to frighten those who entered as diligent newcomers.

respect your elders! performing parents and children One aspect of the problem of newcomers and the fading Soviet tradition has played a very positive role: the emergence of a second generation of performers within one family. Such was the case with the willowy, fair Kristina Orbakaite, daughter of Alla Pugacheva, who has dipped into folkish Soviet lyrics, tango, big band, and hip-hop to build herself a very broad musical playing field. Orbakaite understands “tradition” more as an endowment that brings with it a responsibility. Several of the performers considered in this book who once felt the same way are also the children of Soviet stars. Classically trained, debonair darling of the dance floor Dmitrii Malikov is the son of Iurii

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Malikov, formerly leader of the rather demure Soviet pop ensemble Samotsvety (The Gems).50 Filipp Kirkorov, as noted, is the son of a bandleader and also claims with pride to have other relatives among “circus artists and opera singers.”51 The parents of Vladimir Presniakov are a renowned jazz musician and a singer, his father having worked with Iurii Malikov. Some performers come from more provincial estrada backgrounds; one such is the earthy, chain-smoking and wigwearing femme fatale Irina Allegrova, whose mother and father were singer and comic respectively in the Rostov operetta.52 All the children spoke (and still speak) of a standard set by their parents, of an apolitical tradition that they must either maintain or better. The singing Soviet family is not a political unit but an ethical one. It has a private, more than a social, function. Fond glances were often cast back across prior decades by these children, primarily towards lyric songs – towards their ability to foster a normal, personal significance in Soviet daily life. In the very month that the Soviet Union fell, Vladimir Presniakov admitted that he loves the stage (i.e., his father’s) above all other callings, and claims that such allegiance to estrada over politics is an idea of several generations’ standing.53 The same idea lived on elsewhere, in fond nostalgia for the identically dressed, terribly respectable vias (vocal-instrumental ensembles) such as Samotsvety, who recalled anything from the Shadows or Herman’s Hermits to Peter, Paul and Mary. Nostalgia also emerged for other domains: the importance of folk music in parental performances across the Union, perhaps for one’s own Soviet hit records, sometimes for the entire 1970s!54 By 1995 Presniakov’s father was even speaking of relaunching his own career as part of this very discernible “retro” fashion.55 The past was therefore used to give the present some significance, as if the free play of novelty was at times a frightening prospect. While these issues were being resolved, both Kirkorov and Orbakaite announced (as if anybody had asked) that they had just discovered another “private” tradition: they are of long-forgotten noble blood.56 If the past was being carefully filtered, maintained, or even created in this way, what about the problems facing the callow survivors of that past in penning a new repertoire?

nationalism and commercialism: could innovation avoid them? Я любила песни слушать И сама хотела петь. На бродячих музыкантов Я бежала посмотреть.

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four p redicaments [I loved to listen to songs and wanted to sing myself. I ran to take a look at the wandering musicians.]57

When the all-male, vaguely erotic ensemble Na-Na was asked in 1994 to play its thumping, artless pop for pre-teens at the Hard Rock Café in New York, its members gave an interview to the newspaper Nedelia in which they spoke of their success: “I think that there’s no other group today that reflects the Russian national spirit, the Russian tradition of the mass song like we do.”58 What on earth was the “Russian national spirit” in 1994? We can see that performers respected such notions, yet virtually never discussed them in a political or, in fact, in any dogmatic context. How, then, could these performers respect what they did, yet maybe not quite know or be able to say why? Since they respected or reworked the past but rarely sang cover versions, we need to consider several things here. Is innovation, for example, something in the “national spirit”? Any novelty towards the end of the eighties was largely viewed, consciously or otherwise, in the light of the ubiquitous “seeking” metaphor seen long before, even in the early songs of Èdita P’ekha (sounding like Peggy Lee or Petula Clark) during the Thaw. The romance of the sixties with their far-flung construction projects and distant travels was translated into the issue of artistic innovation: new places and styles were discovered together, always relative to one’s elders – I claim a new space and become a new person. (Seeking was a term applied primarily to “private,” lyrical performers and therefore came to take on a more sentimental than political hue.) If we look at the issue of novelty and seeking just before perestroika (1984), we can see – once again via the “traditionally innovative” area of jazz – that Larisa Dolina worked in a genre where the private “problem of ‘tradition and novelty’ is something that each jazz musician will decide for themselves.”59 Even when other new performers appeared in the last few years of the Soviet Union, there was still an initial unwillingness to stick out or “decide things” in a novel, self-assured fashion: “Don’t think that I’m a new type of estrada performer! I’m just trying to present my songs the way I understand and feel.”60 Despite performers’ shyness, journalists kept calling for a change, for something new to replace the “inertia and cynicism” that had overtaken certain aspects of popular music. Jam sessions, for example, were lauded as one way to move beyond the “norms of tradition, its rigidified rules of the game.” Who, though, would answer the call to both change and respect for Pugacheva, P’ekha, et al.? Smena asked in 1985: “Where are the new

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names? Why does young Leningrad estrada not have enough stars or victories [from official competitions]? What is stopping young artists from moving out of the hopefuls and into the leaders?”61 The question was asked of twelve “hopefuls,” the first being Dolina herself, who actually felt that her career was doing rather well, thank you! Two years later, the editors of the national magazine Ogonek complained that there was still nobody who stood out from the “one-day wonders” in Soviet estrada, with the exception of the self-consciously sultry cabaret star Laima Vaikule. Vaikule was praised the following year for originality, whilst somehow continuing the tradition of Pauls and Pugacheva with her “staged” songs: “She perceives the embodiment of the song on stage as an actress would … [and] strives for a combination of art forms.”62 Her performances to the sound of brushes and hi-hat often combined slow, sensuous dance with the cool charisma of saxophones or unhurried improvisation from Pauls’s piano. At roughly the same time, Vladimir Presniakov’s name also rose above mere parallels with Soviet tradition: “I’ll take a risk,” announced one journalist, “and say that this is the new estrada artist we’ve been waiting for!”63 That brave declaration was put to the test as Presniakov suffered a few pot shots and was accused of banal lyrics in his quiet yet modern application of synthesizers to lyricism. His defenders, however, lauded him as that rare synthetic performer who could both sing and dance.64 By the end of the decade he would be spoken of as an institution. Without a doubt, the appearance of Presniakov on the Soviet pop-scene was a moment of discovery. He was the first artist from that generation of youngsters or teenagers who’ve blossomed on the stage today. Although other youthful performers and absolute beginners have now [1989] moved up front in our hit-parades, it’s clear that Presniakov’s pioneering experiment created a precedent. His work gave a little confidence to those who have followed in his footsteps … It looks like Presniakov’s solo album will come out some time before autumn, recorded almost a year ago for [the state-run label] Melodiia; the singer maintains that it has aged hopelessly over that time. I think I can say with great confidence that the record will get into the Top Ten. As far as the [quality of the] songs is concerned, it’s not for us to guess ahead of time.65

Several things are notable here. First, Presniakov’s work had great impact in establishing a genuinely novel trend in estrada by employing the tortured romantic ballad in combination with the fashionable rhythms of break dancing, long before the so-called post-Soviet deluge of innovation.66 Second, the singer was himself quickly canonized and supposedly the object of flattering imitation. Third, the workings of

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the Soviet music industry could not keep up with an estrada that metamorphosed more rapidly each year. Fourth, a discrepancy could be discerned between audience desire and journalistic approval; however, the gap was not a product of perestroika or Western fads. As shown in Red Stars, audience approval was a powerful force in determining estrada’s state-approved repertoires even under Khrushchev and Brezhnev. Audiences determined novelty. The idea of “seeking” for novelty was established through the efforts of those such as Vaikule and Presniakov, with torch songs and break dance. One step ahead of them, perhaps, was Dolina, making bigger generic jumps than from merely “old” to “new.” In 1989 she announced: “By nature I am a person who goes seeking [ishchushchaia] and I can’t give myself all life long to the preference for one thing. Now, for example, I’m attracted by pop-rock, so I’ve changed my image and repertoire. [Right now] I only listen to and sing that particular kind of music; I mix only with composers who write in that key … I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow. Maybe something else will amaze and intrigue me so much that I’ll want to study another kind of music.”67 Why the changes? Was this inspiration or money talking? The experience of Laskovyi mai at this time would certainly suggest that profit was dictating the kind of generic hopscotch that Dolina was describing. Dmitrii Malikov, who rose to fame with Presniakov, himself criticized Laskovyi mai both for its ever-changing membership, which was “vague,” and for the speed with which it attempted to produce cassette albums. The ensemble’s marketing techniques and desperately modern synth-pop reminded him “of watches being churned out somewhere in Hong Kong.”68 Fame (born of novelty) and money, therefore, remained philosophically separate for the time being. What appeared to happen was that post-perestroika estrada went through an initial process of saying and writing, little by little, what it was not. It began to shun the linear view of itself as “seeking” some unidirectional, generically faithful progress. Estrada’s subsequent and deliberate minorization of itself would allow it to shun “the incredible despotism of [established] signifiers” and seek an unnamed state.69 By not meaning something in particular, as it sometimes used to, estrada hoped to mean a lot more. Performers did not aim to create one novel significance, but to open themselves up to many things – novel and traditional, future and past – that would help estrada “mean,” because “a thing has as many senses as there are forces capable of taking possession of it.”70 What, initially, did estrada reject, besides cash? One narrow notion destined for the waste paper basket was nationalism, as can be seen in interviews with Malikov. The beneficiary of a prestigious musical

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education and willing inheritor of Mirazh’s disco beats, he still attacked Russian disco per se as excessively uniform. His own dance music decorated bassy, rugged percussion with eloquently intricate keyboard work. Malikov did not, however, advocate a partial return to classical and folk music as a knee-jerk reaction to tasteless uniformity or prior aesthetics and their nationalistic standards (of narodnost’). Whether or not mutable estrada was tasteful or “national” was something that “you have to feel in your soul – and then it’ll show in your work at once.”71 Further proof of this attitude change came from the curvaceous, wilfully sexual Ukrainian artiste Natasha Koroleva. She met with great renown not long after Malikov made this comment, thanks to doeeyed, naïve popsa and a techno beat aimed at hormonal adolescents. She, like Malikov, made inconstant estrada a bigger issue than constant nationalism when asked why she wasn’t singing in her native language: “What’s the point?! … Things come out so well in Russian.” 72 The situation was ultimately not defined by two clear-cut camps, universally acknowledged as good/bad, worthy/worthless; even Dolina came in for some criticism as crude, too direct, or over-eager to display social commitment: she tried to be too good.73 Ethics should be shown, not shouted … Thus the appropriate movement continued, back and forth, national and profitable, serious and light, as estrada decided what it was not. Igor’ Nikolaev in 1990 defined the process as a “race” back and forth between preferences and significances, “and I try to rise above it all.”74 “The national hit parades are a dangerous thing,” he said. “You stand in a queue until it looks like you’ve reached that promised window [at some heavenly counter]. It seems you’re first in line, but people come and poke you, saying: ‘You weren’t in the queue.’ You get all flustered: ‘What d’you mean? Here’s my number!’ But, sadly … all the same, tomorrow or the day after a new person will appear on the horizon; he’ll be 17, 18, 19 – perhaps 20. He’ll shove old man Nikolaev and the others to one side, making his way through – and out of line, too.”75 In 1991 the authoritative publication Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk (Soviet Estrada and Circus) hoped to end these races or indecisive movements. It declared proudly that a major original tendency had “officially” emerged in Soviet estrada, differing from the established canon of prior years: the dance-oriented popular music documented above, relying more on perky, pubescent pop-rock structures, on electronic rather than acoustic instruments.76 In actual fact the groundwork for originality – as I am trying to show – had already been growing naturally from and out of the canon for several years. Estrada had been using tradition, adding to the past (actively), whilst submitting to

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myriad, fragmentary meanings from that same heritage (passively). By cutting away the overtly commercial aspects of contemporary music (such as Laskovyi mai), it embraced more and more non-commercial enterprises. They included the Soviet repertoire; estrada said yes to it all. It made a synonymy between being and affirmation.77

affirming pleasant yet serious repertoires free of frivolity Пусть выпало так, Боль в сердце – пустяк. И одна сегодня я пою песню твою. [Even though it turned out that way, the pain in my heart is insignificant and I alone sing your song today.]78

What about the serious politics of that Soviet repertoire? Could they be resurrected as a defence against crass profiteering? One journal article of 1991 said, “No thanks,” because a record should be suitable for pleasure, not policy: “The potential purchaser of a record wants to experience a few pleasant minutes several times over, to lose himself in something familiar and pleasant. Something sentimental and relaxing, or maybe something fun and dynamic.” Estrada is apparently entertaining, pure and simple. The idea of (very) big money was not yet an option, so how and why did anybody take it seriously any more, if the repertoire had become mere pleasure? The publication Nedelia asked Kirkorov in October 1991, as official ideology was in tatters, how (or why) he entertained people while ignoring both “politics and social cataclysms.” He explained that in August when the failed coup took place in Moscow, he was scared “Stalinist times” might return, and wondered how he could possibly justify giving a concert that evening in Yalta. Having wrestled with his conscience, he eventually went out to the footlights of his imperial stage set, between the sexy dancers, and said: “Things are obviously tough for us all right now, but whatever happens, we – servants of the Muse – will be with you!”79 A strange, somewhat dramatic, delivery for Western ears, but it shows how estrada understood its importance, one built on audience sympathy, on private wish and not politics. Kirkorov never considered himself a “singing newspaper.” Once again, ideas were for sharing, not shouting. When he was on tour in a coal-mining region, the locals treated him to a tour of the shafts. The lanky Kirkorov was obliged to crawl

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175 metres on his knees, 100 metres beneath the surface. He emerged absolutely filthy and then felt how the miners work; he felt the injustice of their tiny wage, ravaged by inflation and outstripped even by that of urban secretaries working in cooperatives. The connection between his stage and their hall may have been entertaining, but that entertainment was sentimental and seriously so, just as it was when Èdita P’ekha enrolled in Leningrad State University in 1955 and when the Soviet Betty Grable, Klavdiia Shul’zhenko, sang to frontline Soviet troops during World War Two. The Soviet tradition was still playing an important role in the eighties, an emotional one. One of the ways it stressed that importance, as we are seeing, was by attacking extreme and commercially driven frivolity within itself. Estrada started denouncing pop! Kirkorov’s career began when self-important and socially committed rock was doing similar battle with supposedly inconsequential popsa.80 When that career truly flourished at the start of the nineties, he made a surprising and unjustifiable statement: “Pop and estrada are absolutely different styles. My songs are in the best traditions of estrada music and showmanship.”81 Kirkorov’s own variegated repertoire, which included folk, blues, Spanish rhythms, musicals, Soviet classics, and (latterly) avant-garde electronic innovations, therefore rejected not only Soviet propaganda, but also what he saw as the worldview of excessively novel, commercial, tawdry pop. Having worked for a while with Alla Pugacheva’s theatre, his own exit or breakaway from profiteering or frivolity had come suddenly during an annual television show. When we were preparing for the most recent “Christmas Rendezvous,” Alla suggested I sing several songs that were all identical. She’d said to me earlier “You’re young, good-looking and should sing jolly, lively songs. The public needs that kind of funny-man.” The numbers Pugacheva wanted me to sing were in precisely that vein. I was convinced that what she was asking me to do would produce a kind of stagnation in my work, a kind of running on the spot. Up to that point I’d reached a certain level [in my repertoire] and didn’t want to perform any “lower” than that by singing ditties or stuff for one-day wonders. But those were exactly the kind of songs she needed for her program. That was how we parted company.82

Again we see the rejection of something – here, of silliness: gaiety is different from entertainment. The performer’s private, temperate goals stood higher in this instance than popularity, but I am not making the naïve claim that money was never an issue. Dolina herself told the newspaper 24 chasa (24 Hours) on one occasion that “jazz won’t feed you,” so she moved to a genre where, as she put it, long legs and a pile of money were perhaps more important than talent.

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Having tried three years as a leather-clad, back-combed rock singer, she found that “I wasn’t accepted or understood. Then I decided: ‘You people don’t want this? Then I’ll sing popsa.’ I’m all for searching [poiski].”83 Claiming that her musical education would help, she aimed to produce “Dolinesque popsa, which is of much higher quality than what’s topping the charts … I still need time before I can educate the public, to give them what I want to and not what they want.”84 Most performers nonetheless sidelined money in favour of a shifting process, one dependent upon the public while harbouring a greater subjective meaning. As even Dolina would admit by 1994, “I probably left jazz because I love changes. I change, therefore I exist.” Estrada offered her “more oxygen. Here things change not once a decade, as in jazz, but five times a season.”85 A woman trained in classical, American jazz and enamoured of all its improvisational opportunities nonetheless moved into a Soviet tradition, where there was less “elitism” and more room to breathe! Sounding almost like a quote from a Soviet interview with Alla Pugacheva, Laima Vaikule said in the same year about breathing room on the cabaret stage: “I can be various people [in estrada]. I can be a businesswoman, Charlie Chaplin or a lyrical heroine … My estrada image depends upon the song I’m performing at a given moment.”86 A post-Soviet repertoire, therefore, was going to change, to take those changes seriously, and do so whilst avoiding accusations of frivolity, crass commercialism, or kitsch.87 As a continuation of Soviet seeking, performers after 1991 talked of the changes being made in search of something discernible, “and perhaps,” as Dolina hypothesized, “it comes from a constant dissatisfaction with one’s work, the desire to do something new, to do it differently and better … I, [for example], constantly change my composers.”88 As before, the consequences of metamorphosing had a private cause and effect. Here was the crux of the lyric song’s triumph over the civic after perestroika. The seeds of subjectivity that had been sown decades before in the most inclement of political weather now blossomed fast and frequently. They did so in two domains: lyricism and the staged songs or masks of what was called teatralizatsiia. Sagas of the self and how it changes began to resonate in many pleasant songs, all of which sidestepped frivolity.

role-playing: be yourself! (or somebody else…) Let us take stances of lyricism first, which became a universal form of expression as the civic song withered. The newspaper Vechernii Peterburg (Evening Petersburg) asked Tat’iana Bulanova in 1994 why serious, sad 24

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ispoved’ heroines dominated her stage shows. “What else is there to sing about? Politics? Civic maturity?! Or perhaps I should sing the praises of non-existent happiness, of some ecstasy or other, all while doing a dance? Love, on the other hand, happens to everybody.”89 By tapping directly into the Soviet, sentimental ballad and bold chords of private emotion played upon a grand piano, she was paradoxically nearer to expressing a universal, shifting state. The lyric expressed more than the civic: “My themes are eternal: unhappy and undivided love.”90 Meanwhile, other performers less committed to lyricism’s sobriety made inquisitive sorties into the poses or gaudy posturing of tawdry popsa before returning to serious estrada. Said Alena Apina: “I had my discotheque period. I don’t want to say that it’s over with, but I won’t concentrate on it. For the moment I’ve refused to do any more disco songs; they’re commercial. I decided for myself: that’s enough! I’ve started to sing just lyrics.”91 The tiny, fairy-like Anzhelika Varum also had understandable trouble in 1994 singing vacuous lines in early synth-pop, such as “Samurai, samurai, ate some rice and drank some tea,” a couplet to which she particularly objected. She soon began looking for more contemplative texts and heroes (which cannot have been hard to find).92 Varum’s career thus moved from the rather plodding drum-machines or karaoke rhythms of her father’s pen and studio, from simple synthesized melodies applied initially to the predictable structures of East European popsa. In the late nineties she teamed up with her shaggy husband, Leonid Agutin, for some dazzling modern samba, tango, and bossa nova. The tiny voice of a Russian Vanessa Paradis or Kylie Minogue had begun to have fun being seriously, inconstantly lyrical and skipping between themes and their thespian potentials. While earnest female lyricism was played out in one corner of estrada, a bolder aspect of the non-frivolous was salvaged: teatralizatsiia. The philosophy of truly theatrical display in estrada, of playing somebody else, combined with nostalgia for the vias to form the boy-group Na-Na, in some ways a strange precursor of the Backstreet Boys and others of that ilk. For now we need only to note one aspect of their repertoire: play-acting. One of Na-Na’s chiseled members, Volodia Asimov, recalled his preconceptions before joining the ensemble. He worried that the band was too light-hearted. “I got together with Bari [Alibasov, the manager] and all that I knew then about Na-Na was that some crazy guys would run about the stage, screaming ‘Aaaa!’ and something or other about the witch Baba-Iaga [in one of their songs]. I was busy with another kind of music, something more spiritual. The Na-Na style seemed dull and even silly to me … When, however, I actually got to see a live, full-blooded concert by them, it really turned my head around. Television doesn’t give a true sense of their show; 25

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it’s only a pale shadow.”93 The gentle claiming, step by step, of the stage’s space by walking, wistful singers during the Thaw was now maximized. Sprinting, somersaulting boys used all the stage – then used it again and anew with new numbers, new costumes and personae. The deliberate vacillation between two Soviet tendencies of (more introverted) lyricism and (more extroverted) staging could sometimes be extreme, as estrada decided just what it was playing at. Dolina, torn between ball gowns and bikers’ jackets, reached the point where “I don’t actually know for sure what style I’m working in.” She felt “two people battling” inside her.94 The pendulum sometimes swung beyond the boundaries of good taste. Irina Allegrova’s treatment of the ispoved’ reached “the edge of vulgarity,” and her bold, catchy monologues of tearful, wronged women struck some viewers as a little confrontational, “like a massive photo, a kind of Polaroid.”95 To this day she sings those same songs, in a voice made rough from cigarettes, liquor, and abusive relationships – or so, at least, her many roles and heroines would have us believe. The ambling, at times metronomic rhythms of bass and equally low notes from her pianist / composer suit the sad, yet feisty, swing of a woman wronged and defiantly sensuous. As for the Na-Na approach, sexual fantasy or role-playing soon left the stage altogether when other ensembles began to breed on their own as “projects” compiled by a given producer or sponsor. These collectives are now legion in estrada (for instance, the Slavic Spice Girls, Strelki), but a good early example is Litsei, who despite being less than spontaneous in the manner of their formation have created some of the finest songs in Russian estrada since the early nineties. Three remarkably attractive women fostered a rare thing in Russia: guitar-based, harmonized pop songs in a style reminiscent of defunct groups such as the Bangles or the Go-Gos. Their melodious and enjoyable ensemble had first to prove itself as both tastefully serious and convincing when playing out its own cultivated “role” – that of fun-loving, spontaneously musical friends. Litsei (Lycée) was born of Aleksei Makarevich – already known as a member of Voskresenie (Sunday) – working as composer, lyricist, producer, and manager. He is also the father of one of the three young women who constitute the band. The many possibilities for commercial or crass excess in putting together a repertoire for them were implicit in one early article: “I won’t ask how old they are. I don’t care who their parents are. I’m not worried by how much money they earn or who they’re sleeping with … It’s probably hard to define Litsei as any one style and label them as, say, ‘romantic rhythm and blues for teenagers’ … The girls don’t resort to the hackneyed and rather ugly means employed by Laskovyi mai. I mean playing on the sentiments

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of an immature, ingenuous soul, squeezing a tear from young girls (who are hopelessly in love), or exciting the spotty, adolescent graduates of technical schools.”96 The very fact that taste and excess were even at issue here shows how estrada and popsa, sentiment and profit, still had a hard time co-existing with notions of friendship. In 1996 the lissome Kristina Orbakaite declared her love for old songs and the wavering delivery of folk melodies97 – a fact not terribly interesting in and of itself, but it does hint at one more line of defence or persona that estrada (infrequently) stages in the face of cheap fashion. Folk songs were held up as both better than those of the present and free of unpleasant commercial intent. Adopting the role of “folk chanteuse” was a good idea because old Russian songs – so it was often said – were either fashionable or eternal. When Tat’iana Bulanova turned to “eternal” folk motifs, to balalaikas and Slavic pipes, for her 1996 dance floor album Moe russkoe serdtse (My Russian Heart), she explained, “I am inclined to sentimentality, which is inherent in Russians” (i.e., it has always been there).98 The stance of one woman embodying the folk is a time-honoured role: I adopt and become it. Bulanova’s assertions were not, ultimately, a grand reference to some distant, pan-Slavic past, because the Russian folk lament had also played a key role in the estrada of the seventies. Its respected precedent or stereotype of female emotionality enabled the emotional excess of Pugacheva’s ispovedi to pass Soviet muster.99 Whether one looked backwards (to ancient folk) or forwards circa perestroika, changes were evidently taking place; characters of the future and past were hard at work in the present. If the significance of these changes or staged personae in the present was felt as an increasingly private affair, what kind of linear narrative did earnest repertoires scribe or chart after several albums or years? Filipp Kirkorov was sure that his stage program and its acted metamorphoses were part of a subjective, discernible process. “I feel like a multi-stage rocket; the stages gradually fall away. I’ve already dropped two stages in which were hypocrisy, [excessive] ambition and some superfluous people around me … Now it’s easier for me to fly. The third stage will fall away in about ten years or so [i.e. in 2006], and then I’ll be in a state of weightlessness. That’s what every star dreams of.”100 Here is the ideal of estrada selfhood: the personality (star) that looks beyond personality (self) in the present. It surrenders to all roles or theatricality, to everything that occurred “then” in order to become it “now,” to lose all “personalist” references.101 Personality would become a shifting, improvised event made of many tiny roles and songs from many periods. Both this diminution and movement through a motley, variegated repertoire were far from linear Soviet teleology; therefore, the wandering

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metamorphoses of a post-Soviet repertoire began to constitute a new and different kind of text. The heartfelt roles of an actress or a song’s heroine and the scenes of a dramatized show both fluctuated and gave their performer a sense of tentative movement, but whither and why? Even Kirkorov’s linear rocket metaphor ended in (or at least desired) aimless, multidirectional floating! Before this aim could be reached, a few prejudices and some nervousness about modern repertoires needed to be overcome. For a while, therefore, the metamorphoses stopped.

uneasy movie roles and prejudices against cabaret В заброшенной таверне Давно погасли свечи, И музыки не слышно В таверне нашей встречи. [The candles have long gone out in the abandoned tavern. Music cannot be heard in that tavern where we met.]102

Red Stars documented the importance of films as an early, yet major, conduit for cross-generic fertilization in Soviet estrada. Various cinematic roles, both positive and negative, were played by several singers and greatly influenced how these artistes were seen subsequently, when they returned to the stage. The public saw less and less difference between the singer and the person whom he or she happened to portray in a film. Pugacheva both invoked and experienced this process to the greatest extent; her daughter Kristina Orbakaite soon joined the fray by playing in the 1984 film Chuchelo (Scarecrow) while still at school. The screenplay concerns a young girl living with her grandfather (played by the famous circus clown Iurii Nikulin) and the awful cruelties she suffers at the hands of classmates. An article in the influential Literaturnaia gazeta (Literary Gazette) paid particular attention to both the film’s darkness and the sense of “game” that runs throughout. Orbakaite’s character is obliged to play various psychologically complex games in order to first acquiesce to and then do battle with her contemporaries. The newspaper saw in these stylized conflicts a common tendency towards ritual.103 I would suggest that such ritual was part of developing new games, new ways of doing things in the absence of a clear ideology. Songs and films, kindness and cruelty, were all mixed: previously exclusive domains all fell together; genres interwove and informed each other.

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Dolina was part of this generic fusion, with her experience of jazz, rock, and then pop, but she also had extensive early experience of cinema and its own character games. She sang songs for both cartoons and feature films. “I sang a lot for cinema, but as a rule it was offscreen. I sang the roles of children, teenagers and even old women. More often than not it was as rather nasty characters. For example in the film Obyknovennoe chudo (An Ordinary Miracle) it was as a woman of nondescript age who was trying to look young: smoking cigars and scheming with a rough voice … In short, whenever studios needed to dub a negative role, they’d call me.”104 By 1989 Dolina had played over seventy different characters in Soviet films; virtually all were anonymous.105 Nevertheless she felt obliged to “stage” (teatralizirovat’) each guise, and as a result her own off-screen persona or personality “was formed piecemeal and over a long period.”106 She played many roles, which all became her. Complaints appeared that with its movie roles estrada had become too muddled, that it was “burdened by a mixture of styles.”107 Dolina in particular came in for a lashing: “All her life she’s being trying on other people’s masks – but do they suit her? That’s how people go looking for themselves. But Dolina’s own face (for some reason) hasn’t appeared yet. Each one only strikes you as a similarity or coincidence with other masks. She’ll keep copying other people and at the same time parody them. It’s as if she has lost her way – once and for all.”108 Once again, estrada did not seem to know what it was at the moment, and thus reined in the metamorphoses for a while. In this section we will look quickly at two of the final prejudices acting as obstacles between the Soviet tradition and a completely novel, shifting self. One of the most evident problems amidst this muddle concerned the word var’ete, “variety.” The term “estrada” can itself be translated as “variety,” but what was meant here was small-scale nightclub, casino, or restaurant performance. If var’ete was seen as pure entertainment yet estrada itself was becoming “pleasant amusement,” one of the prime lines of defence adopted by the latter was to hold on desperately to the idea that it is, and should surely be, purposeful. Estrada both promoted and defended itself as important. “If the aim of var’ete is to entertain, then a song on the estrada should have some kind of meaning!”109 Since Laima Vaikule, the author of var’ete’s counterattack, began her work in a Riga hotel lounge with songs by Pauls, the composer chipped in with some words of support for his compatriot. “Var’ete demands both the highest professionalism in an artist and a multifaceted talent.”110 By 1990, however, Pauls had to admit that the term he was endorsing so vigorously had been “somewhat discredited.” The reason was that when hard liquor was very cheap and very available under Brezhnev,

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inexpensive restaurant bars in Latvia had coincidentally been one of the few places where decadent, multigeneric var’ete could be seen. Variety and booze had worked hand in hand; now the former had a very hard time shaking that reputation of frivolity and tipsiness.111 This prejudice endured for quite a while, since in the early nineties, as artists traveled to America, they found themselves disappointed to be playing in nothing more than émigré restaurants, surrounded by alcohol. Their disappointment was hidden by loud expressions of feigned indifference. “I see absolutely nothing wrong with it [i.e., playing in eateries]. The best jazz musicians play in restaurants, even those who have a classical education.”112 Tired of justifying themselves, some of the travelling performers soon tried to turn prejudice on its head and argue that, in fact, var’ete had often offered performances better than what was officially available on the bigger stage!113 For example, when asked in 1993 whether it bothered her that people ate while she sang, Vaikule replied rather defensively: “Bon appetit to them! … Var’ete has the same stage and hall [as estrada]. The whole world considers performing in var’ete an absolutely normal thing to do.”114 (“Everybody works that way in the West!” added Dolina.115) By the following year, Vaikule had completely lost her patience with traditional biases: “You just can’t get off this restaurant topic!” She defended the dignity of restaurant var’ete by attacking state-run estrada: “I got so tired of all those impoverished journeys, where you’d have to do seventy concerts a month to earn anything at all. I’d tell Americans about it and they simply wouldn’t believe me. They just thought I couldn’t speak English properly. I got tired of awful concert halls, terrible conditions where nothing was ever possible. Every word in a song, every thread in a costume had to be approved … I always wanted to dance on the stage, and for a Soviet artist that was categorically forbidden.”116 In time Vaikule would outlive others’ prejudices as estrada’s less tolerant practitioners and listeners gave up on the patronizing distinction between their medium and var’ete. In fact, even in 1990 we can find small articles in far-flung newspapers, such as Vladivostok’s Zaria Vostoka, which referred to her as the “Soviet Madonna” and hinted at a future nationwide acceptance of style- or persona-shifting.117 Other hierarchies or elitist attitudes needed to be overcome, though, such as the distinction between spontaneous post-traditional amateurism and a slowly garnered classical training or traditionally validated skill-set. The most interesting example of competition between – or difficult union of – classical and modern music was offered by Dmitrii Malikov. Journalists were at first a little confused: How might those styles be combined in new estrada? “He’s always got some melodies, fragmented

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arrangements, entire works or classics whirling around in his head. One can only imagine that bundle of ideas, where everything moves in some fantastic combination – all the way from Mozart to Laskovyi mai.”118 In 1991 Malikov hoped to “try his luck” in fantastic estrada for a while; then he would dedicate himself to “serious” music – as he was able to do the following year when he gave a concert at the Moscow Conservatory.119 He played the second half of a most dignified evening, simply to make sure that estrada fans heard classical works performed by somebody else in the first hour: “That’s how to attract people to serious music!” With his classical training, Malikov aimed to avoid the pitfalls of estrada’s myriad performers, who had “sprouted like mushrooms after a rainstorm … Behind the piano I have one goal and on the estrada another.” The performer was soon playing in films as well, leading to a journalist’s description of Malikov’s “personality split three ways” [rastroenie lichnosti]: estrada, the classics, and the movies.120 He was offered a role in the film Uvidet’ Parizh i umeret’ (See Paris and Die), a grim drama set in the sixties, about a gifted musician and the pressures of anti-Semitism. It met with very favourable reviews.121 Malikov said about his success: “It had nothing to do with estrada. The film is serious, it’s not commercial.”122 All the same, by defining his work in celluloid as a “creative step,” Malikov and his slightly snobbish perception of estrada / non-estrada were slowly becoming multifaceted and more inclusive than hierarchical.123 As he sang and played and acted, soon embracing it all equally, his prejudices disappeared, albeit slowly. Films and stage work played the same mediating role for other performers too, tentatively conferring on them a bolder sense of excursive, multigeneric “creative steps” beyond prejudice or negativity. Kristina Orbakaite, for example, played in several films besides Scarecrow, some of which, such as Blagotvoritel’nyi bal (Charity Ball), had clear parallels with her own biography as the tale of a star-struck girl.124 She subsequently played in Limita (VIP ), a film about provincial outsiders with different dreams of change who briefly enter the wealthy class of today’s Nouveaux Russians. Interestingly, the screenplay concentrated on their “problems and self-awareness,” as if any changes in society or selfhood were problematic at that time.125 Once again the press drew parallels between the heroine and the personality of the woman who played her.126 Many roles entered one woman. As Orbakaite’s filmography grew to five pictures, Alena Apina – the strawberry blonde provincial artiste of some of estrada’s most disarmingly simple songs – performed in a musical, also entitled Limita, about a woman with a “limited” permit to work in Moscow who undergoes the fairy-tale transformation into a popular singer.127 Thirteen songs

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constituted the story line; there was no spoken dialog. The newspaper Trud asked whether any of its readers knew what kind of repertoire this “pop-novel” was, “because until now it certainly didn’t exist in nature!”128 Limita used the music of a small rock ensemble, but their chiming guitars often resorted to waltzes, for example, in order to evoke familiar expressions of time-tested melancholy. Apina herself justified the odd, cluttered form as follows: “Each song is a little play, the story of a human fate … That’s how [when it’s all combined] this estrada-cinematictheatrical-musical-dramatic show came to be.”129 Beneath prejudice, an explosion of genres awaited. Stage work was helping to remove narrowmindedness and blur generic boundaries as much as cinematic ventures did. While Vladimir Presniakov also announced his upcoming participation in a film, Pover’ mne (Believe Me),130 in which he would play two roles, the magazine Muzykal’nyi olimp suddenly declared there were no more distinct genres left in estrada!131 Orbakaite took yet another sidewards step, this time into live theatre. She played the role of Helen Keller in Monday after the Miracle by William Gibson.132 When a journalist asked her to explain this “masochistic” style-shifting, she spoke of an accelerating process. “In my life things often happen ‘suddenly’ and ‘for some reason or other.’ There’s really no explanation for a lot of what happens to me.”133 Elsewhere she added: “I feel myself to be a singer, actress, daughter and friend, all at once.”134 By trying unfamiliar genres, Orbakaite’s personality was open to and affirmed multiple, alien influences; it moved “in such a way that it could be occupied, populated only by intensities,” i.e., the crisscrossing, ever-changing network of post- or non-linear meanings.135 Orbakaite’s personality – who “she” was – became a space or event where alien influences converged freely.

change is soon embraced with confidence From this point on (circa 1995), estrada as a whole began to move with increasing freedom. Kirkorov, sporting very large hair, said his pan-generic repertoire was a “paper fan or kaleidoscope of songs.”136 Was this really a universally happy state of open-armed acceptance, though? The ex-Mirazh member Tat’iana Ovsienko remained not entirely convinced. “Our estrada is like a big bowl full of different kinds of dumplings [vareniki], which are constantly being stirred. The main thing, though, is not to fall outside the bowl. If you do, that’s the end of you!”137 Estrada’s modulations did indeed seem at times to be operating at their limit, as Orbakaite admitted. “I don’t know whether being a singer or actress is more important for me. It’s a question that hounds me. I wanted to try everything and used to think:

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‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll do something else.’ Strange though it seems, things have always worked out. Perhaps it’s all just a trait of Gemini [my sign], of that kind of ephemeral nature [vetrenost’]? I bite off a great deal and then only just manage to swallow it all down.”138 Alena Apina had similar doubts when she complained that Limita was not done the way she wanted; the new genre was perhaps too big, bold, and new to be tackled successfully. It failed to raise her “even one step closer to Alla Pugacheva,” in either artistic or financial terms.139 Not all genres were acceptable or manageable as yet. The road to total affirmation was not an easy one. These wary “creative steps” down the road towards change were being taken for personal reasons, despite all the disappointment and multiple efforts. They were usually independent of commerce. For example, Apina said in October 1996, after the financially disappointing Limita for which she blamed herself, that – come what may – she would continue to transform and transfigure herself, both instinctively and idiosyncratically. “Every artist has his image, within the limits of which he feels caged.”140 At the same time Kirkorov claimed that his stage personae and roles changed not for profit, but purely and simply because he was changing as a person.141 Likewise, Tat’iana Bulanova insisted only weeks later, when asked about her own changing image: “Earlier I was one kind of woman and now I’m another. I’m just a normal person.”142 Dolina chipped in with the thought that “we all change constantly. I was led to my new image by a logic that dictates both my creative work and life … The heroines of my songs have matured with me.”143 Songs and subjectivity nurtured each other. Once begun, these newly confident changes of maturation did not stop. After considerable trepidation, in 1997 Orbakaite acted again on the dramatic stage, this time in Pushkin’s Baryshnia-krest’ianka (Mistress into Maid), but still did not feel that she could speak of herself as an actress and an actress alone.144 Meanwhile, Anzhelika Varum similarly shed her demure estrada persona for the role of a prostitute in the stage play Poza èmigranta (The Emigrant’s Demeanour), which she likened to her songs, as both were types of introspective “play-ispovedi.”145 Following the promise of 1995, then, the year 1997 seemed to mark the beginning of true relativity in the areas of repertoire we have investigated thus far. Vaikule, who struggled in the minor language of var’ete, now happily quoted the inspiration of All That Jazz on her life, and spoke with hope of staging a full-blown musical.146 Malikov released an instrumental album entitled Strakh poleta (Fear of Flight) as a final marriage of classical and pop. The work was inspired by Vangelis and Peter Gabriel: “Simple and melodic whilst eccentric.”147 After her tentative work in Limita, Orbakaite was offered a character role

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playing the biggest, most confident personality of all, that of her mother Alla Pugacheva!148 To use a key term from recent French thought, traditions “folded” in upon themselves so tightly that mother and daughter became one: evolution was now involution. To bring this chapter full circle: Larisa Dolina, who moved ceaselessly from jazz into rock into pop, now saw her career reach its greatest height ever with a stylish adult ballad entitled “Pogoda v dome” (“The Weather at Home”). She moved creatively forwards by embracing an old-fashioned persona and wardrobe, all to the tune of a clarinet’s polite swing. The metamorphoses within and amongst these performers were swifter and less “progressive” than ever before; the (jazzy) past kept coming back.

conclusion: performers move back and forth among styles and traditions Как живешь ты, музыкант, Что так молод раньше был? Не разменивал талант И лишь музыке служил. Искал, любил, творил, страдал, И песни о любви сочинял. [How are things, musician? You, who used to be so young. You didn’t squander your talent; you sought and loved, you created, suffered – and wrote songs about love.]149

This chapter discussed several aspects of post-Soviet repertoires in estrada, all of which marked the transition from exclusive Soviet teleology to the inclusive, inflected perception of a musical career. It was a change from straight lines to curves, from unchanging tradition to innovation. Innovation was introduced as a respectful, tentative challenge to perhaps the most original of all Soviet performers, Alla Pugacheva. It also came from outside, via more flexible traditions such as jazz and blues, in the work of Larisa Dolina. Tradition was also met and challenged within a family, where such artists as Vladimir Presniakov, Kristina Orbakaite, and Filipp Kirkorov felt the pressures of their parents’ Soviet achievements, even after 1991. The gradual shifts were an extension of the Thaw’s metaphor of “seeking,” a validation of change, albeit on a modest scale in the fifties and sixties. Artists began to move between genres with increasing freedom after perestroika, since the dogmatic basis of Soviet light

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entertainment was no longer a thematic constant. Estrada, even during the eighties, humbly began to operate independently of politics; it became a mode of personal expression, thus building upon the achievements of lyric artists such as Èdita P’ekha, Sofiia Rotaru, and, once again, Pugacheva. A degree of hesitation or even snobbery retarded this generic merging; the two examples examined above are prejudice against var’ete (as experienced by Vaikule) and an equal bias in favour of institutionalized training (as cultivated by Malikov). These barriers soon lessened, though, and traditions slid into one another. Artists moved back and forth between traditions, genres, and art forms – estrada, cinema, and drama. A consequent repertorial flux was reached: artists spoke – without complaint – of no longer knowing who they were or what they were doing. If traditions were indeed revisited on occasion, then a rhythmic situation existed. Chasing or surrendering to generic “blocks [eventually] created a temporal system.” Rhythm, as the French writers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari have noted, creates time. Eternity’s gray drone is segmented and made temporal, marked by what the Frenchmen call “the labour of the refrain.”150 Refrains are themselves naturally territorial and demarcate a space. “The refrain is a territorial assemblage … it always carries earth with it.” 151 Refrains steal the meaning of a domain and put it somewhere else according to the rhythm of their repetitions. As a result of such recurrences, we can see that another aspect of the Soviet heritage was radically re-assessed. The effort of hard, civically-minded work on the stage, claiming its space with increased teatralizatsiia, became something entirely different. The tough, frequent resemanticising of space (of the stage) became the arduous re-interpretation of a temporal line or tradition, which made that stage what it was originally. The long, thin line of tradition (the straight and narrow) was flattened out into a multidirectional plane, across which generic references were made, back and forth. Change and becoming are constant today, because personalities used the Soviet tradition as much as possible in order to have as much to employ or reference as possible; the new personality spilled across the widest possible surface. “There is the subject who passes through a series of states and who identifies these states with the names of history: every name in history is ‘I’ … The subject spreads himself out along the entire circumference of the circle, the center of which has been abandoned by the ego.”152 If I am correct in saying that a new philosophy was being wilfully constructed here, we now need to look at the next problem: ideological standards. This chapter has shown that estrada changed from a

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public and occasionally private expression to one that is now private and only occasionally public. Estrada is a lyric form today; civic songs have struggled since the mid-eighties. We have seen that the performers of those lyric texts developed a fluctuating repertoire, one they often felt was out of their hands. Did they feel that any principles were left, or had they moved from order to disorder? If we look at these questions in the light of estrada’s new, personal significances, we might simultaneously discover more about the parallel workings of personality. Thus far, then, we can distill this first chapter into one word: change. In the next chapter we look at chance.

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THE ABSENCE OF IDEOLOGY Bari Alibasov: There were plenty of things in Soviet life that we’ve rejected in a silly way. Take the notion of “Soviet People,” for example. People say that it’s unlike anything known to Nature. How come? What am I, then – a mutant? Well, perhaps I am. I’m a mix of different races: the thunderous Tartar, Cossack, Siberian Khakas and Ukrainian. And then on top of that I was raised, in essence, on Russian culture. And I respect the sum total. You know what? It’s all a way of seeing the world, of feeling yourself at home among Georgians, Azerbaijanis and Letts. Among Americans, Germans and French, too.1

introduction: the critical mutant tries to act “naturally” Ideology came to an end. In its place there arose critique. As shown in the last chapter, a gradual movement in estrada towards ideologically free, meandrous thought had allowed for different – often critical – points of view of the status quo and, consequently, for different views of the personality living within it. Personality, as we have seen, became a construct made up of all that it slowly passed through, together with all that wandered through it. Multiple phenomena were thus encountered for the first time, as estrada passed inquisitively in and out of its own heritage. Many were mocked or even rejected in the eventful filtering of a new sense of self. The filtering continued with a critique of music as seen through the prism of politics. Estrada was trying hard to maintain its apoliticism, but troubling or exciting events such as the gaining of independence by Latvia and Ukraine made that position exceedingly difficult to sustain. Three options emerged: estrada could continue complaining; it could lose itself in nostalgic yearning; or it could move beyond critique and seek an international (even metaphysical) position. Estrada began to seek its post-Soviet significance somewhere between the pure ideology of the past and the new, sullied options for post-dogmatic profit. Could performers continue to embrace ideas alone in the face of tempting prosperity? (We have already seen them struggle with tasteless profiteering.) After some initial equivocating, a happy medium – somewhere between wisdom and wealth – emerged as an answer to this question among the novel, often grand, ideas and

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ideologies that estrada examined. This philosophical movement bred humility in its practitioners, yet it also broadened the playing field far beyond the limitations of any one tradition or received notion. Two of the worldviews examined were religion (specifically Orthodoxy and Judaism) and the zodiac. On a more earthbound plane, customary tenets of gender and geography were also subjected to old and new theories. The longaccepted naiveté of estrada’s women was questioned, moving the meaning of bodily space into new territories of sexuality and pornography; the larger spaces of geography were subjected to query as performers looked at their prevailing relationships with America, Britain, Israel, and Thailand (in the examples offered here). In total, these spatial diversions sustained and were in direct parallel to the diverse nature of personality on stage, to an ideology of vicissitude and becoming as something utterly normal and natural. Let us start with inflexible politics and move slowly towards that supposedly more “natural,” post-ideological state of chance and change.

political critique: wear a bulletproof vest or lose your home Поезд заблудился в тумане, Знать бы, что нас ждет впереди. С болью от обид и обманов, Что-то угасает в груди. [The train is lost in the fog. I wish I knew what lies up ahead. With all the pain from offence and deceit, something’s extinguished in my heart.]2

The film Scarecrow, touched on in the previous chapter, in 1984 launched the career of Alla Pugacheva’s daughter. The movie’s binary oppositions of good and bad children, bullies and victims, struck some journalists as somewhat dated and tendentious.3 This kind of public criticism helped in several genres during perestroika to query or to reject undesirable aspects of what had now become obsolete and quintessentially Soviet (sovkovyi) in popular entertainment. Fault-finding was a very useful activity. First of all, it showed what estrada did not wish to become. It also, however, showed which aspects of the Soviet, ideologically driven tradition could aid innovation in a post-Soviet context. We have already seen how criticism and prejudices over var’ete and a classical musical education stopped – briefly – its blossoming in

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earnest; nonetheless, critique also showed the desire to retain something as much as the need to jettison undesirable baggage.4 Let us first consider fault-finding vis à vis governmental or ideological issues. We already know that estrada tried very hard to be apolitical, so explicit civic critique was rarely heard from singers after 1982. In one rare instance, Dolina expressed implicit dissatisfaction with the present when she took part in the 1988 festival Rock for Democracy in order to “fulfill her civic duty,” because she was not “indifferent to the fate of our perestroika.”5 Laima Vaikule, however, questioned the existence of any sociopolitical stability that could make civic duty feasible or worthwhile: “It’s a pity that we’re so barbaric at the moment. People are so embittered that it’s a little scary living here.”6 Igor’ Nikolaev even called civic duty on the stage a complete “illusion,” since nobody really cared what performers thought any more.7 The transformation of a major power and its sung, civic discourse into a series of minor, disquieted voices was obviously very distressing. Vaikule’s own experience was especially significant because she is Latvian. At first she was somewhat ambivalent about her nation’s postSoviet independence and the possible resulting loss of a Russian audience. Her initial comments on the issue were therefore very diplomatic. A few days after Latvia announced its sovereignty she remarked: “History will show who’s right. It seems to me that if the Latvian people want something, perhaps they should be left alone. Let them try.”8 As they began to “try” and as nationalist sentiment increased at home, her compatriots asked politely that she justify her decision to sing in Russian. Vaikule replied that the great majority of Letts knew Russian, yet if she were to tour in Almaty, who would understand Latvian?9 Just as Vaikule endeavoured to place national languages outside of failing political ideologies, Nikolaev extended his prior thoughts on “illusionary” estrada and placed the words of estrada songs beyond the designs of any social science, good or bad, as the Soviet Union foundered. “How can politics possibly influence a love song? Love songs are outside politics.”10 Vladimir Presniakov echoed this sentiment just after the fall of the Union: “I always fence myself off from politics. I’m a musician and work hard so that people can escape all that and get back what they’ve forgotten – love, a sense of family, close friends and the search for kindred spirits, something quintessentially soulful.”11 Dmitrii Malikov agreed but thought that only the “freer and more civilized” atmosphere of the time had made such “progress” possible.12 So apolitical, emotional progress may escape social breakdown – but “progress” in which direction? Apoliticism was especially hard for Vaikule to maintain when she later perceived a distinct social retrogression in the early nineties. After

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independence, much Latvian real estate and property reverted by law to its pre-1940 owners; the singer lost her house because the longabsent legal owner was still alive – in Switzerland.13 Vaikule saw herself as suffering awfully at the hands of foreigners, who – as she put it – had no idea where Latvia is.14 How could anything progress beyond this muddle? Vaikule managed to turn Western ignorance of fragmented, post-Soviet Europe on its head by ignoring the binary oppositions of political geography in favour of a new apolitical mode of existence, one fostered by song. “I don’t want to play any of these curious political games. I’ve never given significance to the meaning of nationality. I love both Latvia and Riga; I consider myself a patriot. In essence, though, I am an internationalist. I am a person who sings.”15 This was a very bold and original philosophy at a time when the folkflamenco singer-songwriter Leonid Agutin was complaining from beneath his mop of blond curls that politics were simply unavoidable. He further asserted that playing in any ex-Soviet satellite states, such as Belarus and Uzbekistan, was now both difficult and detestable.16 Vaikule, holding grimly onto political detachment, defended her ideas in another interview: “It would be incorrect to say that I suffer terribly from the appearance of new borders … These [political] changes don’t touch me as an artistic personality. The nation or state with which I am affiliated has no meaning. We’re all normal people here. We don’t choose our homeland, parents or nationality.”17 The fact that her troupe was made up of happy Letts, Russians, and Ukrainians demonstrated that estrada knew an existence of which ideology was ignorant: “Our world hasn’t been decimated,” she said in an article entitled “Laima Vaikule Didn’t Notice the End of the Soviet Union!”18 The following year she even referred to politics per se as “fascism.”19 Estrada turned away from politics when everybody else was jumping into it. This position could be problematic. As a result of her ongoing “anationalism,” Vaikule was ironically sometimes accused by ruder Latvians of even selling out to Russian audiences.20 When, further south, fellow artiste Natasha Koroleva gave a free birthday concert to her Kievan compatriots in 1998, she was warned by the local police to shield her soft curves with a bulletproof vest on stage as protection against gun-wielding Ukrainian nationalists who objected to her fame in Moscow.21 Bullets did not deter everybody, though. In a strangely wilful attempt to reach the same dangerous heights, Anzhelika Varum tried very hard to lose her babyish Ukrainian enunciation, knowing it would inhibit her success in the Russian capital.22 The risk was well worth it for both women. With civic circumstances so menacing, some form of ideological retrospection, not surprisingly, sometimes took place. Filipp Kirkorov,

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for example, reminisced about the “orderliness” of life in the Communist Youth Brigade and came under loud fire when he suggested voting for the Communists in the 1996 national elections.23 Without making similar political declarations, Dolina also found herself pondering ideas old and new, good and bad: “We live in a state of disorder, both among criminals and the police force. To be honest, I can’t hope for anything good.”24 What the nation was, where its borders may have been, and where it was going – all were terribly unclear. The confusion over what sort of politics Russians needed led to confusion over the type of people they were. Tat’iana Bulanova could only define a Russian as a person “who does nothing by halves. He’ll laugh ’til he falls over or cry ’til everybody around is also in tears.”25 If Russians were knee-deep in an emotionally extreme, “barbarous” political system that worsened their lot, what about a more introverted domain of asocial or private expression? What about an artistic, non-political, “ideology” instead? We have seen that criticism defined the need for even post-Soviet songs to be serious, but what kind of ideas would support that stance: politics, ethics, or other hierarchical values?

artistic, ethical critique: stupid singers for a stupid country И один был красавец, как на экране, Он работал гитаристом в ресторане, Он все песни на гитаре знал подряд. [There was one handsome man, just like in the movies. He worked playing his guitar in a restaurant and knew all kinds of songs by heart.]26

Prior political moderation and stability, which had come from “doing things by halves,” had vanished, and three choices appeared: endless critique, nostalgic yearning, or the acceptance of a supranational, suprapolitical worldview akin to Vaikule’s “internationalism.” Complaints about the fate of the art of songs within Slavdom told a similar tale. Here the aesthetic, not the political, ideology of Soviet estrada was judged: the idea that lyrical songs serve as a sentimental education for the listener (and, ultimately, for the performer). That heritage initially seemed intact. In a 1987 article Igor’ Nikolaev quoted his three constant aims in flamboyantly orchestrating rhapsodies to the timelessness of passion as “working creatively, doing good for others and lifting their spirits.” Vladimir Presniakov hoped in the same year that his more

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electronically percussive, rhythmic rock songs, with their driving drums and wailing guitars, would all become similar ethical “song-symbols.”27 These views are typical of what one could find in perestroika interviews with (for example) Pugacheva when fading ideology under Gorbachev gave way to broader international issues such as nuclear disarmament, which were discussed as ethical and not doctrinal problems. (Getting rid of nuclear arms was a good thing, no matter what your political stance.) By the early nineties, however, things were different, as anything became possible on stage: sex, the banal beat of drum machines, synthesized strings, lip-synching, slavish imitation of Western trends, abusive lyrics.28 Ethical politics ran parallel to an ethical view of estrada’s woeful demise. Critique of government mutated into a critique of art. “I don’t like these endless groups who are the spitting image of one another. Their music lacks the main thing – melody … More than half of what’s on today’s estrada is trash. People come up from the street left, right and center, playing three chords and thinking that’s enough. Do you know that Russian young people occupy eightyeighth place in the world on a scale of intellectual development? It’s these eighty-eighth-placers who go to concerts, defining a general predicament as they do so. I, however, have a much different public.”29 As corporate sponsorship of artists grew, the situation worsened as anybody could pay his or her way to success. Today, several key performers (for example, Linda and Alsu) have wealthy fathers who are bankers or oil magnates, while companies such as Pepsi fund diminutive teenaged rap stars, then use their songs (ceaselessly) in their own advertisements. The moment the Soviet Union fell, nine-tenths of what was on the estrada was already pornography, according to Irina Allegrova (though she herself makes ample use of cleavage on stage). “What we see are not the most talented, but those who have the money.”30 From the lofty vantage point of her chic night club aesthetic, Vaikule disdainfully characterized most Russian estrada as considerably more vulgar than American popular music, thus echoing a common complaint: as long as the odious nobodies multiplied, the stage could have no real stars or personalities.31 Estrada had gone from control by meddling Soviet “committees of know-it-alls” to ensembles such as Na-Na, chastised “as a stupid band for a stupid country.”32 The ability of stars to shine in either period of vacuous ideology was minimal, as lumbering, dance-oriented romps were tried and copied ad nauseum. “Come on, come on! [Davai! Davai!],” called the djs. Tat’iana Bulanova, who has circumvented tedium with many novel expressions of melancholy (folk maiden, rock waif, jilted aficionado of blithe acid-pop), explained the deluge of cookie-cutter, stupid performers as a consequence of only “four or five superstars” ever having been allowed to develop on the Soviet stage. Despite the 42

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vigorous work of tasteless sponsors, she felt that viewers would ultimately define who is worth supporting, hence there was no need to wail and beat one’s breast over the current state of affairs.33 Bulanova’s call for level heads is very interesting. She rejected the radically hierarchical world of Soviet estrada – a few lofty stars high above everybody else – and instead placed faith in the public’s ability to weed through myriad performers and create a horizontal, shifting pattern of what is (temporarily) acceptable and what is not. Igor’ Nikolaev also looked askance from behind his romantic whiskers at the received notion of “star” in a 1996 interview. When asked whether he liked being referred to as such, he replied: “I’m truly indifferent to all that. I don’t consider myself a star. My work goes on, basically, off stage and in the studio. That’s the type of life I lead. I don’t think that any ‘stars’ as such are evident in Russia today. There are just worker-bees, people who slog away, some more than others. Being a star isn’t a lifestyle, it’s a certain level that nobody has ever reached in Russia, not even Alla Pugacheva.”34 Here Nikolaev implicitly meant “stardom” as worldwide fame, since even Pugacheva is a phenomenon of the Slavic world and remains a virtual unknown elsewhere. Thus, the first thing he did in critiquing the artistic status quo was to reduce the new, frighteningly global framework to that of Russia, as if pre- and post-Soviet estrada inherently differed from Western popular music and should not have been part of its philosophy. (This, in fact, was a widespread opinion among performers.) Second, in an interview with the radio station that most vigorously broadcast Western music across Russia after 1991 – Evropa plius – he criticized the displacement of Russian estrada on playlists by Western songs.35 Third, he emphasized work, not a goal; events, not hierarchies. Although apolitical and tolerant by nature, Nikolaev and other performers felt constantly prompted by stupid policies and stupid bands to speak up and declare themselves free of big, impersonal, insincere ideologies: social science and the hard sell. Estrada refused the vertical hierarchies of politics or crass commerce. Slowly, the ethical tradition of estrada, born of the sentimental connection between stage and hall, started to reappear. Then as now, performers would advocate individual kindness and catholicity, not social stricture (which merely breeds prejudice and policy and re-establishes stupid hierarchies). Private standards would guide estrada better than anything public. Volodia Asimov of Na-Na set the tone by stating his private moral (and post-Soviet) principles. “First, I can certainly understand the commandment ‘Judge not lest you be judged yourself.’ Second, if anybody at all goes to see an artist or a group, then that artist already has the right to exist … If you yourself consider yourself a musician or an artist, you have to find your own listeners.”36 Though this may 43

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have sounded like a happy solution to the strictures of meddlesome ideology, it was actually not an easygoing philosophy of independence. In order to find your listener and – as Bulanova and Nikolaev advocated – to avoid falling prey to self-perpetuating tradition, histrionics, or politics, you have to work. As I will make clearer anon, the old-world, socialist creation of ideals from matter was perhaps still a relevant and active worldview. There was no a priori, ideal inspiration, just perspiration with no guarantee of success, especially since the music business was ailing. Reworking dogma was hard labour. Show business in Russia [today] is tough, very tough. Actually there’s more show going on than business. How come? Because show business is sick just like our society, politics and economy. People get poorer and, subsequently, the situation in entertainment also worsens. Records need to be purchased, people need to go to concerts, but when there’s no money each person faces a dilemma. Does he buy some sausages or go to a concert? Unfortunately viewers don’t always understand that people in our business expend the same energy and effort as the employees of a meat-processing plant or a bakery. Earlier, when estrada was watched over by concert organizations, work went according to plan from nine to six. Union members, employees of Moskontsert or the philharmonics went home at six and forgot all about work. But in show business today people are busy right around the clock and since things have begun to develop, many new faces have appeared. They all want to work in this way and that’s how competition has arisen.37

This was a tale of enormous effort, to be sure, but in an atmosphere robbed of Soviet unidirectional narratives or organizing bodies such as Moskontsert, we still come back to the unavoidable question: “Why am I doing this now?” I have hypothesized thus far that the raison d’être of estrada was to foster private affirmation as metamorphosis. The ethical aspects of change have been slowly becoming evident as this study progresses. Even while choosing the path of ethics, performers sometimes looked at possible alternative ideologies or philosophies.

religion and horoscopes: “do you believe in them?” “um…” Не враги, не друзья, Только Бог нам судья, Только Бог нам судья, Только Бог. [Neither enemies, nor friends, but God is our judge. Only God.]38

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As post-perestroika estrada tried to define the tenets of its own activity after ideology had fallen flat on its face, metaphysical principles emerged on occasion – in particular, horoscopes and religion. The popularity of the former and the renaissance of the latter after the fall of the Soviet Union were both tremendous. Religion was not mentioned in any of the articles or books examined for this study until 1990, when Vaikule admitted that she had “a complicated relationship with religion. Sometimes I believe deeply, sometimes I just forget all about my faith. I go to church when I need to give thanks or ask for something. Recently that’s been the case pretty often. I light a candle for the departed and the living, for those near to me and for myself. I contemplate the things that are most sacred to me [when I’m in church].”39 Then silence descended over estrada once again, until 1993, when Vaikule repeated virtually the same thoughts, adding only that faith is learned slowly. After she toured Israel for the first time, Dolina also began talking of slowly accepting her own faith and the prior “embarrassment” of being Jewish in the ussr.40 It was in 1994 that religion as a popular guide to personal ideology emerged in earnest. Tat’iana Ovsienko, in her retreat from Mirazh’s inexpert primal techno to tuneful songs of touching, childish innocence, “didn’t know” how she related to religion: “I pray to some God of my own and I believe in fate, too.” Horoscopes were discussed in the same breath, and Ovsienko briefly mentioned her zodiac sign – Libra – as if the general public could easily and accurately surmise her character from it.41 Leonid Agutin, when asked the same question – “Are you religious?” – also related his beliefs in terms outside of established doctrinal matters. For him, religion was an ancient staging or teatralizatsiia; the words of church ritual, a poetic, staged “show.” The believer’s significance of self was wilfully “planned” in such spectacles, unscathed by the humiliating subservience of piety. I’ve been christened and so, in one sense, fulfilled the obligations for becoming a modern man. I could just as well have not been christened, but I was in a psychologically troubling situation at the time and [then] something amazing happened to me. My baptism was a bit like a show, an amazing spectacle that I’d planned all for myself. It gave me a great deal of pleasure, a powerful emotional charge during the hour that I stood over the font repeating the words … I can’t really say that I believe in God as I would in a concrete person, somebody before whom I could prostrate myself. I do see the world as the creation of a higher reason and I understand that we’re not alone; that’s something I sense in my own life. I don’t like anything cultic, though. Man is so pitiful and useless when he becomes trivial or insignificant [melkii]. People in cults are all that way. I don’t like the phrase “servant of God,” either; I don’t like the word “servant,” even though the phrase “of God” is beautiful.

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four p redicaments I love anything that’s beautiful. Religion for me is a show that’s rich with a thousand years of artistic experience.42

The ideas of faith, but not commitment to a belittling ritual, similarly attracted Kirkorov. “Unfortunately I don’t observe all the canons, but I go to church whenever I can. Today I drank a little holy water as a present from a friend.”43 This rather wary attitude to Orthodoxy or Judaism, together with the philosophical importance of work or effort on the Russian stage, meant that references to existential possibility were almost always surreptitiously included in metaphysical musings. Kirkorov himself said as much in 1995: “I believe in fate. Fate is chance plus the desire for a dream to come true. Never forget that nothing is impossible. You just have to want something very badly and love with all your strength. Love helps us make miracles! That’s something I now understand [through my marriage].”44 What love, desire, and effort have to do with fate remains a conundrum, but their collocation speaks volumes about Kirkorov’s attitude to emotion and destiny within the context of his married life. He married the tradition he now continues, all in accordance with the will of the heavens; somebody up there must have “wanted very badly” for estrada to survive. Vaikule, despite admitting that she sometimes prays, explained in a similar vein that she has expected nothing from life since life should expect something from her.45 Dolina also played down full-blown determinism: “Fate? I don’t know. It probably played its role, as it does in all our lives. I believe in God.”46 A little later she added that despite being a believer, “I wouldn’t call myself a fatalist … Everything I’ve achieved has been thanks to stubborn work.”47 In an interview of 1996 she elaborated on that thought after her baptism: According to the faith of my people I should have become a Jewess, but in our family issues of belief were never the most important. To this day I don’t know one word in the language of my forefathers. (Well, maybe one or two …) In any case, up until I matured spiritually, I was free in the choice of my religious orientation … That wasn’t at all a tragedy for my family, just one more in a series of ongoing events in the outside world. My parents understood that every person has the right to choose the religion to which they feel closest. My mother, by the way (who’s by no means young), also chose Orthodoxy of her own free will.48

Thus, Dolina moved from a free flow of creeds to one in particular, but still framed her choice of doctrine with relative opinions. She was born Jewish, chose Orthodoxy, yet continued to view them relative to one another. She believed in fate, yet attributed her success to work. She referenced or emphasized a philosophy of broad, objective 46

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significance (fate, Judaism, Orthodoxy, custom), yet only by placing it within a network of mutable, subjective elements (relativism, personal preference, and the ability to fashion one’s surroundings to some degree). How are necessity and chance synthesized in explaining performers’ philosophies? In answering, we might draw upon Nietzsche’s theory of affirmation. I have started to show the significance of open-ended becoming or unanticipated variance as the ideal form of existence embodied by estrada. Existence (or being) is a state of becoming and, by extension of Nietzsche’s argument based upon similar pairs, unity is multiplicity and necessity is chance; being, unity, and necessity are affirmed by and contained within becoming, multiplicity, and possibility. For elucidation, let us consider Nietzsche’s example of a dice-throw. At the throw of the dice, chance is affirmed; as the dice come to rest, necessity is affirmed by the combination or number thrown, the “number which brings together all the [infinitely potential] parts of chance” for a brief second. Similarly, personality is an event (of myriad potential combinations) that holds still and brings together all its parts for three minutes before metamorphosing in a different song. Since change precedes, underwrites, and outlasts those static moments – the dice-combination or the staged performance – the endless events of Becoming are thus prior to instances used to plot tales or states of (static) Being. “What,” therefore, is the name, nature, or “being of that [prior state] which becomes, of that which neither starts nor finishes becoming? Returning is the being of that which becomes.”49 Each dice-throw, present moment, or performance is part of an eternal becoming – held or noted for just a second – that “reunites all the fragments of chance.” The becoming or constant repetition of the present moment (as it illustrates the endlessly returning “now” of change that refuses to become the past, to plot a timeline or vector) defeats unswerving, “progressive” teleology if perceived stasis and necessity admit the greater significance of inexhaustible potentiality. By embracing being, tradition, and necessity as the partial workings of (greater) possibility and becoming, we can marry them not as opposites but as two phenomena inexorably bound by the joyful, folded affirmation of everything, by a “synthesis of double affirmation.” Kristina Orbakaite employed precisely this affirmation, embracing chance within the context of (necessary, linear, and traditional) faith. She said she has never considered herself a “real Catholic” – even though she was christened at the behest of her Lithuanian father – because she does not go to church very often. Instead she expressed a view of her faith similar to earlier thoughts on the accelerating changes in estrada for which she had no explanation. She simply accepted them for what they were, moving from her earliest capers in 47

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pint-sized, generic pop to moments of bold r & b or Soviet songs played at a hellishly fast pace. “I’ve never chosen anything; I’ve simply gone with the flow and everything has worked out well. I’ve never programmed or calculated anything in life. I made a film by chance, recorded a song by chance … Nothing was ever known beforehand. So I don’t know how things would be if I were to do this all again from school onwards.”50 Moving between necessity, existential desire and ability, she accepted a wide range of chance events that created what she did and experienced. They created who she is. On that bold note we need to assess matters thus far. There was a gradual acceptance in estrada of a wide (unpredictable) range of events, for example, in the move away from ideology and politics to an international, cosmopolitan, even “cosmic” view of the self (to use Vaikule’s words). Nevertheless, an understanding of self within these broader frames was expressed in sung forms that were somehow Russian, not simply homogenized within pan-European music. By way of illustration: elements of folk music (tremulous delivery, whoop of delight, traditional harmonies, folk instruments) were often set to pounding dance beats or the lazy plod of a modern ballad, destined for émigré restaurants in Brighton Beach and West Hollywood. Bari Alibasov, in his requiem for the multinational Soviet ethos that forms this chapter’s epigraph, captured the idea of this universal, cosmic yet oddly Slavic state. Personality moved in and out of the necessary (political geography) in order to affirm a larger sense of long-term becoming or metamorphosis. Whether geographically delimited or not, this “cosmic” personality is clear in the use of horoscopes, which even at the end of the nineties showed no sign of vanishing from estrada interviews. The move towards religion served the same purpose: the hard work of affirming a traditional faith allowed the loss of oneself and of law in favour of a bigger and better process of possibility, a lawless process beyond one’s control. What about the other given laws or doctrines structuring Soviet estrada, which lay between it and the surrender of selfhood to chance or becoming? And what about gender roles? Did the fact that Vaikule, Koroleva, and Varum are women raised by fate in the Soviet Union make any difference in this interplay of freely invoked and a priori events? It certainly mattered in the past, as a performer’s gender to a large extent determined a song’s ideological and generic stances.

female gender: soft toys and the “big risk” of PLAYBOY Что-то, милый, на меня ты больно сердишься, Ну подумаешь, монашкой не жила.

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the absence of ideology [Why are you so hurt and angry with me, darling? You know full well that I never lived like a nun.]51

The issue of dogmatically gender-specific activities or roles as potentially open to post-ideological flux does not arise until 1992 in the materials used for this book. Even then it concerns, not a performer, but an established composer, Il’ia Reznik. He was complaining that the tough financial times of the early nineties made it difficult for women to fulfill their destiny, which is “the beautification and procreation of life.” He wished that modern women would smile more at life’s joys and the recent abundance of food in the shops (though nobody could afford it). He wished also that they would be content with the “role given them by nature.”52 This emphasis on the proximal (home, love, and family) over the distal (travel, lofty construction) led to women being the prime exponents of lyric songs under the Soviets. The principle is felt to this day. Alena Apina, sporting a short skirt and cherry lipstick and swaying to three minutes of classic bubblegum pop or synthesized horns, remarked in typical fashion: “A woman should sing about love, not about social and political problems. Let men busy themselves with those things.”53 The following year, while designing a show “to knock the audience off its feet,” Dmitrii Malikov placed an announcement, seeking additional dancers, in the national newspaper Argumenty i fakty. They had to be “female and maximally attractive with a perfect figure. Applicants must be able to sing and dance beautifully.”54 As genteel or sentimental rituals continued among solo artistes and within female ensembles of the early nineties such as Litsei, there were occasional criticisms in the press of old-fashioned restraint in a world of increasingly modish excess. They called for estrada to westernize itself, to get sexy! “It’s a shame that the vocals on Litsei’s album are missing what is now commonly called ‘sexiness’ or a certain type of energy.”55 Female performers were rather slow to answer this call; in so doing, they validated custom per se, outside of any type of metamorphosis. Uneasiness before change also made them loath to criticize, rate, or compete against each other. To do so would spoil an illusion of calm: “We’re not running the hundred metres!”56 If they were able to introduce an element of game or change into the proceedings, however, then things might start to move. Anzhelika Varum’s performances, for example, were initially regarded as somewhat naïve, yet they began slowly to play upon a more modern collocation of innocence and sylph-like sexuality, bolstered by the flutes and brushes adding a suitably spontaneous, wispy air to the

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Latin rhythms of recent recordings. Her tiny figure was bedecked in short, frilly outfits that gave her a pre-pubescent persona underlined by a rather studied yet endearing awkwardness on stage. Even her house was compared to a big playroom or “fantastic dolls’ kingdom,” with soft toys everywhere and Varum as the only animate presence. The artiste herself referred to childhood as the most beautiful time of life, when an interplay of meanings and hierarchies allows “games to be indistinguishable from reality.” One aspect of that play which particularly pleased her was the animation of lifeless objects in children’s fairy tales: “I like stories in which the heroes aren’t people, but things, animals and forces of nature. I love Andersen’s talking objects: dishes, furniture, slippers.”57 She later remarked, “People in fairy tales always look somewhat strange or unnatural. Everything should be the other way around. The fairy tale should be inside a person, because it’s mystery that awakens our imagination. Without a fairy tale inside us we’re hollow, if not worse.”58 Woman as the centre of emotional life was spinning tales of magic. Others did not emulate Varum’s fairy-tale adventures, adhering instead to other stereotypes. Irina Allegrova’s ballads of the quintessential “wronged woman,” for example, were in essence about the woes of the old-style, sentimental waif who runs the gauntlet of adulthood and male mistreatment. Vaikule’s stage image of short hair and sharp suits challenged both stereotypes with angular, robotic dances; that persona was often mocked for its inclination towards a rather severe, if not androgynous, pose.59 Certain gendered positions remained resilient: the (non-severe) sentimental bonds between chanteuse and listener, the synonymy between those opposites and a small coterie or family. Consequently, instead of following Vaikule’s example female performers preferred to offer advice on running homes or husbands, as Natasha Koroleva did.60 Things would soon change, however; it was Koroleva herself who, borrowing Gloria Estefan’s horn section to infuse some Cuban fervour into her torrid “Hispanic” recordings, dealt a huge blow to these very clichés. She posed for the Russian edition of Playboy in 1997, as did members of the slim, supposedly sexless Litsei in 1997 and 2000.61 Although none of the women undressed completely for the shoots, the pictures of Koroleva clasping an ample bosom across the centrefold enlivened talk shows for many evenings. Koroleva’s use of two ideologies – Soviet gender and Soviet cultural geography (i.e., the role of charming, bucolic Little Russia) – was dramatically subversive. She took them and expanded them to the point where they met their limits, only to confront – dumbstruck – what lay beyond. Koroleva later admitted the “big risk” she took in

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stretching her female image beyond the time-honoured bounds of estrada’s “tasteful … beautiful and aesthetic” photography, even to the point of losing some fans.62 The limitations imposed on bodily space were opening up in a manner inviting unexpected, chance consequences. But what about the larger, politically geographical limits defining ideology itself? Were corporeal and political spaces revealed or opened in the same manner? As estrada both wanted and was forced to see itself in broader contexts – such as the modish turns of overseas Western entertainment – how did its self-perception alter?

the outside world: liverpool, lap dancers, and “african savages” Есть за горами, за лесами, Маленькая страна. Там звери с добрыми глазами, Там жизнь любви полна. [Beyond the hills and the forests there is a little land. Beasts with goodness in their eyes live there and life is full of love.]63

The first post-ideological parallels with Western performers that emerged after perestroika were between Vladimir Presniakov and Michael Jackson. After hearing Soviet criticism of the American, Presniakov suddenly found himself obliged to defend Jackson as an artist who, although knee-deep in commerce, was a “gifted performer of Negro songs and has several times participated in concerts to help starving Africans.”64 By 1989 Presniakov was not feeling as compelled to seek moral grounds as self-defence; he said he was simply referencing Jackson as part of a youthful, stylistic “searching.” After all, other parallels had by this time already been drawn with other Soviet singers, for instance, between Pugacheva or Vaikule and Madonna, between the guitarist Vladimir Kuz’min (who had worked with Pugacheva) and Bruce Springsteen – even though Kuz’min sounds more like Mark Knopfler. Presniakov maintained that he was criticized simply because Soviet journalists loved (and needed) to label or categorize.65 He saw Malikov under similar fire when a major magazine hoped out loud that the pianist would rise above an incipient interest in foreign “Europop” with its tendency towards “standardization, flagrant commercialization and slap-dash standards.”66 A complex desire to both cultivate such parallels and avoid criticism of them prompted Presniakov to visit

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America in 1989, to meet people “who work with Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones.”67 By this time, however, the comparisons with Jackson were getting a little tiresome; Presniakov wondered whether Soviet journalists had even heard of anybody else, such as Prince.68 With all this in mind, it is not surprising that the artists who traveled to America saw it as a place of increased introspection; they visited America in order to escape crude social being and enter a process of private becoming. “I began to think about myself and other things that never entered my head.” Herein, also, lay the beginning of an ongoing problem after the eighties: in ideological terms, how is American social freedom different from artistic freedom, before or after 1991? Are Russian performers really any “freer” in the United States? As we shall see, their experiences of America changed over the two decades we are investigating, and to some degree hinged upon a secondary issue: Is Russian estrada so inherently different from Western music that Russian performers cannot hope to do well or enjoy themselves in the New World? Igor’ Nikolaev certainly saw the simplicity and sentimental obsolescence of the Russian song as unappealing to a Western audience. Had he tried to promote a Russian singer in America, he would therefore have begun the project outside of or prior to any Russian ideas. “I’d take a very young person and set them up in such a way that this illiterate [eventually] knew conversational English, the spoken version with its slang. I’d work on their voice, image, movement on stage and orient it all towards a Western public.”69 Since the late nineties he has taught a young blind woman, Diana Gurtskaia, to perform in the field of simple, disarmingly mawkish pop, but with her sequined gowns, long dark hair, and troubled, youthful delivery she bears precious little resemblance to the confident, leather-clad lasses of contemporary American music, to Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Kirkorov agreed with Nikolaev; he doubted that, when Russian performers loudly announced an American tour, it ever amounted to much, and suspected that such artists were obliged to play before wholly émigré audiences. The situation, he said, would not change until large amounts of money were spent on erasing the differences between sovkovaia estrada and music in the West (should anybody want to spend it).70 Laima Vaikule agreed; Western musicians had always been guided all the way to stardom through their “image, style, working conditions, audio-visual production and advertising.”71 Russians, she said, were part of an entirely different process. As the nineties began and Russian opera singers fled to the West en masse, Nikolaev changed his mind about estrada’s applicability for Western audiences. Maybe it could survive, not be stuck forever within

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impoverished Slavic countries.72 Overseas, he maintained, estrada would be at least be free from petty financial and deadline pressures; everything would be done “in the right place at the right time.” He worried, however, that the then-current encouraging invitations from American studios were just a passing “ethnic interest in musicians from the Land of Gorbachev.”73 His transitory hope did indeed soon evaporate, judging from another interview of the same year, 1991, in which he stated that estrada was stuck in a catch-22: there could be no real profit in it until serious amounts of money were spent on designing and staging top-quality shows, yet there could be no shows until the artists started earning something.74 When performers managed to get themselves to the West, their perceptions were therefore varied. The problems at Brighton Beach restaurants mentioned earlier were only the tip of the iceberg. As early as April 1991, for example, Presniakov was already unhappy with England, a country of “no emotional warmth and no sincere smiles.”75 Irina Allegrova believed that travel brought only sadness and disappointment to most Russian artists, who then returned home and lied about their success. Vaikule, on the other hand, was bowled over by American politeness, having had a well-dressed man in a Lincoln pull over and fix her flat tire on a highway. She believed that American parents pay their children money to read large numbers of books; then these youngsters give the money to charities that save other children, dying from cancer: “Charity is the norm.”76 Another apparent norm was that the West allows people “to earn money by using their head. That’s how things work in the civilized world.”77 In 1992 the enthused Vaikule reported tentative interest in her work among American producers, even though the slow speed of negotiations was disagreeable.78 Presniakov, conversely, now felt even less favourably inclined towards America than towards England; his plans there had turned out to be “completely unsuccessful.” He was desperately tired of the lip service paid him by various Western producers and of the tendency of Russian artists to name-drop after any trip overseas. He was, in fact, so sick of foreign lands that he was baptized in the Orthodox faith immediately after returning to Russia, then turned down a lucrative offer to tour godless Western nightclubs.79 As disillusionment grew, Irina Allegrova’s skeptical words about the stories of fame told by returning estrada artists reappeared in an interview with Kirkorov, who quoted her.80 Allegrova developed her sage views elsewhere in a fuller and more callous form. “In essence, all Russian tours to America go the same way. When artists come back talking about their great success, they’re just telling fibs. I used to believe them myself … You see, I just don’t know how to lie. I could

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tell everybody that I signed some contract with an American firm, but then you’d look at me like some kind of idiot. That’s because you know full well that what I do won’t be of interest to Americans. We work for our own people here [in Russia].”81 In 1993, even Vaikule noted – surprisingly – in a magazine interview that her last trip to America had been “the most disappointing experience” in recent memory.82 The false promise of contracts and the provincial tastes of émigrés were upsetting everybody. In fact, the easygoing, metronomic rhythms of émigré “restaurant” music were well known by then and had acquired a rude label: èmigrantskii muzon. In the same year, Tat’iana Bulanova even tried consciously to record a few songs in that register, as émigré tastes came home for a while.83 The predictable lilt of a slow, familiar melody came from the keys of a grand piano, as hotel bands accompanied tales of lost love and home town. It would be wrong to think that such musical preferences were defined purely in New York and California, though. Israel became a huge market for Russian estrada, and evoked different reactions at a time of disappointment with America and its aesthetics. “Russian talent is talent in Israel, too!” declared Pravda after the success of Na-Na and its crowd-pleasing sing-alongs in that country.84 While in Tel-Aviv, the ensemble gave shows that were compared with the early extravaganzas of Elton John, circa Pinball Wizard; girls between thirteen and sixteen years of age screamed uncontrollably and tore the clothes from the singers’ backs. Only when they were off-stage did the members of the group experience what makes Israel different from America. They visited the “place where Christ was taken down from the cross. The members of Na-Na lit candles at the crucifixion site and kissed a stone from Christ’s sepulchre … The boys claim that something changed in their souls. They took some holy water, earth, oil and crosses, all blessed at the site of that holy grave.”85 Dmitrii Malikov – far from Israel – interpreted the disappointment with America as part of increasing contact with “the Western way of doing show-business” per se. His theory found proof as the ensemble Litsei began its career. The members were stunned by some brief, utterly inconsequential, interest from Sid Bernstein, a promoter who was instrumental in the early story of the Beatles.86 The connection with the Liverpudlian quartet is of relevance, because Na-Na – like Litsei, still in its formative years – attempted tirelessly to promote itself as “what the people want … a cross between Laskovyi mai and the Beatles.”87 Its members said that the flattering comparison was made (not for the first time) when they played to the Russian community in Alaska.88 Continuing the Liverpool tradition appeared to be a passport to international acceptance. In their loud “Na-Na Above the Earth”

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tour of 2000, amidst film clips and lasers audaciously stolen from recent American science fiction movies, the ensemble donned the collarless jackets and haircuts of the Fab Four for a few of their numbers. Retaining the same aesthetic, they traveled to France and continued to spin yarns of adulation and acceptance. Their manager claimed, “A lot of people in Paris understand or even speak Russian. In any café you can explain yourself with ‘Spasibo! Zakhodi! Dai, dai! Net, net!’ [’Thanks! Come on over! Gimme some! No, no!’]. You’ve no idea how much they love Russians there! When Russians get to Paris, they throw francs all over the place! My guys drank vodka for $100 each!”89 The journalist who recorded these words was a little skeptical. The members of Na-Na were by no means the bright and individually discernible lichnosti who grew up on the banks of the Mersey. “Why is it that we know perfectly well who did what among the Fab Four or who’s who in the Rolling Stones, but we can’t distinguish our own estrada stars one from the other? The parallels with the Beatles obviously can’t be justified and a lot of people look at Na-Na as nothing more than [Western] product, cooked up by Bari Alibasov.”90 Despite several years of post-communist existence, then, these strange and somewhat desperate parallels suggested that “there’s still a wall between us [East and West], can’t you see?”91 This lament, uttered by Vladimir Presniakov, characterizes Russian perceptions of the West after the mid-nineties. Whenever an estrada performer actually did arrange and sign a solid contract with a Western company, the details were spelled out in a national newspaper as if to show that somebody – thank heavens! – had found a Western sponsor who was not a Slavic émigré. Specifically, I have in mind Leonid Agutin’s contract with the Austrian firm bw Music and Art, which came on the heels of smaller ventures he had conducted with the clothing company Diesel, the German producers of West cigarettes, and the Russian distributors of Hennessy cognac. The Austrian company offered to cover all costs of Agutin’s promotion and tours; in return the singer would reduce his income to fifteen per cent of sales from recordings and twenty per cent of touring profits. Nevertheless the deal appeared both reliable and honourable to the Russian press.92 The reasons for trumpeting such contacts with other nations are understandable when we consider how ludicrous some articles on foreign subjects could be, such as “Tat’iana Ovsienko Loved an African. Like a Son.” The titillating insinuations of the split sentence aside, the manner in which the artiste’s Black acquaintance was described is more than objectionable and reveals insular perceptions not of the West, but of other climes further south. “Sergei has never passed an exam in his life and has only read two books: a collection of jokes and

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– recently – Dumas’ Three Musketeers … What’ll happen tomorrow? He doesn’t think about that. He lives for today. Waking up, he only knows that he has to feed the dogs. Everything after that is complete improvisation. Over the course of the day Sergei can watch ten to fifteen videos which he swaps with neighbors; he has a small collection with Tat’iana’s performances.”93 Other forays into non-Western locales were cast in a similarly silly light. Na-Na marched off to claim the distant, exotic shores of Thailand with a show they insisted already excited the American press “on the edge of eroticism … There’s no chance prudishness will survive this!”94 The tour to Asia was certainly a chance to breach the limits of what would be acceptable to a prudish Russian or even Western audience. The group also released a super-sexy photo booklet – at seventy dollars, beyond what a Russian wallet could survive.95 The King of Thailand was nonetheless so impressed by this maximalism that he undertook promotion of the ensemble and gave Na-Na an hour per week on national television. One song from their repertoire was translated into Thai; it was directed at those women who, according to local custom, may choose a groom for themselves once they have reached the (desperate) age of thirty. The song’s performer, Volodia Asimov, thus became a “national hero and darling of all the local girls.”96 Na-Na also told of being in a Chicago bar where, outraged by the charges for lap dancing and all associated with it, the band’s members threatened to call in the “Russian Mafia” but were thrown out with great speed and little ceremony.97 In the same year Kirkorov attempted to explain this kind of behaviour by resorting to the ever-popular horoscope; Russians, it transpired, are “classic Aries: stubborn, goodnatured, generous people who flare up all of a sudden … They have the great gift of contradiction.” Americans, on the other hand, are “total Aquarians … They maintain a hierarchy in everything, they’re more conservative.”98 The Russian tendency is towards change and contradiction, and is inherent, ordained in the stars, as it were. When Kirkorov was asked in 1997 to play a prestigious concert at Madison Square Garden, he could not get used to the orderly procedures backstage: “I can’t come to terms with these strict American rules. Good or bad, I’m used to our sloppiness; I’m used to viewers entering the auditorium while we’re knocking in the last nail and the musicians are still tuning up!”99 The role of Madison Square Garden in these sloppy Russian attempts to make an impression upon (and understand) the West was highly significant. By way of context, I should first note that, although Kirkorov has played there, he has attached equal personal importance to playing Berlin’s Friedrichstadt Palace, which was always a dream

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auditorium for Soviet singers.100 The horn-bolstered, bassy pump of his melodic songs, especially when married to the tight harmonies of professional backing singers, filled that space comfortably and proudly. The goals of Soviet performers still set the standard for many artists, even though the music festivals that began so many careers within the Eastern Bloc have now all but vanished. The tendency to perform in the festival format brought the occasional Soviet estrada artist to America during perestroika in order to participate in stateapproved international calls for disarmament. Then came the aforementioned call from Russian émigrés for estrada stars to sing in the clubs of the Big Apple; artists would stay free of charge in the apartments of ex-patriot admirers. The next step in the history of “invading” America, claimed the newspaper Chas pik (Rush Hour), was the hardwon ability to fill the halls of “three-star hotels” and school auditoria or basketball courts. The booking of Madison Square Garden was therefore a very important symbolic break, yet the real flag was planted not by Kirkorov but by Igor’ Nikolaev and Natasha Koroleva, who beat the Bulgarian to the same venue by a month. “On March 7 1997 a new page was turned over in the history of Russian estrada. Russian artists performed for the first time on the prestigious stage of the New York concert hall Madison Square Garden.”101 Perhaps a page has indeed been turned in an increasingly happy story. I do not mean to suggest that Russian artists will become popular in America, but that their relationship with it (and with the West as a whole) has been become jollier and more accepting of its numerous meanings and multiple facets. Vladimir Presniakov recorded a very fine album in Los Angeles – Sliun’ki (Spittle) – and actually enjoyed the experience. It would appear that once Russian artists are allowed to work and are not simply paid endless lip service, all goes well. “What a shame that my trip ended!” said Presniakov.102 Na-Na, with equal cheer, headed willingly back to Paris. France-Soir saw them coming: “There’s a threat from the East – five young Slavs with robust dental work are attacking the French market!” With 2,500 concerts and sales of 20,000,000 under their belts, Na-Na were now seen by the French as stars of “Red Neocapitalism.”103 Igor’ Nikolaev, after his successful concert at Madison Square Garden, finds himself today working between Moscow, Sakhalin (his birthplace), Ukraine (where his wife was born), and Miami (where he often records and rests).104 Whatever its successes or failures in the West, estrada has perhaps stopped obsessing over the need to “break through” and just works there. It quietly submits to a network of significances in its international work environment; some of those meanings it can control, some it cannot. The proud, self-assured work

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ethic of Soviet estrada informed post-Soviet estrada’s initial attitudes towards the West. Those attitudes have been considerably mollified as performers have come to terms with their submission, with what they can do and what they must accept as chance. We saw in the previous chapter that one or two elements of chance were acknowledged as a post-traditional force. In the absence of ideology, could this force somehow be formulated as a new doctrine, a well-worded philosophy that might defend itself eloquently against political dogma? Most of what we heard about chance in that chapter was stated simply in terms of admitting its existence: “I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow”; “I don’t actually know for sure what style I’m working in.” Little by little, though, singers tried to impose some rules on fortune’s unruliness, to define the indefinite. In the following section we add to some conclusions about change from the preceding chapter.

stage personae and the new ideology of chance Но лишь в одном вовеки волен Ты: cтать самим собой. [There’s only one thing you’re always free to do, and that’s become yourself.]105

Songs act as a nationally acknowledged performer’s “face,” just as ideological proclamations create the face of a politician.106 That artistic visage was fixed firmer than ever after perestroika, when one major aspect of Soviet estrada faded away: the tendency of performers to share songs. Like jazz standards, Soviet numbers often moved (slowly) among performers, with each bringing his or her personal interpretation to bear. Today, however, a song tends to belong to one performer alone.107 The question therefore, if songs are “fixed” in one individual’s repertoire and the idea of change is stressed above all, is, What exactly modulates: songs, personae, or the performers themselves? The earlier discussion of generic changes noted that artists justified a melange of styles by reference to themselves: “Genres differ because I do.” What exactly did they mean? Is this the new ideology? We need to look closer at and to formulate their philosophy, their private rationale for public performance. Laima Vaikule addressed the issue in 1990. “Things on the stage and in life work in the same way. When I go to visit my mother, I’m one person and with friends I’m another. Today in concert [in Russia] I’ll be the person I really am, not a cold

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mask. When I play the Lido in Paris, though, I’ll be somebody else. I’ll be in an evening gown with an open back.”108 Songs and their staged presentation create the performer in a manner reminiscent of Sartre’s Edmund Kean. There is, however, an undesirable limit, where the stage does not help to metamorphose daily life; rather, it becomes so different from life that it loses contact with it altogether. Vaikule, for example, criticized those Russian performers who draw upon rock’s image of the “renegade” and then calmly drive home in a Mercedes.109 Recording, mixing, and re-mixing the most rhythmically intricate and flashiest dance tracks referenced in this book, Dmitrii Malikov wished to decrease the drama of becoming. “If I’m one kind of person today, it just means that it’s the way I am for one day. Tomorrow, for example, I might turn everything on its head if it suits me.”110 Anzhelika Varum saw the ability to transform herself (to become) as dictated by simple sentiment or emotion. When asked by a journalist what she is “really” like, Varum responded: “I don’t know. I’m not as uninhibited as I seem to many people … Generally speaking, I’m a person of moods. If I feel one way today, then tomorrow I’ll be different. It’s hard to say. I’m a human being!”111 Metamorphoses on and off stage were dismissed as an utterly normal, innovative state. Elsewhere Varum was surprised when told that she even has an image; the stage simply amplifies who she is.112 The fact that Varum is a woman has a special significance, having to do with emotion. We have already touched on the melancholy ballads of another female performer, Tania Bulanova, which offer extra clues to the affective workings of stage personae. A 1994 interview began by describing her “sad melodies” as the work of a “quiet, meek and unhappy singer.” As if the personae were the person, the entire interview concerned Bulanova’s off-stage psychology in an effort to investigate the heroine of her songs.113 Another article of the same year even compared her to the spiritual heroines of Dostoevskii’s novels!114 She, like Varum, spoke of real-life mood swings that were directly parallel to shifts in her stage persona or her songs’ heroines. “Everything depends upon my mood. Sometimes I want to tuck myself away in a corner so that nobody can see or hear me. But sometimes my moods swing upwards, too.”115 Those swings were bolstered by the sentimental connection between stage and hall: “You say that I cry [on stage]. But the people who are watching me cry, too.”116 To strengthen the parallel between the two women: Varum continued in subsequent years to insist in ever-bolder terms that what dictates her philosophy of performance is in essence her own real-life temperament.

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four p redicaments The person on stage is who I am in reality! Who at eighteen [when her career was beginning] thinks about her image? I’ve watched our estrada [over the last few years] and have always known, therefore, exactly what I didn’t want to do on the stage. I just knew that I had to be extremely natural. I had to like the music, go out on stage and sing it. If I’ve got sad eyes [on stage], it’s probably because that’s the way I look at life. Life isn’t very jolly, you must agree. Perhaps I even cultivate sadness in myself, all in order to be pleasantly surprised at what’s good. It’s my own kind of defence mechanism. I wasn’t a very amusing child; it’s probably something in my genes.117

Alena Apina followed this apparently female line and advocated becoming within even less exciting limits. “I just want to be myself on stage, to do what I find interesting. It’s a very tricky thing to make the public believe or trust you all the time.”118 When asked elsewhere whether she intended to change her image, she simply said: “What image? An image is just a cardboard box. You have to change yourself.”119 Alena Apina, Anzhelika Varum, and Tat’iana Bulanova all claimed that no real difference exists between their life on stage and their reallife selves. After the excess of stadia-filling estrada of the early eighties, with its ponderous, amplified advocacy of civic good, performers appeared to back off in the early nineties. Although they maintained the connection between stage and real life as constructed by Pugacheva, they noticeably shifted the emphasis. Pugacheva showed that she was as big as her stage persona; Varum, Apina, and Bulanova showed that their stage personae had the same dimensions as they.120 Pugacheva’s relationship of real and staged identities was designed to cultivate a big persona; in the nineties that relationship was designed to remain modest, to cultivate a personality made up of quotidian transformations, both active and passive. Whatever their personal emphases, the three young artistes all made one humble claim as the motto of post-doctrinal doctrine: I change and do so unexpectedly. Pugacheva – drawing upon the circus traditions of nineteenth-century estrada and before – had also maintained that her stage personae altered. The tenets of change, as we saw in the previous chapter, altered traditional repertoires. Here we see that chance and variation were expanded to replace the public dogma of socialism, but also to repeat eternally the private tenets of socialist entertainment. Everything mutates, as it did then and does now. The metamorphoses vary in intensity and direction, depending on how and on the degree to which they are invoked or invited. I mentioned earlier that Kirkorov – at the brink of such moderation – often takes up Pugacheva’s torch; his work in the flux of personality is no exception. He is on stage as he is in real life; the alterations are his capricious

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personality, raised to a higher power. With all its variation, his show “will be done [as ever] à la Kirkorov. I never lose my ‘I’!” 121 “I cannot say that I’m one particular person or another,” he announced in another interview. “I vary and my image varies.” Thus he echoes Apina’s words above – despite her differing stance towards staged metamorphoses: “What image? You have to change yourself.”122

conclusion: one ideology is replaced by capricious roles И верой и правдой Служу я природе. [I serve nature with faith and truth.]123

What has been said about Varum, Apina, and Bulanova could be extended to Tat’iana Ovsienko: “My appearance [on stage] depends upon my mood.”124 Likewise, what has been said about Kirkorov’s bolder appeal to the circus or staged tradition for metamorphoses could be extended to Larisa Dolina, who lauded the positive, creative aspects of vanity’s roles on stage.125 These and other artists shared an acceptance of personality as a staged “becoming,” cultivated sentimentally between audience and hall. That personality was taken wholesale from the post-Stalinist tradition of lyric songs, as developed by women such as Èdita P’ekha, Maiia Kristalinskaia, Anna German, Sofiia Rotaru, and Alla Pugacheva. It could be traced even further back to a milder kindred form in pre-war artistes such as Klavdiia Shul’zhenko and Izabella Iur’eva. A subjective, emotional, wholeheartedly affirmative response to life – irrespective of an awful political status quo – was hardly out of place in the economic misery of modern Russia. The emotional convention has lived long and successfully, yet it lives by not being a convention. Its new practitioners actively affirmed it as part of the eternal return of “now” that denies one-way custom or narratives the opportunity to establish any vectors. Customary philosophy may be affirmed as necessary, but only insomuch as that necessity constitutes moments of significance within a (grander) scheme of becoming and possibility. The circus roots of estrada, the arts of the clown and comic, are more than familiar with this type of thespian personality as a series of roles or sentimental possibilities created, realized, and accepted. Soviet ideology was replaced by a system of beliefs older than that ideology; the constancy of politics was replaced by the constant surprise of the circus. The use of sex by Koroleva and Litsei realized one such possibility in order to accept another; it was an active choice to play a role, too,

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to instigate and thus experience – passively – a new and unexpected multitude of unpredictable meanings. Pornography is aimed “above all at confronting language with its own limits (violence that does not speak, eroticism that remains unspoken),” and the pages of Playboy act as a major challenge to estrada’s previously (explicitly) stated limits and narrated linearity. 126 From deep within the rules of ideology there springs a leak, as the muteness of eroticism becomes Koroleva’s selfdefined “big risk.” She moves forward along a set, scalar road of “How much can I get away with?” and looks beyond its limit, to something uncontrollable and risky to which she says yes. She chooses risk as a brief sortie into excess before returning to the interplay of necessity and change, because excess is itself a dead end, another form of stasis. Tradition gawps at Koroleva as she walks through the hole in its wall only to saunter back in again. (We will revisit the case of Playboy in a subsequent chapter.) The growth of Soviet progressive “seeking” – estrada’s family tree – therefore turns into Deleuze’s wonderful “rhizome” of cultural movement, the twisting, repetitious growth of grass (not one-way paths), which is eternally transforming, recycling, eternally now and which thus subjects an ideological tradition’s “necessity” to the interplay of “maybe.” Ideology is made to stammer and stutter at its own limit. “Creative stuttering is what makes language grow from the middle, like grass; it is what makes language a rhizome instead of a tree, what puts language [or similarly encoded practices] in perpetual disequilibrium.”127 Such stammering or flickering, in and out of vivid dogma(s), is something that Vaikule was right to call subjective yet “cosmic.” We have seen that the freeing of geographical constraints after perestroika changed Russia into an international domain, yet geography is not satisfying as a limit, and the United States disappoints terribly. Indeed, travel makes performers subsequently look inwards; the more they travel, the less space matters. What are more important and more satisfying than changes of country are the metaphysical changes of self on stage; what moves and changes on stage is more “cosmic” than movement around a map. The freedom offered by theatrical metamorphoses is one of involution, of the self as a locus where capricious changes take place. The body does not just move wilfully to different countries to constitute some enfeebled notion of variation. “Variety” happens just as much (if not more) to the self, to a body that goes no further in ostensible space than the wings of the estrada. The freely chosen and existential transitions made en route to a rhizome-like version of personality need to be investigated further, since estrada – as we are starting to see – has not just passively experienced a tradition as a group of cultural dopes. Chance and

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transition must be instigated, and that takes hard work. Much of what Soviet estrada practised was based upon ideals as something made in the material world; therefore, we need to look at what effort or labour means today on the stage. When successful, labour cultivated in the past a sentimental bond between stage and hall, a mutually experienced sentimental education. Does that mean anything at all today? Does estrada still perceive itself as an art that can make something “better” over a given period? Since making anything better (or worse) takes time, this is an issue closely bound to biography, to how performers are raised and how they then try ethically to influence their audience. And what about that audience today? How do estrada performers look at the addressees who made them what they are?

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PERFORMERS’ UNTUTORED UPBRINGING Сенсация, сенсация, сенсация в газете, Там черной краской писано на фоне голубой, Что, дескать, в эту пятницу, что, дескать, на рассвете, Что Апина в Саратове покончила с собой! [Sensation, sensation in the paper! It’s written right there in black ink on a blue background; apparently at sunrise last Friday Alena Apina committed suicide in Saratov!]1

introduction: once or twice upon a time This third problematic area in estrada, that of performers’ upbringing, is closely connected to issues of chance, narrative, and linearity: a young person is brought up in a certain fashion over a number of years in the hope that he or she will become someone else. Our investigation of cultural narratives thus far has shown how estrada’s personalities affirmed a state of flux contradicting well-intentioned straight lines. Ignoring or shunning a linear perception of one’s own life, though, is more than difficult. It is considerably easier to applaud a post-modern, folded view of public history than it is to do the same with one’s private life. It is simpler to comprehend notions such as the affirmation of chance, personality as an event, and so forth than to actually live them oneself as a form of drifting, nomadic selfeducation or upbringing. The problem is trickier still when we consider that one aspect of upbringing – the old-style, goal-oriented “sentimental education” of one’s audience – was an important part of the Soviet tradition voluntarily continued by some performers after perestroika. In a word, how can goals and processes, straight lines and returning curves, upbringing and repetition be married? How can the Soviet tradition of nurturing be embraced while at the same time the narrow, one-way confines of biography are evaded? We have to examine both how estrada performers phrased their reminiscences and how journalists did the job for them. Instructive sentiment tends to propel a certain type of biography, but the older a performer, the

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less that type of story is employed, because adult singers have already reached its conclusion: they are “educated.” In adulthood proper, therefore, a different theme – work – tended to fashion Soviet estrada biographies. Work is a motif that continued to be important after 1991. The theme of physical effort created an ideal that could be mapped after the Soviet period onto the new capitalist workings of estrada, onto the American dream of the self-educated, self-made man or woman. In that case, what does work mean today in estrada: the creation of selfhood between one singer and many listeners; an ideal, self-monitoring significance far from filthy lucre; or the procurement of big bucks once a person has reached adulthood? What lies at the end of the sentimental biography – capital? Did the work of avarice spoil the heart? Can there be any connection at all between sweat and sentiment? As profit became an actuality for the industrious after 1991, there emerged another problem, a sense of adult guilt. Performers felt increasingly awkward about their earnings, so a new and different justification was needed for various ventures. That justification was, paradoxically, the rebirth of an old, Soviet, non-material significance for effort. Before naming it, I should explain that the tendency to invoke a socialist past was sped both by wealthy performers’ feelings of awkwardness and by problems with audience jealousy at a time of appallingly low average wages. For all their troubled consciences, though, performers continued to become increasingly prosperous. Large sums were won and lost; taxes were dodged and paid. Capital became hugely important but remained hugely unstable. It tried to mean everything, but could not. Like Russia’s financial markets, the poorly-paid audience also had trouble behaving itself as well as it had thirty years previously, perhaps because of its own faulty upbringing. Estrada therefore expended great effort on the search for a well-tutored, pre-capitalist significance amidst capitalism, on a calm state amidst a consistently unruly audience. The Soviet non-material attribute eventually drawn upon was kinship, the hard-won and skilfully nurtured connotations of childhood, friendship, and family. The linear biography or upbringing had drawn a straight line, which ended in the hard work of lucrative stardom. Troubled by the connotations of capital, the stars then revisited and reinterpreted their autobiographies, employing familial metaphors that downplayed money in favour of kinship with the audience and simultaneously twisted the one-way stories of lifelines: Now that I have been brought up, my life is constantly reconstructed, “re-membered.” In this way,

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the dead-straight story of upbringing became the baroque inflection of a meandering yarn. In order to both reach and maintain that state, though, one had to work, and work hard.

working too hard: dreams of being chased by monsters − Вы! Вот Вы! Почему на работе Вы спите? − Я вчера был в гостях. Танцевал. Извините! [– You! You there! Why are you sleeping at work? – I was visiting friends yesterday. Dancing, too. I’m very sorry!]2

Profit incentives aside, virtually all hard work in estrada both before and after 1991 resulted from one factor – that Russia is an extremely large country with an impoverished and badly organized entertainment industry. Much effort was needed to get things – in fact, anything – done. In 1987 Laima Vaikule attributed her directorial skills to the exhausting yet unavoidable diy experience of earlier var’ete years in Riga. She knows today how to organize a show with ballet dancers, gymnasts, clowns, and jugglers because for many years she had to do it herself.3 She drew a direct relationship between the “dynamics” of a stage show and the hard work involved in organizing it; the skills she was obliged to acquire yesterday allow her to do what she likes today.4 Prior obligations in the workplace had therefore, paradoxically, fostered freedom. Vaikule gave a joint interview with Raimonds Pauls the following year, during which the composer also spoke of the compulsion to work one’s way to choice and freedom: “An artist needs talent and a love of hard work [trudoliubie].”5 He documented Vaikule’s fourteen-hour rehearsals, which according to a popular magazine were only one part of a typical day:6 It’s hard to get hold of Laima Vaikule in the busy course of things to do and worry about. She’s constantly on tour or in rehearsal, recording new songs on television or studying at gitis [the Moscow theatrical institute], working with composers and poets … There’s a mass of organizational problems to be sorted out, and it’s all on her shoulders. Then there’s her popularity, too, the public’s constant, close attention to her songs, listeners’ nagging attention, their expectation of something new and extraordinary. As a result Vaikule usually gives interviews over the phone from her hotel room towards midnight, when everything’s been done (and done again). Only then can she rest a little, all in order to get up early the next morning and race off once more.7

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Work per se, of course, did not guarantee anything, least of all an “ideal” amidst Soviet bureaucracy. Being a woman complicated things further, and Vaikule was careful to qualify her paeans to labour with the counsel that “the main thing for a Soviet woman today is patience.”8 This was because although some artistes, such as Pugacheva and Rotaru, had in the past reached the restful heights of success, free from red tape, “somebody still has to labour [with perseverance] on today’s stage” in order to get there!9 As the nineties began, labour and what it led to were discussed less as creative and more as overtly commercial enterprises. “Estrada would take up a lot less time in my life if there wasn’t such a thing as commercial music,” complained Dmitrii Malikov.10 Kirkorov agreed, blaming not only profit incentives but also waning professionalism; the business was too full of too many people who knew too little.11 Ineptitude and ignorance were worsened by various unfamiliar new kinds of endeavour, as Kirkorov himself found out in 1992 when taking part in a series of concerts on a two-week sea cruise of Greece, Turkey, Spain, and Portugal. On board the same ship was the allfemale ensemble Kombinatsiia, whose members produced harmonically flat, tinny-sounding, synthesized ditties celebrating “American Boys” or “Russian Girls” as Soviet borders opened up. Alena Apina would soon quit the group in order to strive harder and better.12 A year later, though, when her exhausting solo career appeared to be underway, things were no better in the workplace. “Our touring life is so hard, from train to train, from hotel to hotel … Ninety-nine per cent of my time is spent on tour! Sometimes you want desperately to go home! Whenever that’s possible, I stay for a couple of days, but then I want to get back on the road.”13 As familiarity and skills increased in the post-Soviet environment, such tours actually started to produce something resembling a profit for most performers; money became a clear justification for effort. There then emerged a different problem, the need to justify revenue as fairly earned. Profit had a novel, yet awkward, significance, which meant that the discrepancy between labour and renumeration grew swiftly. Take, for example, a representative and defensive interview with Allegrova entitled “I Put Out for My Mercedes No Less than a Miner.” “I’ll be in a long, long white car,” Irina told me over the phone. “You can’t mistake it.” At the appointed time a nine-metre long Lincoln town car stopped for a second, just long enough to grab me and move on. It looked like a house on wheels; the passenger seats alone formed a miniature hotel room with bar and tv! When some traffic police caught sight of Allegrova, they didn’t miss the chance to ask her into their checkpoints and enthuse about her work. In

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four p redicaments return each of them got a calendar with Irina’s photo and autograph. What a car! Is it yours? [I asked her]. “No,” she said. “It belongs to my friends.” What about that Mercedes of yours? “It was stolen! Can you imagine? Quite literally from under my apartment window. If the people who do such things had a brain of sorts, let alone a conscience, they’d understand that you just don’t steal from artists. You don’t steal from miners, either, bent double in mineshafts and scraping money together over several years for a car. I didn’t get that Mercedes with the stroke of a pen like some bureaucrat, bagging the latest model together with a cup of coffee and dessert after he approves yet another oil sale. I put out for that car no less than the miner in a shaft: sleepless nights in the studio, ridiculous flights all over the place during tours, fatigue from concerts and rehearsals … I hope that the people who stole my car read this. And may God be their judge.14

Although Allegrova was stressing here the suffering in her labour in order to justify some highly profitable songs, the tendency to see estrada careers as something above or separate from capital stubbornly endured. The gist of this approach was, “Sure I make money, but that’s not why I’m doing this.” Some people stressed work per se and simply preferred not to mention cash at all. Tat’iana Ovsienko, for example, made a typical comment in 1995 when asked how she got things done successfully: “First of all, I love my work. Second, I limit things that get in the way of my work. Third, I work, work and then work some more.”15 Ovsienko’s shying from crude materialism at this time was perhaps hinted at in the simultaneous release of her jolly, perfect pop album Za rozovym morem (Beyond a Pink Sea). It ended with a slow, lushly orchestrated version of “The Hills Are Alive” from The Sound of Music, which in Russian became “When Love Approaches.” She used it to open her concerts, dressed in an expanse of red taffeta and held high by muscled male dancers. Austrian nuns and Scarlett O’Hara joined forces to help post-Soviet entertainment hide in reverie from the horrors of capitalism. Even slightly younger artists such as Natasha Koroleva, who started their careers in the nineties, felt awkward about modern wealth and stressed an equally dreamy, supra-material connection of stage and hall, performer and listener. Audiences were to be loved, not milked. Koroleva held that the essence of estrada is in living for that loving connection with somebody else, in not belonging to or “living for oneself alone.” Surrendering to something other than oneself (i.e., other than the narrowly or selfishly subjective) was not easy, though. Grueling “twenty-four-hour workdays” represented how much modern viewers expected or deserved. The best, most conscionable or virtuous kind of work was therefore steady, hard labour, perhaps to the point

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of excess: Koroleva consequently had trouble sleeping and dreamed constantly of being chased by monsters.16 Vladimir Presniakov tried with equal effort to hold onto a precapitalist view of estrada. In the same breath as saying that commercial success constituted a troubling forty per cent of his interest in a new song, he would also – as noted earlier – admit to long-standing dreams of singing a duet with the so-called “plenipotentiary” of Soviet civic spirit, Iosif Kobzon.17 (Today a very wealthy businessman and savvy politician, under Brezhnev Kobzon was the singer of patriotic and ideologically committed songs.) Equally keen to champion non-pecuniary notions, Volodia Levkin of Na-Na also confessed to the importance of big profits, but only insomuch as they were the lifeblood of new songs and future shows: money would then be funding an activity that constituted an end loftier than itself.18 No less troubled by her swelling wallet, Vaikule on occasion took the more radical step of consulting with priests about the potentially sinful nature of her stage shows. The clergy told her that there would be no problem if she used her shows to create good.19 She went to these lengths to calm fears that money on the estrada could easily lead to people “selling their souls.” Money and fame were disconcerting, but how exactly did matters progress from no discernible salary to working for amounts so large that they disconcerted even their earner?

oh, no! money! where did you get it? Они тревожат покой и сон, Пусть это шелест, пусть это звон, Но это деньги, все это деньги. [It spoils your calm and dreams. It might rustle or it might jingle, but it’s all money, money.]20

The first reference to money in the articles of this period was – perhaps not surprisingly – a criticism of poor income rather than talk of big profits. Vaikule stated in 1988 that she got nineteen Soviet rubles, irrespective of how much she worked. Money could not, therefore, hope to reflect or compensate for the “exertion and loss of health” that resulted even from one concert.21 The following year Dmitrii Malikov also dismissed the idea of profit when he explained that earnings were pathetically low in comparison with studio expenses, which ran from 90 to 190 rubles per hour of studio time. Each song took thirteen to sixteen hours to record and therefore cost

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approximately 3,000 rubles. In the West, he claimed, a studio cost from $100 to $500 per minute.22 By 1990, Presniakov, among others, had begun to speak of improved earnings: 500 to 600 rubles for a concert. A truly popular star might hope (in a large auditorium) to receive 3,000 to 5,000. All the same, though, because Presniakov himself employed about fifty people for each show at this time, being profitable was rather difficult.23 The logic of the situation suggested to the singer that he was therefore working “not for money, but for self-expression.”24 The newspapers were hardly convinced, claiming performers could easily earn a “pile of cash” in 1990, even for a couple of lip-synched songs.25 Whence all this wealth? Vaikule explained how the new earnings differed from official wages proffered by the regional concert organization for which she, like any Soviet performer, worked. She began by recalling days when an artist would get no more than ten rubles and a handful of kopecks for each performance; breakfast next morning in the hotel would cost five rubles. “You can imagine how many concerts I had to give just to buy myself a single microphone … But now [in 1990] the situation is radically different [partly because those official wages have ended]. In the past, money from our shows would simply vanish somewhere [i.e., into the pockets of bureaucrats], but now it comes to me. I can also invite people who have their own sound and lighting to work with us.” Her only complaint concerned copyright, which was very lax; Vaikule was losing a great deal of money on illegal calendars and posters.26 The halting emergence of cooperative and private enterprise at this time, with or without proper legal protection, did potentially mean more profit for all involved. Malikov, for example, now dreamed of owning a Mercedes 230E – just like the one stolen from Allegrova – but he knew perfectly well that an expensive car would both absorb all his savings and attract a dangerous amount of attention.27 He stressed that, although now relatively prosperous, he would still try to “stay true to myself, to my principles and ideals … [for example, my belief] that in essence it’s still possible to educate one’s listener.” The following year those principles started to look shaky when he stated coyly: “I’m not poor. I think that’s the way things should be. I don’t entirely believe artists when they say they get twenty rubles for a performance. Concerts today are a profitable business.” Mercedes were still a little too expensive, though. Despite national success, Filipp Kirkorov, for example, was only able to afford a cheap Opel in 1991, driven back from Germany after a tour.28 These initial paragraphs suggest that even during the final years of the Soviet Union, “market pressures were [gradually] dictating everything,”

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as Tat’iana Ovsienko noted.29 Bulanova was constantly charmed into various “Mercedes and Cadillacs” by potential sponsors, all inviting her to join ensembles formed of strangers or session musicians in the hope of making a quick buck.30 In this kind of environment not only Malikov’s “principles” but also the entire Soviet worldview was under great pressure. Presniakov began to question the old ethic of Soviet estrada, making fun of those who claimed (in time-honoured fashion) that concerts are back-breaking work, while (as documented earlier) Malikov admitted that market pressures would soon force him to make a choice between traditionally serious (unprofitable) genres and light (lucrative) ones.31 Ideals stood face to face with the wheeler-dealers. During this extended face-off, while old attitudes towards money wavered, some skilful people (such as Vaikule) made a profit, but other, younger singers did not. The stable, albeit modest, Soviet wage-packet was a thing of the past. During 1991 Bulanova, for example, lived entirely on her parents’ generosity while a representative member of her long-haired and then rock-oriented ensemble had a mere twelve rubles in his pocket at the time of one interview. Alena Apina also lamented the absence “of a guaranteed, reliable wage in this insane country. Studio time, filming videos, paying the composer and lyricist for musical arrangements: it all costs big money. The only way of actually making a profit is to tour, but you can’t keep raising ticket prices ad infinitum, and even when you do get the money [from concerts] in your hands you can’t hold onto it. It vanishes straight away.”32 The rising ticket prices were a sign of rampant inflation, not greed; Allegrova noted in 1992 that her savings would have made her a rich woman in 1989, but three years later she was barely scraping by with the same lump sum. Inflation also worsened envy between the genuinely destitute public and those performers who somehow did manage to protect their bank accounts. Vaikule, for example, feared that society had turned against all intelligent, financially astute people.33 As social unrest and protest broke out in various parts of the former Soviet Union, Dolina expressed a comparable fear when she was forced to radically edit her touring schedule. “There are some awful things going on. I simply refuse to travel to a few regions where there’s war – or war nearby. Some people [who live in those places] offer me crazy, absolutely amazing sums of money, but I don’t need it. I’m just not the kind of person who goes running after cash.”34 Denial or dismissal of money’s importance might, perhaps, lessen its unruly social consequences. The discrepancies between rich and poor, safe and unsound, continued, however, and although Apina said in 1993 that her standard of living was now “basically ok,” she still could not afford an apartment,

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despite touring as frequently as any performer in Russia. She did not complain, heartened by the unselfish thought that even in her provincial hometown of Saratov shops were being well supplied, albeit with expensive goods.35 If one were looking zealously for complaints, they could be heard from Ovsienko, Alibasov, and Dolina, since all had their cars stolen.36 In such uncertain times, when money and property came and went with such speed, Kirkorov (who himself complained of hotel thievery) could only shrug his shoulders and quote the wise oracle Leonid Utesov: “Money and talent. Either you’ve got them or you haven’t.”37 Just as money – a representation of labour – and the availability of work itself slipped between one’s fingers, so did faith in the stage / hall relationship because, as hinted above, one sensed sad or ugly jealousy among the public. Vaikule knew that the audience could not afford tickets and records any more; her listeners were impoverished at a time when stage costumes could cost $2,000 to $3,000 each, and a solo concert demanded several outfits for her several personae.38 Effort was replaced by the hope that things would improve. They simply had to. “This is all a natural process. There may even be some harmony in all of this. We have to wait and be patient, to fight for the future. I’m not ready to give in.”39 Presniakov, the author of these words, found his hope dampened when he became the common target of abuse from drunken neighbours and irate drivers at gas stations. This violence resulted from the fact that, in 1993, performers like him could expect to earn about $1,000 per performance, though one journalist reported that Pugacheva could collect as much as $8,000.40 Such sums seemed very large and very unfair to the public. The most dramatic story in the early years of this post-Soviet seesawing of money and resentment, wealth and poverty, was that of Larisa Dolina. Although famous and successful at the start of the nineties with songs by Arkadii Ukupnik, whose frantically insistent, almost ska-like cadences define post-perestroika jollity, she had no sponsor. Her car was stolen, and – at $60,000 – a three-room Moscow apartment remained tantalizingly beyond the means of the singer and her daughter. Her down payment was destroyed by inflation, since the same place had cost only $25,000 a year before. As a result, she lived for three years after the end of the Soviet Union in one room of the hotel Rossiia.41 Only in 1994 was she able to leave her lodgings (after what she then said had been a five-year residence). The rent at the hotel had been an average of three million rubles per month, yet Dolina grumbled very little, as she felt no nostalgia for the workings of Soviet finances, where “you either had to shove a bribe at somebody or sleep with them.”42 As if this were not bad enough, worse was yet to come

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for most performers; Dolina’s experience was only the tip of an iceberg of financial woes. Money not only forced performers to reassess their relationships with listeners; it also obliged songs to broach the rough waters of modern commerce. Music had to become the music business.

work, music, and big business: “we lost a ton of money” Это было как в кино. В голове было одно: Забирай свое! И беги, беги, беги! Уноси свои ноги, ноги, ноги! [It was just like the movies. There was one thought in my head: Grab what’s yours and run! Shift your legs!]43

The tight, uncomfortable fetters imposed on Dolina’s wallet by bureaucratic restraint were also felt keenly by Tat’iana Bulanova. As sales of her albums became respectable – over 100,000 (excluding pirated copies) – she was obliged to hunt for financial aid and often accept less than desirable sources. “We’ve managed [in recent times] to film only one video; that was in a monastery and even then with problems. The sponsors, who had already promised money up front, took one look at it and said: ‘No, the Church can pay you for that.’ Then they gave us half of the agreed sum. The other half we gave to the poor director out of our own pockets: the video cost somewhere between $15,000 and $17,000. It was a nightmare. And then you have to pay for airtime.”44 Here, incidentally, was one of the first overt references to payola, a problem that would grow to huge dimensions. In 1994 Bulanova – despite being a nationally renowned performer – could not afford what television stations demanded to promote or even film a song on typically glassy, reflective sets that emphasized the pageantry of (expensive) lasers.45 Corruption and dishonest bureaucrats meant that the relationship of work to processes of self-determination was obscure by the midnineties. What with inflation and the shock of sudden substantial expenses, Apina went as far as saying: “We can all be rich today – and bankrupt tomorrow.”46 The Soviet, ideal significance of enterprise was badly bruised, but it still existed, as evident from a hypothetical question put to Anzhelika Varum: q: If, Anzhelika, a million dollars suddenly dropped out of the sky, what would you spend it on?

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four p redicaments a: Boring things. I’d buy some good stage equipment, film a few videos and the rest I’d invest in other aspects of the business. I’d hire the best make-up artists, hairdressers and choreographers. If I had anything left, I’d get involved in charity work. Sadly I had some unpleasant experience in that area. I gave some money to an orphanage in Lviv, so that they could buy food and clothes. When I actually went back there later, it was clear that my money never made it to the children … Acts of charity have to be thought through on all levels; you need to follow them through to their conclusion. [If it were ever possible,] I wouldn’t spare any money on that kind of activity.47

The situation did not improve as accusations of profiteering sounded ever louder, now frequently directed at promotional organizations. Soon promoters, more often than the artists, were blamed for the expensive tickets to Kirkorov’s and Orbakaite’s shows; 48 Leonid Agutin himself complained of the endless empty promises from publicity agents to curb such problems.49 Estrada was big business, with all the teeshirts, candy, ballpoint pens, umbrellas, aftershave, and even building materials that advertised Na-Na, for example.50 As the commercial side of estrada grew and left its audience behind, Kirkorov was asked an awkward question for touring in an airplane decorated with his own face – especially given his penchant for an imperial aesthetic: “Do you feel comfortable living so well, when millions of us live so poorly?” He parried with the claim, “I actually live an impoverished existence. People [often] find another person’s beautiful life interesting. They want something that appeals to them, like a fairy tale. When we read fairy tales, we don’t think about whether they’re mocking the population. When we watch Hollywood films, we don’t think they’re showing us how rich folks live, while we’re in poverty.” But then he sounded a contradictory note: “How am I worse than Western stars? Why must I hide what I can allow myself?”51 In order to escape both inflation and pointed questions about liquid assets, in 1994 Laima Vaikule opened a salon in Riga as an investment.52 Izvestiia happily reported (doubtful) rumours of the salon costing a million dollars to establish.53 The property was an old hairdresser’s salon in which she had intended to create a recording studio, thereby gaining some creative independence. However, post-Soviet regulations were introduced in Latvia to protect the traditional appearance of the capital; they forbade altering the frontage or nature of established downtown businesses. Having bought the salon, Vaikule was unexpectedly obliged to continue running it.54 The Russian magazine Ogonek published an article from its “foreign” correspondent in Latvia about the very expensive American products and services that might recoup the awful operating costs.55

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Two years later, Igor’ Nikolaev was asked whether he had tried any similar ventures outside of music, since the trend was continuing, almost always funded by excess profits. Wary about doing business in the Russia of 1996, he insisted that he would stick to music alone, expressing grave doubts about the legality of many “star” enterprises: they might actually be designed for money laundering.56 Money had to be moved fast to hide it from bandits, banks, and jealous audiences. After Dolina’s hotel adventure, the biggest victims of this fastmoving instability were Alla Pugacheva and her husband, who lost “a ton of money” in 1996 to a pyramid scheme known as Vlastilina (Matriarch); the woman at its peak was not imprisoned until the summer of 1999. In this case, toil became nothing more than a means of regaining lost money: “Alla and I had to work like we’d never done before in our lives to return a seven-figure sum. In dollars.”57 Business was now killing the music business. While Vaikule found that her salon kept sucking up money, that she needed to spend not one, but four(!) million dollars on its development, Kirkorov had another, equally contemporary, problem to confront: taxes.58 Together with other estrada stars, he met with the head of the nation’s tax system, Aleksandr Pochinok, to complain about the undue and unkind scrutiny paid to show business earnings. The tax office had greatly doubted that Kirkorov’s earnings for 1996 were as low as his declared ten million rubles; the performer retorted that his expenses were, in fact, often considerably greater. In an elegant assessment of the way in which estrada has come to meet these new complications, he announced that the supremely dignified Soviet star Iosif Kobzon “ended his career with these problems. My career, on the other hand, is beginning with them.”59 I’m quite offended [by all this governmental scrutiny]. Some people quickly count up how much money Filipp Kirkorov earned, but nobody’s interested in how much money he invested in order to create a real show. I hope that the recent meeting of estrada’s leading lights with the head of the Internal Revenue Office, Mr. Pochinok, will have an impact. I hope that some sane legislation will be introduced with regard to performing artists. Nobody is against taxes. The government of any country will calculate your income, but – you’ll excuse me here – they’ll assess your expenses, too. An American artist can present a receipt for anything, even for a restaurant dinner, and that’s deducted from his taxes. In this country I can’t present checks. I can’t even present estimates for a Valentin Iudashkin outfit I use for making a video or television promotion.60

The most remarkable tale relating to potential income (as opposed to loss or taxes) at any time since perestroika belonged to Tat’iana

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Bulanova. In 1996 she released the fine cross-cultural album Moe russkoe serdtse (My Russian Heart) which combined dance beats from Mediterranean dance floors with Slavic ethnicity and even the retrolilt of a clarinet in a respectful nod to estrada’s jazzy heritage. She undertook four days of promotional concerts in October, which brought in 800 million rubles ($147,000 at the time). Rental of the Moscow Estrada Theatre, light, sound, security, dancers, film crew, musicians, and so forth came to $140,000. The resulting profit was not enough to satisfy both artiste and promoter, so arguments ensued. At that time Bulanova usually received $3,000 for a nightclub performance, but now she felt she deserved $5,000 for each show, or $20,000 in total. Since the money was not available, according to the promoter, more persuasive methods were needed. The newspaper Kommersant-Daily claimed that Bulanova called in the Mafia. Matters were quickly, albeit loudly, settled.61 Mafia involvement has grown in Russian estrada with each and every year: men in Armani suits and shoulder holsters are used to “control” the chaos of modern business. What about the other, equally threatening end of that social scale – the impoverished and disgruntled audience?

the unruly audience: in the first row i saw a very drunk man Она звонит по телефону и молчит И трубку вешает, едва Меня услышит. [She keeps ringing me but says nothing. She hangs up the second she hears my voice.]62

The disorderly situation after Bulanova’s concert series had a certain counterpart in the way the Russian audience conducted itself. Throughout the late eighties and nineties, performers told tales of poorly behaved fans. The first reference encountered after 1982 is in an interview with Dolina. She complained of stupid phone calls from admirers who were perhaps “not from the highest social circles.”63 The situation was obviously fueled over the years by newspapers that were not from the highest journalistic circles, a problem of public intrusion via telephones or cameras that performers preferred not to discuss until it exploded in the nineties. In 1990 Presniakov’s father fired an opening salvo at journalists who “poke around in your private life” and cultivate a dubious type of audience interest. “It’s unavoidable, it’s the reverse side of popularity

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… but there’s a limit we shouldn’t overstep. We don’t always know how to behave and go – pretty often – to extremes.”64 Performers were shocked by the extreme attention of younger fans and their thoroughly modern behaviour. Dmitrii Malikov had a choice word or two for them early on: I think that female fans waste their valuable time by keeping watch at my apartment. The girls see me for the briefest of seconds in the early morning or late evening. In anticipation of that meeting they spend long hours aimlessly. Since they have nothing to do, they mess up the walls of the entrance to my building with all kinds of slogans. Because of all that I sometimes have to scrub off their artwork myself. One of those girls called my mother the day before I came back to Moscow from Yerevan and said that I had been killed in a car crash. You can imagine how much a message like that hurt my relatives and friends. All of this forces me to avoid talking to the girls and not to answer their frequent letters. Let them think that it’s conceit on my part or star fever. I’m sure that contact with viewers during my concerts more than makes up for any unanswered correspondence.65

The validation here of the stage / hall dialog over any other form of contact between performer and audience is straight out of Soviet interviews; it expresses Malikov’s hope that decent, old-fashioned behaviour might prevail. Presniakov expressed the same hope after he gave a concert in Eupatoria in the Crimea, left the premises, and got in his car. Fans en masse surrounded the vehicle, picked it up, and began walking around!66 Journalists attributed these problems, not to the audience, but to the charm of Malikov, Presniakov, et al. They represented a completely novel, late-Soviet generation of singers, all much younger than their predecessors, who had on average attained officially recognized fame at the (apparently less sexy) age of thirtyfive or forty.67 The tense competition between these generations of journalists, performers, and fans was quite plainly manifested by the mid-nineties in remarks such as Vaikule’s “I don’t give a damn what some fifteen-year old thinks!” 68 Despite the occasional gripe, as more youthful performers increasingly became the norm on the estrada after 1991, serious problems with fans were actually relatively rarely reported:69 “What upsets me is discourtesy, rudeness, silliness and vulgarity … But I won’t talk about specific examples.”70 Of greater frequency and interest was talk of the steps performers took in case of audience trouble. Perhaps the most intriguing example of such insurance was Dolina. Tired of “hooligans” in the deep provinces, she turned to a personal security company. The employees were so pleasant that other business relations soon developed

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and the firm became her sponsor, covering the cost of both an album and a video; Dolina then advertised the company herself on a series of posters as a return favour.71 Vaikule also told a rare provincial horror story of the type that led Dolina to seek help from her own audience. Androgynous cabaret chic did not fare well on collective farms. Once, during a concert in rustic Belorechensk (near Krasnodar), the lights were suddenly turned on in the hall. “In the first row I saw the face of a man who was absolutely dead drunk, surrounded by clear signs [on the floor] that he was certainly ‘under the weather.’ I was terrified: for whom and why am I doing this? Does anybody actually need my work? I felt really awful … But then I went back to Riga and it all passed.”72 What also passed, sadly, were Vaikule’s high expectations for audience behaviour, together with her schooling in the notions of sentimental education. In the same view, consider the following comments by Volodia Asimov of Na-Na, whose own faith in his listeners wavered from time to time. Sure, when the fans express their devotion it can sometimes drive you crazy. Some girls almost torched our studio; they threw a burning newspaper into a ventilation pipe. They didn’t mean any harm, of course, they just wanted to smoke us out onto the street and have a chat! And then there are all those nighttime phone calls … I won’t deny that I’ve sometimes sworn down the phone at the callers. They usually apologize, but recently they’ve started to get a little pushier. On the other hand, though, the fact that we have female fans is great. We see them every day at the entrance to our building. We say hello and talk the way good friends might. Sometimes, when they aren’t waiting in their usual spot, you feel as if something’s missing. It’s not clear where these girls get their information from, but they always know where and when Na-Na are going before we do! As far as the letters I get are concerned, most of those girls are interested not in my music but my private life. They declare their love or tell me about their problems. They should probably save their feelings for some guy who’s a little closer to hand, but they want to love the soloist of a popular group. How can I dissuade them? And should I even do so? I have the opportunity to teach them about life, but not the right … I won’t write to them with letters full of phrases like “Dear Girls! Don’t waste your energy on me! Take a look around and you’ll see hundreds of guys just like me.” Those kinds of appeals just don’t help. And, by the way, not all girls love us that much! Some hate the group and send us letters absolutely brimming over with hostility!73

Here, Asimov went beyond simply acknowledging poor audience behaviour to accepting it in a broader framework, as a process of positive and negative responses that he may have instigated but did

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not (and could not) control.74 If the stage / hall dialog informing the linear seeking of Soviet estrada was (perhaps even ideally) dissolving into a process of unruly consequences – of the performer’s personality as a shifting event of audience meanings imposed upon him – then what happened to the rule-bound, linear vectors of Soviet biography? What happened to the straight and narrow, along which “seeking” was conducted? Did a singer’s biography matter any more? Did it matter amidst disorder whence they came, where they were educated or worked, together with all the other mileposts that Soviet journalists tirelessly used to mark an artist’s proper provenance and path? Surely cash is not the end of the story. If it is, not everybody is happy.

biography and the “orphan song” as new kinds of story Это мой, видно, грех, Папы есть не у всех. Спи, мой мальчик маленький, Спи, мой сын. Я уже не плачу, прошло. [It seems to be my fault. Not everybody has a father. Sleep, my little one. Sleep, my son. I don’t cry any more; it’s all passed now.]75

In the telling or singing of private biographies, one passing phenomenon served to show in a striking fashion how much things had changed since the Thaw or Stagnation. It went by the journalistic, faintly ironic name of “orphan anguish” (sirotskii nadryv), and described the metaphorical orphaned state of an individual left on the periphery of events moving far beyond his or her control: “You can’t push against fate, so all you do is sigh and shed a tear.”76 The songs employing this device – according to the national newspaper Argumenty i fakty – arose in times of upheaval such as the Revolution, the tough years that followed it, or the aftermath of each World War. The austere economic climate of the early nineties was tough enough to bring back the orphan song, especially when its audience felt totally surpassed by those who – as the paper put it – smoked costly Marlboro Lights, sipped foreign beer, and snacked on shrimps. Bulanova, the inheritor of Pugacheva’s ispoved’ ballads, was also the primary practitioner of the orphan aesthetic, which songs often express in a manner reminiscent of “gypsy” romances. Melancholic musings on life’s cruelty begin softly, often to a piano or lone acoustic

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guitar, growing in pathos and volume (budget permitting) to a closing wave of impassioned, decidedly non-bohemian strings. In a 1994 interview, Bulanova said she was trying actively to cultivate the style, but objected to its name. “I don’t think that I sing ‘orphan’ songs; for me they’re nothing more than songs of considerable profundity. When I sing, all I do is recall some of the sadder episodes in my life. Perhaps that’s why they turn out to be so soulful?”77 We have already seen how the many masks of staged characters were downplayed and discussed as mere character traits; here social metaphors were being scaled back to a private, biographical dimension. The private song absorbs and embodies the social sadness. Alena Apina was labeled in 1994 as another champion of the sirotskaia song, which she also discussed in terms of autobiographical references.78 “In my childhood I had almost no girlfriends, it just never worked out. I’d run for days on end with the boys and was considered the courtyard bandit. I played soldiers and, by the way, was always on ‘our’ side, in other words the attacking team. But that was outside on the street. At home, within my own four walls I played the piano. Scales, etudes, sonatinas. Beethoven, Tchaikovsky … Music, classical music and nothing else. A closed world. Now, in estrada music, I’m getting back what I lost to that classical childhood.”79 The press saw the orphan song as born of social causes, of grand historical events, but Apina interpreted it as a private, timelessly emotional affair, because even with the reference to victorious soldiers there is nothing specifically Soviet in her picture. Once the linear thinking that created the meaning of that grand history had gone, then, what happened to the minor private tales within it? Was Apina’s rhetoric of private, ahistorical biography something new or something inherited? If the latter, was it inherited together with estrada’s apoliticism? A quick look at how singers ordered tales of their own lives will answer these questions against the backdrop of a disorderly audience. The initial autobiographies of inexperienced post-perestroika singers were constructed in awe of their post-Stalinist templates. It took both courage and effort to match their memoirs and mentors, as Igor’ Nikolaev said in 1987. I was studying in the Institute of Culture, whilst working in the Moscow Regional Philharmonic, something I had to keep secret from the Dean’s office [because working during one’s studies was taboo]. One day the ensemble I played in was asked to perform for Central Soviet television. After the recording we popped into the cafeteria to grab something for the road. Sitting at the table next to ours was Alla Pugacheva, and that’s how the ‘fateful’ meeting took place. I liked Pugacheva even then, both as a singer and an actress, but

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performers’ untutored upbringing it was the first time I’d seen her so close. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Suddenly – and I don’t to this day know how I plucked up the courage – I got up, went over to Pugacheva and asked her, bowing gallantly: “You don’t need any musicians for your ensemble, do you?” “Yes I do,” she said. “What do you play?” “That depends on what you need!” Alla laughed and set up an audition for the next day. I tried so hard, with all my might to please everybody. I thought I played well beneath my ability, but they still took me. They could probably sense that I really wanted to work.80

This story is typical of narrative tendencies during perestroika and even afterwards in that the directness of biography was no longer a Soviet enterprise but a tale open to chance, to the intrusion of unexpected outside influences. The interference of coincidence and accident is a major force in the orphan song; it cuts the individual adrift from the sanguine social narrative. Here is another moment from Nikolaev’s youth: Even in my earliest years [on Sakhalin] music had completely won me over. I studied the violin in the Kholmskaia Children’s Music School. Under the influence of my classmates I took up the guitar. After finishing the eighth grade I got into the South Sakhalin Musical College, in particular its Department of Musical Theory and Composition. When I finished my first year, a group of your Moscow composers came to South Sakhalin, among them Ian Frenkel’ and Igor’ Iakushenko. On one occasion I went up to Iakushenko and asked for an autograph; to my surprise the composer struck up a conversation. I had to tell him all about myself and the fact that I was trying to write music. “I’ll tell you what,” he suggested. “Bring your compositions tomorrow to my hotel. Show me what you’re capable of and then I’ll give you an autograph.” All night long in the dorm I carefully wrote out all my music into new notebooks. In the morning we got together and apparently Iakushenko found something or other of value in my work, because he took it away with him to Moscow. Soon I got an invitation to the entrance exams for the Moscow State Conservatory. Now, years later, I often wonder how my fate would have unfolded if Iakushenko hadn’t paid attention to me.81

The role that chance began to play in many stories led to a rather indirect manner of introducing young performers, even within the time frame of late Soviet history.82 The chronological ordering of a lifeline began to wander, dependent more upon the vagaries of retrospection and fate than on the confidence of social soothsaying. Take, for example, the man who today is the nation’s best-selling male artist, Filipp Kirkorov. The information required to “speak about” somebody’s career is accessed in the excerpt below through the peephole

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of a stage, then processed by the heart rather than the head – and is certainly not subject to chronology. We discover something “vague,” “some kind of” information made relative to public debate. What kind of an introduction is this? Even very recently I could only speak about Filipp Kirkorov in rather vague terms. His repertoire troubled me … some kind of symbiosis of Soviet-Bulgarian rock and roll, with an extremely stupid text and sloppy arrangement. It was amusing to see how actively Alla Pugacheva was promoting him, shipping him from one program into another, all of which she directed. It seemed there was something bogus in her love, with more enthusiasm for his youth than any actual musical interest: “Oh, what a good-looker!” Filipp’s appearance is a legendary topic. He pleases some people, while simply frightening others.83

The initial published biographies of Natasha Koroleva were even more deviant and contingent than those of Kirkorov. By the time that Igor’ Nikolaev had written a few successful songs for Pugacheva, he had begun to seek a female singer with whom he could work from scratch and to whom he could tailor his compositions exclusively. Here began Koroleva’s story. Nikolaev, who had no desire to impinge upon the potential or the vagaries of anonymity, initially told that story; he did not want to spoil the carte blanche and author a causal biography. “Where is Natasha from, Igor’?” asked the newspaper Smena. “She’s not from anywhere! Where am I from? What about you? We’re from nowhere as well!” Koroleva added to the confusion by speaking of herself in a manner equally removed from standard Soviet biography. Her story did not move from family to a list of successfully attended institutions. “I was born on 31 May 1973. My parents are musicians and both work as theatrical directors. My elder sister – Rusia – is a singer and starting to become popular in Ukraine.” That is all she offered, except for the magical and more important – intrusion of unexpected outside influence. Vague processes outdo clear ones; potential meanings outdo single (state-sponsored) significances. “Two years ago I went to an estrada competition in Eupatoria and sang children’s songs. I gave a cassette to some woman from Central Television and forgot all about the encounter. Then one day, all of a sudden, I go home and my mother says there’s been a call from Moscow: Igor’ Nikolaev needs a girl who can sing and I’ve been invited to an audition. ‘Let’s go!’ my mother said, but I started to dissuade her. ‘It’s nonsense, a practical joke!’” 84 Is it true? Did it really happen? Maybe not, but the magic means a great deal. If there is one performer who, retrospectively, created an oldfashioned, less magical autobiography replete with little chance and

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much effort, an earnest life story of properly chosen steps in a particular direction, it is Kirkorov.85 He stubbornly fashioned an autobiography longitudinally. His reasons are a matter for psychologists, not philologists, but it is clear that the mileposts of a Soviet educational system remained in place, shaping at least the first few pages of his diary. “In school, I set myself a goal in the eighth grade: to get a gold medal. And I graduated from school with a gold medal. Even in the third and fourth grades I knew that I wanted to be first, to somehow stand out from the other children. I always had ‘A’s, and it’s not because I’m especially studious. I was a well-behaved child, though. I didn’t hang around in the courtyards, didn’t smoke in doorways (I don’t smoke to this day – it doesn’t appeal to me). I don’t drink because I don’t like it. I don’t even get pleasure from champagne. It’s just that I have principles. I always knew what I wanted to get from life.”86 (Let us not forget, though, that this story of mileposts becomes Kirkorov’s own “multi-stage rocket” metaphor, quoted earlier. The “astronaut” of that rocket also said he dreams of floating freely in space. The unidirectional biography will, therefore, twist and turn as the years pass. His tradition and his use of others’ work will grow big enough to invert.) Another strange version of the increasingly outdated biography as goal-oriented effort came with the formation of Na-Na (though its linearity would also bend later). Here the structuring of events was not socialist but capitalist, i.e., the equally linear, unidirectional workings of business. “Our ensemble was put together on a competitive basis. More than one thousand applicants took part and twelve were chosen. After two months of rehearsals six lads were left, those who best stood the test of daily work, those who understood that estrada is constant hard labour. Those who decided despite everything to dedicate themselves to the stage.”87 Work hard, make money, keep going. By way of summary, let us try to combine all these stories, both straight and tortuous, in one biographical sketch. Perhaps the most exciting story of effort, dedication, and chance despite everything is that of Tat’iana Ovsienko and the proto-techno ensemble Mirazh. Her single memory contains all that we have touched upon: I’m from Kiev, from a simple family. My father’s a driver and my mother is a laboratory assistant. I didn’t intend to become a singer when I used to work as an administrator in the Intourist hotel. Mirazh at that time had quite a few members from Kiev and I was a friend of theirs. One day the group’s soloist Natal’ia Vetlitskaia suggested that I become their wardrobe manager. I agreed. For almost a year I worked as a simple costumier. Then Natal’ia left the band and its leader, Andrei Litiagin, suggested looking for another singer. He

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four p redicaments looked for a long time and, apparently out of desperation, suggested trying me. I didn’t even expect the offer. I wasn’t preparing myself for the stage. Back then I used to weigh about sixty-three kilograms. But I took a chance … I started to work. Over a month I lost eighteen kilos. An insane amount of rehearsing started. I was giving three or four concerts a day. It was both interesting and something new. I worked that way in Mirazh for three years (a lifetime!). One day I traveled home to Kiev, on tour to Lugansk. I turned on the tv and the announcer says: ‘Here to sing for you is the new soloist of Mirazh, Katia Boldysheva.’ I went into a state of shock and didn’t come around for quite some while. I called Litiagin and tried to find out what on earth was going on. He said ‘I’m the bandleader and I’ll do what I like. I want you to work with Katia together, as a pair.’ I didn’t agree, of course.88

Once freed from the constraints and blinkered worldview of an overly competitive ensemble, Ovsienko said she felt “wonderful” and looked back on her success. She credited the nature of her biography to two things: the emotional context of being a proud Kievan, and the day she met the man who helped her get out of Mirazh. “We were thinking today about the first time we met. It probably wasn’t by accident.”89 In this swirl of fated or externally determined events, an emotional constant or base is sought for biographical purposes. Alena Apina, a refugee from a similar ensemble, Kombinatsiia, discussed in a game of word and letter association things of importance in her life, past and present. Working (with omissions) from the start of the Cyrillic alphabet, she associated the letter “A” with herself and “B” with bukhgalter (accountant), a reference to the first text she wrote for a recorded song. “D” represented home (dom); “Z” her health (zdorov’e); “I” her leisure “interests”; “M” her mother. None of these associations plots a vector in any particular direction; there is more aimless retrospection, the tendency to find (emotional) meaning in fated elements of youth, the fated and sentimental state of orphanhood.90 As success grew for many singers, so did this kind of emotional nostalgia, laying out an initial path backwards. Irina Allegrova, yet another survivor of a defunct ensemble – Èlektroklub – was by 1993 said to be more popular than either Alla Pugacheva or Sofiia Rotaru.91 In an interview with the periodical Sem’ia (Family), she offered the following story of her work and her parents that concludes with her remarkable popularity: I was born in Rostov but spent my youth in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan. Both my parents worked in the Operetta Theatre there. For some reason people think that actors and all creative people are debauched, that they don’t know family happiness and so forth. My parents aren’t like that, though. My

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performers’ untutored upbringing mother is an opera singer, a soprano, and has a very wide range but she sacrificed her career when she met my father so that she might be near him. They raised me as an only child in a similar spirit and I’m very grateful for that. I moved them to Moscow at the first possible opportunity, closer to me, and now they live in my building a few floors beneath me. Where I am it’s a little crowded, but it means that my parents can at least be near me. You want to ask why I don’t just do a swap with them, so that I can live with my daughter in a three-room apartment? I can’t do that, because I want my parents to be comfortable; my father has asthma and it can be chilly at times in my apartment. I can’t allow myself to move somewhere else and then cross half of Moscow every time I want to see my parents. When I get back after each trip, I gather all my relatives around me, like a hen gathering its chicks. I can rest only when I know how things are with my daughter, or how my parents are doing.92

The importance of emotional roots was very great, partly as a consequence of the orphan song investing the early years of a biography with sirotskii nadryv. As many forms of literal and metaphorical support gradually fell away from both estrada and its audience, it is understandable that this Soviet tradition of sensibility would rise again. Tat’iana Ovsienko offered a fine example of how powerful it could be when she gave a concert in 1994 to a hard-labour prison camp not far from Moscow. She was so scared prior to the event that she did not sleep for two weeks, but was nonetheless won over by the kindness of the “lifers,” especially by their present of an icon.93 Fear became feeling as she worked hard to salvage – at long last – kinship with her audience. This affective retrospective lens transformed more and more aspects of Soviet daily life with each passing biography. Take, for example, Leonid Agutin, who was photographed during the period under discussion here looking wistful in Soviet army uniform, with cropped locks, military issue wool hat, and – come what may – acoustic guitar. For my national service I ended up in the border guards, in Karelia [close to Finland]. After a year of service a military song and dance ensemble came to visit. The artists were very surprised when I started playing them blues. They wondered what on earth I was doing there, in Karelia? I – as was proper – answered that I’m defending my homeland. And so they went away. After two months came an order that I’d been transferred to Leningrad. My commanding officer was so angry that he didn’t give me transport. I traveled three days by foot to the border junction, sleeping at frontier posts … Karelia is an amazingly beautiful, magnificent region. When you stand alone on the watchtower and the pitch-black forest surrounds you like a wall, it’s simply astonishing. I wrote my “Karelian Blues” there.94

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The romantic sensibility evident here recurred elsewhere, for example, in the delightful story that, when in Mexico with his father, the young, innocent Agutin was abducted by swarthy gypsies and only discovered thanks to the diligence of the local police.95 For female performers, domestic metaphors readily took on a stylized yet heartfelt naiveté, as in the work of Natasha Koroleva. She herself stated in 1995 that “naiveté is in greater demand than eroticism, drama or sentiment.”96 The domestic havens of some singers became the subject of “day in the life” articles, and attention turned to things of emotional stability.97 History shrank to biography, which in turn shrank to a single day and the charm of multifaceted normalcy. Dmitrii Malikov’s studio burned down in an accident, but among this and numerous other concerns he still “found time for love and my wife!”98 Kristina Orbakaite said that she lives by her emotions; Tat’iana Ovsienko celebrated the fact that “love conjures many different emotions in us. We feel both joy and pain more keenly, together with suffering and sadness.”99 All this may sound terribly glib or maudlin, but consider a 1996 comment from the man who played a key founding role in this Soviet tendency, Raimonds Pauls: “I am a sentimental person and I’m not afraid of the fact. People often criticize me for writing sentimental melodies. But take a look at all kinds of opinion polls and you’ll see that it’s precisely lyric songs that are the most popular. I think all people are sentimental.”100

conclusion: sentiment became estrada’s tutor amid the many traditions and ideologies following perestroika Муж мой и добрый и сильный, Мне не плохо с ним, Но называю я сына Именем твоим. [My husband is kind and strong. Things aren’t so bad with him, but I call my son by your name.]101

The transformational power of emotion over linear biography, Soviet narratives, and post-communist profiteering was enormous. The power of small-scale, non-linear emotion or sentiment even led, for example, to Leonid Agutin’s mother, rather than a more objective professional author, writing his maudlin biography.102 Familiar, familial

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sentiment turned his and other potentially unidirectional stories of upbringing back on themselves; they became increasingly introspective and retrospective, rather than socially prospective. Sentiment refashioned what had been (the past) and did not claim to say what would be (the future). Consequently the affect created by the singers and traditions of post-Stalinist Soviet estrada turned out be hugely subversive, undermining the vectors of both communist and capitalist, “forward-thinking” enterprises. Performers who promoted sensibility in the nineties could even guarantee that the new but equally “progressive” and nationalist designs of ex-Soviet satellite states were briefly forgotten. Kirkorov, for example, celebrated a festival entitled “Moscow Days” in his Bulgarian homeland. Not only was there no criticism of Muscovite arrogance; the audience in Sofia joyfully “stormed the National Palace of Culture. In a hall designed for four thousand listeners, every seat was taken, while another four thousand people stood in the aisles. Yet another four thousand pushed their noses to the windows and ears to the walls from outside.”103 Despite the initially small-scale or private emphasis of any project based in sentiment, Kirkorov’s Bulgarian show – which was just such an undertaking – burst at the seams. Sentiment thus became the extraordinarily successful director of estrada’s supposedly untutored upbringing after perestroika. It overcame socialist, capitalist, and nationalist narratives, all of which had striven unrelentingly towards one goal. What one did before an audience, therefore, was (and still is) an important element of a post-Soviet philosophical upbringing: kinship between two people was, with considerable difficulty, transformed into kinship between one person on stage and several thousand in the audience. To overcome the spatial greediness of nationalism with sympathy, it is necessary to go to where nationalism is operating. To challenge a given philosophy, it is necessary to offer shows (or be heard and seen) in all the towns or countries where that philosophy enjoys prevalence. What, therefore, has happened to stage practices since perestroika? Given that estrada takes place on stage, how important have the visual aspects of a song become in promoting its sentimental worldview? We appear in this chapter to have reached a solution to the problems of estrada’s post-Soviet life: sentiment. But how does a performer go about showing it? Videos have arisen as a major post-perestroika enterprise, one that on occasion enjoys infinitely better funding than any Soviet project, so how can a big show financed with big money hope to advocate a private, heartfelt enterprise in a convincing fashion? Perhaps staged songs are unavoidably caught in a linear process of

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their own, growing ever bigger, or at the very least increasingly expensive and outrageous. If so, and if sex has long since appeared in playhouses, too, can sentiment possibly hold out in the face of staged eroticism’s additional excess? These and other issues are all part of the fourth and final “Soviet” problem noted by our grumpy journalist in the epigraph to the first chapter: directorial work.

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DIRECTORIAL WORK ON THE STAGE AND ON THE ROAD И там, где света полоска осталась, Словно призрак, возник музыкант. Он был послан мне светом далеким, Сочетаньем таинственныx звезд. Тихим голосом пел невысоким, Мне о том, что меня дальше ждет. [And as if a ghost, there arose a musician where a strip of light remained. He was sent to me on a distant ray of light, a combination of secret stars. He sang to me in a quiet, low voice about what awaits me in the future.]1

introduction: can we show people what sentiment looks like? We have now seen how late or post-Soviet estrada shaped and justified itself in the context of three problems: a fading artistic tradition, a system of ideological rules that suddenly became obsolete, and a heritage of ethical tutelage that seemed unable to deal with modern excesses. Estrada used an affective, sentimental attitude towards tradition, ideology, and its own upbringing in order to keep remembering or re-employing the best, dearest, and most apolitical aspects of the previous seventy years. In doing so, it was actually practising a sentimental worldview created or begun by many Soviet popular performers. It thereby revealed the way in which a big heart can frustrate the designs of any politically driven narrative, either during or after its heyday. But how did estrada go about showing these ideas to people? Thus, the fourth and final problem we shall examine concerns directorial work, the difficulties of staging songs visually on the estrada, on tour, and on videotape. It also has to do with obstacles in presenting a performer’s song aurally. Both matters are clearly financial, and help to show us a little more about how estrada survives in a capitalist environment. Directing and then travelling around Russia with a stage

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show is an expensive business, and budgetary considerations are directly related to aesthetic ones. Making videos is just as complicated, and cutbacks (such as resorting to fanera) or abbreviated scenarios are often unavoidable. Those performers who simply have to use fanera have a very difficult time justifying their decision. Some of those justifications – both good and bad – are examined in this chapter. Once a video is made, it has to be broadcast, an activity that raises another quandary. How do staged songs seen on tour relate to videos or to Soviet musicals seen on television? How can anyone be persuaded to broadcast the footage? Expensive airtime and payola continue to be thorns in the side of the Russian media and must unfortunately be considered integral parts of today’s musical environment. In an attempt to persuade television producers to accept footage (then attract viewer attention), Russian songs have taken tentative steps into the area of dramatized eroticism, both straight and gay. This development raises a new issue: Is eroticism best suited to a live or a filmed performance? Can the stage / hall sentimental relationship, grounded as it once was in a somewhat naïve sense of audience-wide sympathy, bear the strain of private sexuality? If it cannot, profits will decrease. Thus, in a business already cursed with shallow pockets, can artists risk being sexual? Even if they can, perhaps they cannot afford to take staged sexuality on the road. Staging, fanera, video, television, payola, and eroticism remain the most important directorial issues in estrada, irrespective of whether they endure in a socialist or capitalist context.

on the road: can i afford dancers from rio and las vegas? На пароходе – аплодисменты. Гремит оркестр и якорь поднимают. Но то ли размагнитился компас, А то ли Бог забыл про нас! [There’s applause on the steamship. The orchestra’s playing loudly and they’re raising anchor. But either the compass has lost its bearings, or we’ve been forgotten by God!]2

The tentativeness of the footsteps taken across the estrada by early Soviet performers was quickly submerged in the maximalism of the eighties. Even during perestroika, a performer was expected – following the model of Michael Jackson – “to inhabit the stage’s expanse, to employ mimicry and gesture together with all the skills of an actor.”3

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Shows and ideas of how to stage them were both rather grand, and new people called producers appeared, claiming to shoulder the work of making impressive songs for equally impressive, stage-filling spectacles. “The word producer,” complained one magazine, “was milked dry during perestroika. Anybody who was quick off the mark could organize a concert in the workers’ club of [the miniscule village] Ust’-Dubininsk and proudly call himself a producer. But in Western show business a producer is a person with a real gift for synthesizing. He comes up with the idea for a [single] song or record and then deals with the composition of an [entire] album. He looks after its arrangement. He’s the composer or interpreter of another person’s material, the person in charge during studio-time and the creator of an original sound.”4 Confusion over the meaning of “producer” implied a realm of new activities on the estrada in need of development. Yet why was it so important that the word prodiuser mean the same as it does in English? Much of what happened after perestroika in the field of directorial work was impelled by the desire to be as professional as the West. Filipp Kirkorov’s touring show of 1992, for example, had “one goal: to stage a European-quality show that we wouldn’t be ashamed to show in Paris!” Kirkorov hired the well-known, extravagant costumier Valentin Iudashkin, together with equally renowned stage designers and dance companies, lighting, sound systems, “and a producer.”5 Other performers also rushed to reach these dizzy heights as soon as their budget allowed. The newspaper Argumenty i fakty happily announced a few months after the fall of the Soviet Union that Alena Apina had blown all the profits from a recent Russian tour on ten dresses by an equally eminent designer – Zaitsev – and some diamond jewelry. The article then added in passing that “Alena is recording her second solo album”; the necessary connection between profit and expense, public show and private recording was manifesting itself very quickly.6 An example of this connection came with the published announcement of Tat’iana Ovsienko’s concerts after her departure from Mirazh in 1991. Wishing to make a big splash, Ovsienko was nonetheless obliged (in her early years as solo artiste) to work from the provinces towards the centre, from a minor expression (slowly) into major, “stagey” discourse. The way she did so was to fill the stage more than she had done previously and to be more sensual. These spectacles were obviously novel for a still-Soviet audience, as the quote below makes clear. Yet more interesting, as an indicator of stage / audience relations, is the final phrase of the quote, which hints that estrada would tend towards forms of expression that did not intend to wait for audience approval. That audience, however, wasted precious little time in showing what it did like.

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four p redicaments A symbolic christening took place during Tat’iana Ovsienko’s tour in Tambov when she was doused with a jet of foam from a fire extinguisher. That’s how the local fans expressed their own, very positive reaction to the artiste’s first solo program. Her divorce from Mirazh has been finalized. Tania’s place has been taken by another singer – Katia Boldysheva … But what about Tat’iana Ovsienko herself? Will she be successful as a solo artist? Her first concerts don’t seem at all awkward; the public’s joy knows no bounds. There’ll probably be limitless indignation from the guardians of strict morals, who simply cannot forgive Ovsienko her markedly erotic image. But you can’t help wondering what the fuss is about. If you don’t like it, don’t watch!7

Artists could not rely upon the audience to spray the stage with free foam nightly; dramatic concerts cost big money, especially if one wanted to sing live all across an enormous country instead of resorting to fanera. A photograph of this Tambov concert shows its small, provincial dimensions: Ovsienko, a petite woman in her racy layered miniskirts, together with her band almost filled the dark, smoky stage. The atmosphere was more like that of a pub concert than anything worthy of a major nation. Grander, “fully-fledged” shows far from urban civilization were out of the question, though; virtually all performers had to suffer the provinces in silence, where “one or two [stage] lights hung from a couple of ramshackle columns.” When touring entourages came homewards and drew slowly closer to major cities, performers’ complaints relating to the cost of impressive urban shows became legion. They resounded throughout the nineties, perhaps simply to justify high ticket prices to impoverished audiences.8 If one were asked to single out the two artists in this book most committed – come what may – to the notion of a large show, Kirkorov and Na-Na would come to mind. For both, the relationship between the “ideal” show and the utilization of every inch on the estrada was and is significant; perfect shows are both large and expensive. This is especially so when ensembles such as Na-Na resort to constant costume and set changes to reflect their songs: rap, ethnic numbers from the fringes of the Soviet Union, exotic elements from their travels to Thailand, Beatles covers, mawkish classics of previous decades, as so forth. The maximal use of stage space can be a little excessive when an artist tries, for example, to save some money by squeezing both a television broadcast and a live show into one performance, but in essence the grand show still enjoys enormous success in Russia.9 Take, for example, the first few lines from this 1995 review of a Na-Na concert in Moscow: Judging by Bari Alibasov’s face on the first day of Na-Na’s new show, you can tell what this cost him. At the start of the performance there was his very

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directorial work on the stage and on the road necessary – albeit forced – stage-smile. At the end of it all he looked out from the wings and his face showed nothing but utter relief and a sense of fatigued estrangement from all the congratulations he didn’t even have the strength to respond to. You can certainly understand how Alibasov feels. This was a truly colossal [theatrical] machine that he’d cranked up and set in motion. The list of all the people involved, over and above his own lads in Na-Na, is very impressive: Oleg Lundstrem’s orchestra, dancers (and drummers) from both the Congo and Burundi, the singers from Veronika Dudarova’s orchestra, carnival stars from Rio de Janeiro and female dancers from Las Vegas. In all, 150 people! Just getting all those people together is a problem in itself. But then you have to make sure that the whole show is something cohesive and coherent.10

Even younger stars often set their sights at the same expensive heights: “I want to put together a real spectacle; at the moment I’m rehearsing with a ballet company, musicians and working on the scenery,” said Natasha Koroleva.11 In the same year, 1995, she released a hugely successful children’s song, punctuated by the simple innocence of a flautist’s adornment: “Malen’kaia strana” (“Little Land”). On television, though, she would be accompanied by the Kremlin’s sizable “light” orchestra, and on stage by children in fairy costumes; the video was an extravagant mix of live action and animated animals. None of this was inexpensive. When Anzhelika Varum shifted a similarly childish style to swift, techno rhythms and for a video played a prostitute cruising the streets of a major city, we were told that “her new program is a big show with changes of costume, rhythm and styles.”12 In the happy moments when the financial and organizational difficulties of such extravaganzas were forgotten, junior performers were sometimes able to take a step back and discuss what exactly they were doing: the filling of scenic and geographic space with a process of maximal change. The stage and country were covered with the ideas of the artist, who thus approached an ideal state, one beyond matter and the hard work involved in shaping that matter. Here are the words of Vladimir Presniakov: The only real thing in my life – though you can’t call it a thing – the only time I really feel at home, is neither at a film-shoot nor at a recording session. It’s during live concerts. That’s when I feel like a fish in water or a bird in the sky. I know I’ll be able to swim or fly. You can imagine what a tour’s like! It’s fatigue, happiness and everything you’ve gathered as you move slowly towards your objective. It’s a huge number of different situations and different moods, both good and bad … Why am I telling you all this [about slow movement]? Because I don’t like things that happen quickly. If money or something else comes to you quickly, that can’t be good.13

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Some of the more mature members of our chosen group of performers, such as Laima Vaikule, were also able to lend an aura of oldworld, Soviet dignity to this snowballing process. As shows moved across and packed the stage, as they then moved further still from nation to nation, reference to old ideas frequently connected disparate and novel spaces. Vaikule was thus “a living embodiment of the friendship of peoples.” She connected spaces as she connected people; estrada unified. These calls to dignity, to the unification of spaces rather than to their avaricious conquest, were a direct invocation of Èdita P’ekha’s post-Stalinist work and the emotional philosophies of those like her (Shul’zhenko, German, Kristalinskaia, etc.).14 Even though such affairs of the heart were a woman’s business, to some extent it was – once again – Kirkorov who took this tradition and extended it. He staged a massive show with a musical, choreographic, and technical crew of sixty-eight people (some estimates say eighty), then toured without the aid of sponsors. Like the work of Vaikule, Kirkorov’s shows and his multiple stage personae also brought “friendship” to Russian-speaking areas such as Crimea and Western Ukraine. This was very important at a time when issues of political independence in those areas had led to the jamming of the signal for Russian national television, ort.15 In another, related extension of the Soviet stage ethic, Kirkorov worked very hard on the road. He played concerts lasting three and a half hours. The protracted show was then performed between ten and twenty times per month.16 Tickets for these extravaganzas were extremely expensive, for various reasons.17 When on tour, Kirkorov employed the exclusive services of Sergei Lisovskii, a slender, elegant man who helped to shape national media at the time of Yeltsin’s 1996 successful re-election bid. 18 Another major expenditure (when abroad in such venues as Madison Square Garden) was the ensemble of sixty musicians from Yeltsin’s Presidential Orchestra. Kirkorov also imported a Russian dance company and “piles” of costumes by Iudashkin, such as a denim jacket for $10,000.19 Not surprisingly, he came in for substantial criticism. “The first impression [of his grand show] is that there’s a lot of gloss. The second impression is that it’s way too happy.”20 Kirkorov’s defence was that somebody had to tour this way in Russia and show that “we can do good things here.” What was the bad thing he spent inconceivable effort and millions of dollars on defeating? Fanera. “Of course we could get by with lipsynching and everything would be just fine; the Russian public is rather innocent [or inexperienced: neiskushennyi]. But somebody had to violate that tradition.”21

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fanera, lip-synching, and deceit: nobody expected that! Обмани меня и я поверю, Разбуди полуночным звонком. [Deceive me and I’ll believe you. Awake me with a midnight call.]22

Kirkorov’s comment on fanera, and his related expenses, are significant. Why did he care so much about it? What was so philosophically troubling about lip-synching? In 1990 a leading estrada publication noted that most young performers used fanera to hide their dubious vocal abilities.23 Among established performers it enjoyed little popularity: Vaikule recalled her fury when the speed of one of her recordings was increased during a television show in order to fit a busy schedule – perhaps the most absurd example of fanera’s downside.24 The key objection to the practice was that an artist did not actually sing and therefore played a passive role before his or her audience. If we talk in terms of the traditional stage / hall dialog, then perhaps there is actually little to complain about, since the dialog remained, the original words were sung to the audience, and the artist was physically present (unlike the musicians). There is really only one difference: lip-synching requires less work. It is also cheaper as a consequence. Whenever Kirkorov discussed his touring schedule, he came across as priding himself on independence from sponsors. They did not meddle with his desire to work hard and give the public what it both wanted (a show) and needed (a show). His performances were therefore not only a pleasure but also an education for the “innocent” audience. Yet if the stage / hall dialog was dependent upon sentiment, upon its instructive naiveté, what could Kirkorov hope to add to help his audience become wiser? He worked, and offered the model of an ideal. A sentimental model was to be emulated after the curtain fell. Hence we uncover a familiar stance: estrada’s tradition offered the (difficult) means by which that same tradition could be understood, then evaded, because it exhibited the ethically positive “rules” of change. Fanera, on the other hand, merely emulated work and therefore advocated duplicity and duplication, not metamorphoses born of labour.25 Troubled by the philosophical hypocrisy of fanera, Kirkorov defended himself loudly in 1991 when repeatedly accused by Komsomol’skaia pravda of lip-synching.26 In the course of formulating his defence over several interviews, he said that his primary objection to

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the practice was that “I just don’t deceive people. People here are so tired of imitations: sausage made from starch, milk made from powder, caviar from oil. They want something real, something genuine – at least in art.”27 Others who did indeed resort to the help of recordings, such as Alena Apina, admitted as much but offered a rationale. Apina used them when filming or when the sound equipment was poor, as in provincial concerts. She had few qualms about fanera “minus one,” in other words, singing live over a pre-recorded music track, perhaps with her own backing vocals already in the chorus. “In any case, you have to record the song before you can lip-synch,” she said, defending herself against accusations that fanera means less work. “I can work seven or eight hours back to back like a galley slave, sweating as I sing the same lines two hundred times, just because my intonation didn’t please the composer or my voice didn’t hit the notes it should … So even recording [what will later be fanera] takes a huge effort and a huge amount of money.”28 The matter raised so many hackles that Vladimir Presniakov wondered how Tat’iana Ovsienko, embroiled in Mirazh’s scandalous use of lip-synching, could even call herself a singer. He also accused other musicians of twanging a few strings at the start of a concert to prove the performance was “live,” then surreptitiously turning on tapes to which singers mimed and musicians posed.29 As the moral high ground remained disputed, the Voice of Russia, Larisa Dolina, interjected a little common sense and defined three situations in which lipsynching would probably be unavoidable: television shows, concerts with several artists on the bill (since there was no time to change instruments), and performances in the “deep provinces, with their antediluvian amplifiers.”30 By 1994, younger performers had a very hard time justifying lipsynching, because of its poor relationship to the work ethic. Nevertheless, Anzhelika Varum took an interesting tack and advocated fanera minus one as a way of “feeling a lot more comfortable, making less mistakes” and therefore, paradoxically, working harder.31 Tat’iana Bulanova estimated in the same year that, by operating in this shrewd manner, she and her ensemble were working “sixty per cent live.”32 The practice refused to exit the stage, in 1995 leading a peeved Leonid Agutin – who relies almost entirely on Latin acoustic instruments – to claim that “it takes no great effort” to be a singer if one is good-looking, well financed, and willing to lip-synch.33 Kirkorov continued to adopt a noble pose, maintaining that, as his work evolved, one constant remained: his commitment to live sound.34 Apina finally followed suit, left her tapes at home, and

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participated in a festival of exclusively live performances: “Nobody expected that!”35 What she gained by singing live was a clean conscience – a (historically) Soviet inheritance that with its emotional emphasis sought the essence of social relations in two hearts: singer and listener. That essence did not contradict communism; rather, it aimed to posit something good at the heart of human relations in a country with a communist political structure. If those hearts connected, they were free of deceit. Further to this matter are the following quotes from Kirkorov and Bari Alibasov. The two men did not agree on the issue of fanera, but they still reached the same conclusion: estrada must not deceive its listener; it must not dupe his or her “heart and conscience.” q: You, Filipp, are probably the only singer who performs exclusively live. You sang for two hours without leaving the stage and it was all without fanera! a: To do it any other way would be dishonest. If a lot of people trail behind me wherever I go, if people come to my concerts, if people put their trust in me, then I can’t deceive them. Believe me, there are still some of us who have a heart and a conscience.36 *** alibasov: My group Na-Na doesn’t lip-synch. What I really dislike is not so much lip-synching per se (I don’t care how somebody expresses himself on stage, as long as it’s done with talent); what I dislike is deceit. The viewer should know what he’s being fed. You mustn’t hoodwink people. Consequently concerts should be advertised on posters that say whether the event is lipsynched or live. Moreover, the quality today of many sound-systems means that lip-synched concerts are often better than live ones. I think it’s wrong when several people start deciding what the public can or cannot listen to. To give you an example, I’d go to a performance by Luciano Pavarotti whether he was singing live or lip-synching. I’d do it just to see the guy.37

Deceit and theatricality were therefore very often close to one another. The theatrical or “staged” song that had been an integral part of estrada for at least forty years welcomed the opportunity to develop itself on television. But what was the difference between the deceit of effortless fanera and the virtual, visual games of television? Did estrada admit the existence of any problems in this context, or did it calmly nurture a relationship with the work ethic and directorial style of the small screen?

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video versus the stage: “helicopters, car chases, and so on” Сяду в первый ряд. Как всегда Я пришла одна, Чтобы пить до дна Обман твой. [I sit in the first row and, as always, I’ve come alone to drink my fill of your deceit.]38

During perestroika everybody was discussing the visual aspects of song. In a 1987 interview, Igor’ Nikolaev expressed his desire to work in film, since he would thereby gain experience as both screenwriter and director. In the same year Dolina claimed that estrada was becoming “increasingly visual,” while Presniakov contended that it needed big shows or “spectacles,” and Vaikule was praised for maintaining the Soviet tradition of the “visual song” (zrimaia pesnia).39 This tradition of the staged, visual song had in post-Stalinist estrada led to many movies: as songs became more “observable,” they grew naturally into the extended framework of a feature film. As international contacts and financial opportunities also grew after the eighties, the visual aspects of estrada gained in importance, whether on celluloid as movies and videos or on stage as increasingly spectacular shows. Nikolaev’s desire to direct and produce was a natural consequence of this tendency, but the path from aural to visual was neither fast nor easy. In 1989 Dolina saw her relationship with television as respectful yet standoffish (na ‘Vy’), since her own showy songs were often inexplicably cut from variety broadcasts. Perhaps the key reason for such wariness was that television added an intermediary to the stage / hall dialog: a song leaves a performer’s lips, yet it may be interrupted and interfered with before it meets the listener. Nikolaev defined this problem concisely in a discussion of early editorial intrusion on television. “I’ve been filmed several times overseas where, obviously, the issue of choosing songs never comes up. People abroad reckon that you’re the artist, that you’ve brought with you what you consider necessary; television overseas has a set role and that’s how to film something. The situation over there, brilliant in its simplicity, is utterly alien to tv here. We’re used to sitting around for a response, to see what people will decide about our work. If something is actually chosen, we’re expected to jump up and down with happiness. I think that in Russia Pugacheva’s the only one who can

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bring a song to a tv studio and say – without fear of contradiction – ‘That’s what we’ll film.’”40 One partial escape from the tenacious authority of Soviet institutions such as centralized television was the art of video. Yet videos cost a lot, so the problem of expensive stage shows resurfaced: money inhibited artistic expression. In 1993, for example, as films became an increasingly common phenomenon, a theatrically modest performer such as Alena Apina explained that she was “in the process of gathering money for a new video. It’ll cost about 2,500,000 rubles.”41 These necessary business expenses made it impossible for her to buy an apartment. The marked simplicity of many videos after perestroika was testament to the shoestring budget of performers balancing domestic and artistic costs. In the interview quoted below, Apina discussed one of the early post-Soviet promos for the song “Letuchii gollandets” (“Flying Dutchman”), typical in its use of syndrums yet lacking in any (prohibitively expensive) instrumentation that might fill up the silence between cadences. The video involves a chance nocturnal meeting at a gas station, followed by a scene of romantic reverie filmed on a Baltic beach. q: Alena, newspapers are always writing about the bohemian life enjoyed by musicians and estrada performers. They seem to forget about endless touring across the empty spaces of our boundless country, between Kzyl-Orda [in Kazakhstan] and Uriupinsk [near Voronezh]. It is hard for you to suffer it all? a: Yes, but it’s ok. There’s no other way we can earn money to live on. You have to give about fifty concerts per month in order to live like a normal human being. You have to pay for studio time and for videos. q: If it’s not a secret, how much did the video for “The Flying Dutchman” cost? a: “The Flying Dutchman” cost very, very little. We shot it in the summer. I don’t know the exact sum, that’s a financial matter, but it certainly wasn’t much at all. I know it was the first time that the director had shot a video with a singer of my standing. It was tough work for him to do and express what he wanted [on that budget]. q: What do you mean by a performer of “my standing”? a: Not the lowest …

42

Since a typical video in 1994 cost “much more than 2,000,000 rubles,” Dolina came to the sorry conclusion that she could not afford

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them; all she hoped for was to remain an “honest” singer.43 For a while Na-Na also filmed no videos, because Bari Alibasov was “sick of directors expressing themselves at my expense.”44 The expense had shot higher still by the following year. The gruff, stout, middle-aged singer Mikhail Shufutinskii, with a bigger audience in American émigré restaurants than in Russia, used those Western connections to establish a domestic record and shoot a video entitled “Marina” for $65,000.45 When younger performers such as Dmitrii Malikov tried to film in Egypt for “roughly the same sum,” their grand designs encountered equally monumental problems. Very few people film videos as pricey as mine; everybody tries to do it on a tiny budget. Our expenses were absolutely huge … [Shufutinskii’s] “Marina” cost a lot due to technical expenses: helicopters, car chases, and so on. We, on the other hand, spent a lot on costumes and dragged our “Bedouins” all the way from Moscow. True, we didn’t do the same with camels, but we dolled them up in fabrics that we’d brought with us. Then we added all the computer graphics. We [the crew of fifteen] bought ourselves a tour to Egypt for a week. The first two days we just looked around until we felt at ease. The thing was, though, that we couldn’t fly out of Moscow for twenty hours. I, thank Heavens, got a flight on the following day and didn’t get caught in that nightmare, but it destroyed the other members of the entourage. We were supposed to film Ilze Liepa, the [Latvian] ballet star. Just imagine; she was already sick when she came to the airport and by the time she’d sat there for another twelve hours, she just broke down. She apologized: “I’d love – with all my heart – to do this, but I just can’t.” We had no choice than to look for another girl, an Egyptian, after we arrived. Despite all of that, though, it turned out well in the end.46

Malikov’s was obviously a theatrical plan; how did the master of all things dramatic, Kirkorov, react to this exorbitance? Although he received an award for best video of the year in 1996, he had grave misgivings about the damage that impressive videos (not stage shows) were doing to both the stage / hall dialog and to audience perceptions of a real personality.47 a: It’s the director’s business to make my videos into hits. I have another goal and that’s to present myself as the kind of person I can be on stage … I want concertgoers to get at those concerts what they see in a video. The same character, the very same image, the same approach to things. If people danced in the video, they should dance on stage. My videos show my reputation as an artist, as it were, so that when everything takes place live – on stage – then success is guaranteed. You’ll see what I mean when you come to my concerts.

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directorial work on the stage and on the road Recently something of a tendency has arisen among directors. They show off to one another, filming any old how … They film on a grand scale and that’s great! But all the same they turn a singer into a screen idol and nothing else. It’s such a shame. q: So you think that a director should, to some degree, be a link or connection between the viewer and the artist? a: Of course! People who’ve got a good voice like [the portly Georgian singer Valerii] Meladze don’t go around making super-duper videos just to show how cool they are. Meladze shows everybody his voice in the video and he shows it on stage, too. There’s no breach between the image (created by the video director) and the real image (the one on stage). That’s the main thing, so that there’s no deceit at the end of the day, no deceiving the viewer who’s sitting in the auditorium. Hence the tendency in the West for video and camera work to be reasonably simple, not overly complicated. That’s the point they’ve reached over there; [Western videos] show how a person sings and looks. That’s all there is to it. There’s nothing especially complicated in those videos, so things can even reach the point where videos [simply] show live concert footage. I use my own videos as an opportunity to show viewers what I can offer from within myself.48

The performer who is “really” on stage is somewhat different from and certainly more palpable than his or her virtual video counterpart. Soviet estrada strove to stress “real” concert presence over recordings; now Kirkorov stressed the actuality of the stage / hall dialog over another form of recording that does not require physical co-presence. To him, concerts matter more than records, tapes, cds, videos, and other dubious simulacra.49 At this point, television raised its head as an intermediary. Television often presented filmed concerts, to Kirkorov’s mind the next best thing to an actual ticket. Yet performers had to actually get on the air, so Nikolaev’s complaints of editorial dictatorships in the late eighties came back to haunt the airwaves of the late nineties – with a slight difference. Whereas politically driven aesthetics were responsible for Nikolaev’s problems, the biggest issue now became something examined later in this chapter: payola. Not only did videos cost a lot; singers had to pay (at times surreptitiously) for their broadcast. One of the most audible complaints about editing came from Tat’iana Bulanova, who was invited to take part in Alla Pugacheva’s nationally broadcast joint concert Rozhdestvenskie vstrechi (Christmas Rendezvous). Perhaps her words, quoted below, indicate a conflict of two generations, the older of whom expected directing to be dictated

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by ideas or ideology while the younger expected it to be controlled by money. Since the majority of directors were from the elder generation but worked with the younger, the sad consequence was that oldstyle authority over national airtime still existed, whether or not artists were willing to pay for it. The whim of an editor mattered as much as his or her wallet. q: I heard that there was an unpleasant incident at the Christmas Rendezvous. a: It was all at the initiative of Igor’ Popov [a well-known Latvian businessman]. He insisted that I take part in the broadcast and as a result Pugacheva included me in the concert without any audition. I arrived right at the beginning of the shoot and worked through to the end. But as soon as I turned up, I could see that something wasn’t right. I ended up in the second day’s shoot with [guitarist Vladimir] Kuz’min and somebody else. Those other performers’ songs were going to be worked on a little more, but mine weren’t. I got the feeling I wouldn’t be shown, despite all of Pugacheva’s promises. Nonetheless, I sat with my family around the tv on January 7th … We weren’t shown, of course … I was hurt to begin with, but now I’ve blown the whole thing off.50

In the competition between songs and censorship there existed degrees of effort or desperation. If the airtime needed to present visual material on television could not be purchased – because it was too expensive – an artist could hope to make that material more “attractive” by increasing elements that he or she perceived to be of maximal appeal to both directors and audiences. The first of these elements was dramatized eroticism, a theme less frequently encountered in Russia than in the West; the sexuality of Russian estrada is much tamer than its equivalent in English-language markets. All the same, it might be convincingly argued that any eroticism was a huge step away from things Soviet and therefore deserves attention as an indicator of change. Nor do we need to insist upon negative commercial change, for very some positive philosophical shifts have been discernible, one of them already encountered in Playboy.

developing a philosophy of well-directed eroticism Как блаженно лежать, как в раю, Утомленной тобой и счастливой И шептать, как молитву свою, Это сладкое слово: Любимый.

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directorial work on the stage and on the road [How divine it is to lie, as if in Heaven, exhausted by you and happy. Then to whisper, as if a prayer of mine, that sweet word: Darling.]51

In April 1992 an article in the journal Èstrada i tsirk (Estrada and Circus) introduced Russian readers to Na-Na’s new work while expressing concern over an indistinct project known only by the phrase “erotic show … [and] it’s not by chance that the name of the dance group [used in that show] is Èrotika, either.” The journalist noted that sex was playing the explicitly political role of a burgeoning freedom.52 Sex and politics were closer still by the end of the year, as the ensemble’s manager, Bari Alibasov, planned to stage a musical. “It’ll be spectacular, incorporating episodes from the times of the Golden Horde and Peter the Great, plus the sexual adventures of Catherine II and scenes from the lives of Bolshevik Cossacks … Naturally, it’s all in an ironic or parodic vein.”53 What exactly was the political role of sex? Nobody was quite sure, especially when rumours of homosexuality surrounded Na-Na, based on the amount of time the attractive young men were spending together. (Alibasov rejected the rumours as childish and typical of what Russians concluded if a couple of men happened “to be slightly better-looking than monkeys.”54) Natasha Koroleva had been just as unsure about the status of sexuality (gay or straight, printed or performed) in estrada when asked about it a few months before. q: Natasha, what role does sexuality play in the forming of an artist’s image? a: Depends on the artist! Sometimes it just doesn’t suit a performer. If some biddy comes out on stage and starts posing as a “sexee wooman,” then sex will just be seen as nothing more than bad taste. If sexuality does suit an artist and he or she has the right kind of charm, then it definitely should be used: it’s a winning card. But if it doesn’t suit you, then it’s not worth trying to make a blonde bombshell out of yourself … I don’t think I’m old enough to do it. 55

By 1994 Volodia Asimov was more aware of how his ensemble employed sensuality. He explained that Na-Na followed the “usual rules of mass culture. That means eroticism is absolutely necessary.”56 Sadly, the political implications of sex were wholly commercial in this point of view. Mass culture was not growing naturally; rather, it was sold to its supposed creator – the masses – by big business as what it should be according to the “usual rules.” Capitalism was operating along Soviet lines, as some women showed on stage by combining

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innocence and sexuality. The radical repression of displays of sexuality on the Soviet stage was once a consequence of politics; now it was the result of commercial dictates. (Be coy, because it’ll keep them guessing. Be naïve, and they’ll come back for more.) To give Koroleva some credit, she would soon reject exhibitions of depravity, as noted earlier. She perceived excess as a dead end, since it was more interesting to play upon a state of becoming, moving in and out of display and concealment. In total, then, the Soviet, capitalist, and metamorphic approaches to estrada remained intermingled. Koroleva could – in a wildly paradoxical fashion – advocate showing her breasts but not her legs. In the interview excerpted here she verbally developed and deepened the implicit visual logic of her Playboy shoot. q: Can we say Natasha Koroleva works without resorting to eroticism? a: [Generally speaking,] yes, but those who can’t live without it can take a look at my video “Podsolnukhi” (“Sunflowers”) [in which Koroleva briefly fondles her breasts]! … The way things are done today is some new performer or other will come out virtually naked, singing about love in a breathy voice. What am I supposed to do? Get in line and also show a leg, a thigh or something else? That’s boring.57

In a similar interaction of profit and play, Bari Alibasov continued in 1995 to deny that the members of Na-Na were gay, claiming that the eroticism of certain photographs was adopted as a deliberate marketing technique or “advertisement.”58 And so the story continued with these young men and Koroleva, albeit in a somewhat restrained manner.59 Not everything was revealed, because a woman’s dramatic significance as Nabokovian demoiselle folded back on itself and evolved. In a strangely socialist manner, sexuality remained coy, and although it pandered to the workings of commerce, it did not surrender completely. Larisa Dolina in 1997 had a fine word or two on the subject. After the initial excitement of post-Soviet eroticism, estrada came to realize its positive philosophical connotations as a means of metamorphosis. The gaze, contact, or dialog of intimacy left something unsaid, unfinished, and was therefore inherently better. A desirable overlap of meanings arose between what was tacit and what might be made manifest. Having more than one meaning (one changing, ludic significance) was laudable. Dolina cast her vote and brought some order to bear: let sentiment direct sexuality. q: Some estrada singers, in order to stress their sensuality on stage, consider it necessary to undress as much as possible.

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directorial work on the stage and on the road a: I think that it’s the other way around. The more that’s covered, the more mysterious things are. I can reveal a little leg, or the shoulders, but no more. Sometimes that can ruin your image. It seems to me that the more a woman is covered by clothes, the more erotic and desirable she is to a man. If everything’s on display, how’s that interesting? I’ve watched the erotic films they show on [the channel] ntv at nighttime. There’s absolutely nothing there that shocks me. Sure, the women are beautiful, they move well with their wonderful gestures and posturing, but then what? There’s nothing in their eyes. When they’re asked, a lot of famous politicians and artists admit that what pleases them most in a woman are the eyes. Remember that: the eyes – not the bosom or legs. The eyes have the strongest appeal; anything else people might say is just hot air. Of course there has to be some eroticism in a woman, but it’s beautiful when that eroticism has something behind it. I look with pleasure at the photos in Playboy. They contain a kind of secret or something. There’s meaning in them, some sort of game in the eyes. But when there’s nothing more than a completely naked body, even a very beautiful one, that doesn’t produce any emotional reaction at all.60

Intimacy – slight or total, ludic or licentious – was a form of “secrets.” If it could be incorporated into the folded, changing worldview of estrada with a heartfelt “game,” everybody was happy. As mentioned above, though, editorial or budgetary considerations often made that impossible, no matter how little a performer may have been wearing. Money was shaping directorial work with a force that often shouted down any other points of view. The “game” had fewer and fewer rules, and they all revolved around paying for airtime. As a result, payola became a problem – if not the norm – for quite a few years, as commercial broadcasting developed. It was perhaps the biggest threat to the future health of estrada’s worldview, and it deserves the final word in our examination of the four post-Soviet problems.

payola: capital is briefly unnerved by bootlegs and the internet Вот беда, господа, Вам без денег никуда! [How sad it is, gents! You’ll get nowhere without money!]61

Payola was common to both television and radio. It resulted from the editorial constraints that Nikolaev bemoaned in 1987, in conjunction with the decades of centralized bureaucracy that led to his complaint.

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The natural evolution of Soviet directorial controls into payola and other related forms of bribery was certainly troubling. Administrators controlled performances and charged steep prices for access to the stage. By 1994, for example, Kirkorov was worried that, although he had not “lowered” himself to paying for airtime, he had certainly become a “money-making machine that ended up in the hands of show-business’ administrative sharks.”62 Those sharks looked remarkably like their Soviet predecessors, as a 1994 review of Tania Bulanova’s unhurried and melancholy album Strannaia vstrecha (Strange Rendezvous) explained. Capitalism and communism at times seemed kindred and equally greedy spirits, which were therefore challenged by lovers of estrada in the same time-tested manner. Tania Bulanova isn’t shown very often on television; they don’t write much about her in the newspapers and magazines. As opposed to most new stars today she was never the season’s “smash hit,” hammered by the press into the heads of young music fans. Somehow Tania Bulanova became popular all on her own. Her songs started to sound from all the market kiosks where bootlegs are made. Those songs entered their listeners’ hearts on a fine ribbon made of magnetic tape. That’s the same way musicians have always earned themselves a little popularity, just to spite the powers that be. Those powers may have changed in Russia but, just as before, they demand that artists acquiesce to them and observe the given rituals. There aren’t State Art Councils any more, but there are musical editors. In essence they don’t care what they broadcast – just as long as you pay them. There’s no censorship, but the steps to airtime are paved with leather wallets. You CAN make it for free. For that you need just one thing: to pluck the delicate strings of the nation’s soul with your songs. Once upon a time Alla Pugacheva managed it. But that was ages ago. Today the person who does it best of all is Tania Bulanova. Strannaia vstrecha is her third album, the result of collaboration with her new composer, I. Dukhovnyi. Yet it’s Bulanova’s individuality here that prevails over everything. In this rendezvous of the singer and her listeners nobody will be left an outsider.63

Bulanova turned a Soviet practice – unsanctioned domestic tape recordings (magnitizdat) – back upon itself and invested it with a new, yet familiar, meaning in a new, yet familiar, setting. An old trick was used to beat an old problem. But the quaint scale of Leningrad bootlegs was ultimately powerless in the face of national television, as explained by Larisa Dolina when she pointed out another hole into which profits vanished. During the Thaw and Stagnation, there was often a creative triad at work around popular songs in Soviet estrada:

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singer, composer, poet. The most famous, without a doubt, was Pugacheva, Pauls, Reznik. By 1994, said Dolina, that traditional threepart structure had not only sprouted additional grasping limbs but also altered its membership to show its new concerns: singer, producer, composer, poet, manager.64 The desire to make and take money was ubiquitous, as Bari Alibasov explained: q: They say that the producer Iurii Aizenshpis once boasted he could make even a deaf-mute into a star in Russia. a: Well, not really, that’s a pretty inane joke. All the same, though, [you remember that] a few years ago we had that wave of very mediocre fanera performers. They’d put together one song – and one song only – which would be promoted on a huge scale. For a year or two those kids cruised around cities and villages, reaping their rewards. Now that’s all over with. Today, without even mentioning other expenses, I can tell you that each showing of a song on tv costs a few thousand dollars. To promote a song you need at least thirty showings … And that’s just to get it known. Getting the singer known is another story altogether. In the West royalties are paid out each time a song is broadcast, be it on the radio or tv. It doesn’t matter if it’s only fifty cents, even five. Perfectly respectable sums will build up over the course of a year. Here in Russia it’s the performer that has to pay for getting his own song on the air. q: Is that the case with Na-Na, too? a: Not any more. People with a name, thank Heavens, are free from those types of payments. Once you’ve broken through into the higher ranks, there’s no longer any extortion. Now, for example, I get phone calls that sound very different: “Come and take part. We really need you.” q: So how’s the pecking order structured in today’s estrada? a: First of all there are performers with a name. There are slightly smaller names. And then there are beginners. Backing those beginners, as a rule, are people with lots of money. They’re usually wives, husbands, and lovers … sometimes – less often – they’re brothers or close friends. The money might come in part from business, from oil, gas or forestry profits. I’ve got a suspicion that some of those ‘investments’ have very shady origins. But without a ton of money you’ll not get anywhere today. A video costs $40,000 and no young singer [working alone] has those resources. q: Bari, it all sounds so sad …

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four p redicaments a: Yes, it does. I feel very sorry for the talented young men and women that don’t have music-loving millionaire sponsors.65

The situation did not improve; in fact, even Alibasov’s assertion that “big names” did not pay for airtime was moot. When asked in 1996 what single problem he would rectify in the world of Russian television, Kirkorov answered: “The commercial aspect, all that buying and selling … You can promote any old dull or incompetent performers on national television [ort and rtr].”66 Irina Allegrova complained in the same year that the quality of estrada on television and radio, dictated by the rules of payola, was enough “to ruin your eyesight and make your ears go limp.”67 In 1995 a musical television channel known as Muztv emerged in twenty-one Russian cities. It was headed, among others, by businessmen who the following summer would run Yeltsin’s successful reelection campaign. Although the company embraced payola with vigour, it asked only $40 for each showing of each song, no matter how famous the artist. The hegemony of Muztv continued virtually unchallenged until September 1998, when mtv Russia was born. At that time a single three-minute slot to play a video on national breakfast television cost $1,000; on a weekend morning music show, also broadcast nationwide, it cost $3,000. mtv aimed to combat such exorbitant fees and swiftly outstripped Muztv’s audience, since, as one newspaper noted, it had “Western investment, access to the company’s [European] archives and recently purchased recordings. It also [had] complete creative carte-blanche.”68 The biggest difference was that mtv Russia accepted no payola, which perhaps was of no enormous financial consequence to the company itself, since even at present it devotes only thirty-five per cent of its airtime to Russianlanguage videos. Given that some countries, such as Brazil, demand of mtv that ninety per cent of songs be in the native language, the Russian company has promised to work towards establishing a fiftyfifty balance. The same imbalance in the year 2000 spawned a serious refashioning of Muztv when the playlists, interviews, and animation of mtv began to show such a Western bias that Muztv adopted a radically pro-domestic stance. Its schedules were reoriented almost exclusively towards Russian artists, a move that no doubt hoped to replicate what had happened in recent years on radio. In the early nineties, when Western music sounded loud, clear, and often from the new radio station Evropa plius, there appeared to be no stopping the deluge of foreign product. By the final third of the decade, though, a powerful nostalgia for Russian music had arisen. A station playing only Russian-

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language estrada, Russkoe radio, overtook Evropa plius and today hosts the nation’s most important music awards. The ongoing need to avoid pan-European or global homogenization and to preserve, celebrate, and use the traditions of estrada is evident. The same need also manifests itself in the attention paid to change and chance within Eastern European countries. For example, Ukrainian artists singing in their native language have been enjoying particular attention and modishness in Russia at the start of the new millennium. As that millennium goes about telling its own linear stories of oneway history, a potentially enormous domain of hope has emerged: the Internet. First, web access has made possible the free (illegal) transfer of sound files across an enormous country, frustrating the desires of big business. In 2000 a few performers also started to use the Internet for distributing their work. Others worked with distant compatriots, with djs they had never met, in order to create re-mixes of familiar songs, thereby guaranteeing their status as objects of change, not static veneration.69

conclusion: staging estrada was a struggle with cost and duplicity Спокойной ночи, господа, спокойной ночи. Ваш день прошел, а ночь колдует и пророчит Ночные сказки, отголоски дней минувших. Спокойной ночи, добрых снов для всех уснувших. [Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight. Your day has passed, but the night works its magic and foretells nocturnal fairy tales, the echoes of days gone by. Goodnight, I wish all of you sleeping pleasant dreams.]70

In examining the linear workings of biography, the previous chapter suggested that estrada managed to find ways of bending that linearity, of getting out of the one-way street that lifelines offered. Here we have looked at the cost of funding the activities that made the biographies. Is there a relationship between the undeviating movement of biography and that of business, inasmuch as both are goal-oriented? Estrada aimed to show the reworking of a sentimental tradition on stage, but in doing so required money from the pockets of the very people it was trying to avoid. When sponsors were found and songs went on the road, shows grew grander and more lucrative, yet estrada performers continued to

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dismiss capital per se in favour of stressing the importance of hard work in defining who they were and what they did. The reason for this continuing exertion was hinted at in their problems with fanera, which was severely criticized for one reason: it was less work. Lip-synching was regarded as easier, a means of shirking labour, and therefore dishonest. To perform but work less was a way of deceiving the audience, of creating and advocating a non-existent personality or philosophy. Pretending to perform, the performer was therefore not a performer. The recent development of visual emphases in estrada – i.e., the growth of video – for analogous reasons also met with a less than ringing endorsement. Similarly attacked for false effort, videos created a personality that was excessively “virtual.” The logical conclusion to draw from such jibes is that the Soviet tradition of live performance was still paramount. An estrada performer said something to his or her audience, and did so more in the flesh than through any another medium, such as film. We can conclude that Russian performers’ physical co-presence with an audience was (and remains) more important than in Western entertainment, for three reasons. First, sentiment is more successfully conveyed in person than through a screen. Second, given the paltry wages and poor vinyl distribution in Soviet society, Soviet singers simply had to tour endlessly to make their songs heard. Even in small towns today people expect estrada tours to roll through. Many Soviet citizens would go to see a singer in the flesh but would not purchase a record. Third, the serious problem of audiovideo piracy (organized on an unnervingly national scale) has led to most performers making as much, if not more, money from touring than from legal record sales. It is sometimes said, for example, that even Pugacheva will have to tour until the end of her days in order to keep pace with the pirates of capitalism. A problematic issue remains: even if estrada emphasized shows more than “virtual” spectacle on celluloid in order to advocate a noncapitalist worldview, it nevertheless appeared to marry work and movement on vectors pointing towards bolder shows and bigger profits. That line of argument has wavered somewhat in light of this chapter’s re-examination of a new, bold, and potentially profitable aspect of estrada’s culture: eroticism. Sex appears to be a materialized, linear notion in its close relationship to growing revenue. Of course sex sells, but there is a way one ought to present it (if one must), because everybody knows perfectly well that it sells, and to acquiesce wholly to either profligacy or profit is bad taste. The way to avoid such lapses is to adopt a ludic stance, as Koroleva has done, moving in and out of eroticism, back and forth from its tendency towards harsh explicitness. Any such games (which at first appeared unruly or disrespectfully

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flippant) must be directed or refereed by sentiment. In this context, estrada shunned big money in favour of a good idea, and validated its existence as something at least partially independent of both cash and the dead end of vulgarity. Ideas such as these can, of course, very easily go wrong in the context of capitalist enterprise. Money wants to move in one direction: to increase. The voracity with which it often seizes the stage / hall dialog is embodied by payola. Unlike eroticism, payola pleases nobody, least of all the performer – unless, perhaps, he or she is blessed with a wealthy sponsor. Its grip on broadcast performances is combatted much like Soviet censorship. Amateur bootleg tapes or mp3s are manufactured beyond the terrain of big business. Illegal or domestic recordings are only a means of entering the fray, of gaining popularity. Established performers despise bootlegging or modern magnitizdat, which can seriously challenge modern business, becoming “piracy” – at which point major stars join with major publishers such as ort to combat it.71 Magnitizdat does, however, briefly defeat payola; it is a fine idea when small, for it frustrates business, but fails when it grows big enough to be business. As stated several times throughout this study, only minor or peripheral states are the domains of change. Bootleg recordings and naïve eroticism are part of a late Soviet tradition that was once used to frustrate the rigid limitations of an ideologically narrow estrada. Today they help to combat the rigid limitations of an ideologically narrow capitalism. These tendencies departed from, then revisited, Soviet custom. The linear workings of an old materialist teleology allowed performers after perestroika to escape them with twists and hairpin turns. The personalities (senses of self) of personalities (stars) were created by these turns, by the events they constituted. The modern problems of Soviet stage direction (touring, expenses, the cost and promotion of videos) were countered with a time-honoured preference for the difficult personal contact of stage and hall. That contact was a major part of multiple processes creating the lichnosti of both performer and audience. Many concerts over many years by many performers in front of a great many people: all this was used and re-used, forged and felt by each singer who today fuses Soviet and post-Soviet experience. The live concert embodied the living, “real” tradition. When asked in 1997 what he values more, a concert, video, or studio recording, Vladimir Presniakov answered: “No doubt about it – a live concert. I’m not a fanera character [fanernyi personazh].” The article’s title was even more emphatic: “Presniakov Won’t Deceive Us – He’s No Lip-Synching Idol.”72

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The process did not stop; traditions were interrupted and repeated to create a constant becoming, a capricious present frustrating the philosophies that, for example, bureaucracy or business decided to foster. The main expression of that linearity today is the recoding of market flows by capital; apparent autonomy is bought with excess capital, yet the same “free” flow is swiftly channeled into various rules, structures, and practices of the marketplace. Estrada challenges the process by dissipating an “autonomous” lichnost’ through a leap into personality as an event. This is not post-Soviet chaos. In fact, it is neither chaotic nor post-Soviet; it is not even post-anything. It is the freedom that capitalism instigates but is scared to admit: capital offers liberty, but then throws up institutionalized spending practices to inhibit it. The real freedom is change to the point where nothing does not change, in a manner reminiscent of Deleuze and Guattari’s discussion of wanton schizophrenia to the point of what they term “haecceities,” completely free, non-stop “relations of movement.” In the same way “a season, a winter, a summer, an hour, a date have a perfect individuality lacking nothing, even though this individuality is different from that of a thing or a subject.” A personality in estrada thus dissipates lichnost’ by saying yes to everything; through this maximum affirmation, lichnost’ is constantly becoming. From the dualism of the Soviet stage / hall dialog a state was born that was between them, neither one nor the other, but simultaneously everything.73 A recent recording by Alla Pugacheva (1998) affirms this affirmation; it is entitled quite simply DA ! (“YES !”). One of Filipp Kirkorov’s largest projects has been the double album Skazhi solntsu: DA ! (Tell the Sun: YES !). Even outside the canon, so to speak, we can see analogous processes – for example, in a similarly titled recording: Solnechnyi gorod (Sun City) by Larisa Chernikova, a slender young woman with long blonde hair and girlish diction who produces endlessly joyful songs in the intermezzo between estrada and high-energy Western pop.74 At the start of the hour-long recording, some imposing orchestral chords sound for thirty seconds as the grand beginning of something evidently selfimportant and protracted. Suddenly a happy and totally unexpected change occurs: a baby’s voice rings out in fits of giggles, and the orchestra cannot go on. The sentimental happiness of Soviet estrada is born yet again for at least three minutes before it says yes! and becomes something else, perhaps something it happily was once before. “Difference is happy. Multiplicity, becoming and chance are adequate objects of joy in themselves. Only joy returns.”75

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EVIDENCE OF TWO SOLUTIONS

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AUDIO: THE SOUND OF MUSIC AND MUTATION You know what? You have to love life! All we ever do is rehearse it, and then it turns out that everything has passed us by. You have to get a grip on yourself before it’s too late and say: “It’s time to live!” And then live. And love this life.1

introduction: soaking up everything and anything This chapter and the next offer some recent evidence from songs and video that solutions do indeed exist to the four post-Soviet predicaments of repertoire, ideology, upbringing, and directorial work. We have seen how performers philosophize, but what do their creative texts and videos sound and look like? The preceding pages have included many descriptions of our singers’ music, but a summary of sorts will be useful, especially in unison with the lyrics offered here. All the texts in this section satisfy three criteria. They are from the repertoires of our chosen performers; they are widely known and have been singled out for special attention by those artists; and all have at some time been printed on promotional material or album covers. It is a common practice in Russia to print the text of one song on a cover, often the title track or a successful single, perhaps as conceptual “key” for the project as a whole. All three types – title tracks, popular singles, and thematic keys – are examined here. Prior to 1991, Soviet sleeve notes often extended beyond biographical information to strange, impressionistic observations of the songs within. When a recording was thought to be of potential foreign interest, these notes also appeared in (horrible) English, a tendency that lasted sporadically into the early nineties. Filipp Kirkorov’s 1992 recording Takoi-siakoi (So-and-So) told listeners that the “handsome and charming singer” is hugely popular in Russia and that his numerous recordings are “prouf [sic] of his success.”2 The banal innocence of such notes would in later years become the object of nostalgic yearning. In 1995, the members of Na-Na defined one of their own recordings in equally ingenuous terms, as “a symbol of our fantastically happy childhood. That was when we soaked up all the genres of forbidden rock and Soviet stuff [sovok], when we started figuring out

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what to do with both the girls in our class and a six-string guitar.” Their recording was born of a lost time, of “sadness at losing the [erstwhile Soviet] ‘Friendship of Peoples.’ It’s an expression of optimism, of hope for common wisdom and decency.”3 Although these thoughts convey an element of political yearning, they do so entirely through sentiment and are more complex than we might expect; they willingly affirm or “soak up” both Soviet estrada and Western rock. Everything is absorbed within the heart, a busy place where Soviet adolescence was both constructed and preserved. In this instance heartfelt, open-armed sentiment is neither goaldirected nor moving down a one-way street; it incorporates whatever it senses and likes, whenever it wants. A performer or listener fills his or her heart – and lets it be filled – all to make himself or herself a result of multiple phenomena. One person affirms (and acquiesces to) a great deal.

malikov’s

FEAR OF FLIGHT

Dmitrii Malikov’s 1997 instrumental album Strakh poleta (Fear of Flight) includes the perfect definition of Na-Na’s acquiescence. The recording is composed of several tracks that emphasize various aspects of Malikov’s musical heritage. Classical flair across the keys of a grand piano shifts to self-deprecating outings in the style of a barrel organ or a rather macabre, frantic “twist” dedicated to Quentin Tarantino. Most of the work, however, is founded upon modern studio wizardry, the intersection of trained technical expertise with a multitude of unexpected extraneous sounds. For example, credit is given on the cover to places where human chatter or laughter was recorded. The album itself begins with a rush of wind that tumbles into and becomes a vast shrilling of bat wings. The deliberate, rather symphonic style of many tracks is layered to construct dramatic denouements in a manner that, as noted earlier, Malikov likened to the work of Peter Gabriel. An analogy, not with Gabriel’s ethnic work of recent years but with his early career in Genesis, would be a fruitful parallel, except for the fact that Malikov includes funkier elements unheard of in conservative, academic British rock of the seventies. The enduring need in much Russian estrada of the early nineties to synthesize horn sections for financial reasons led in some repertoires to wonderfully inventive, rich, and witty uses of brassy bass lines from a complex keyboard, even when real trumpeters became affordable. (Anzhelika Varum’s cheeky sampling of Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster is one fine example.) His ability to marry intricate classical fingering, complicated programmed rhythms, and

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an audaciously rude bass has made Malikov’s boyish delivery a staple in the collections of the most discerning djs. This instrumental project contains much of what the musician has “soaked up” together with the ideas into which he has himself dissolved. The only words in the entire endeavour are printed inside the album cover and convey the philosophy or prism through which Malikov wished his work to be viewed. He speaks of achieving a sense of self through dissipation, a gain through loss. The resulting movement is not specific; it is simply an expression of speed, of losing physicality’s dead weight to gain warmth and cold. This loss of prior frameworks also entails the loss of the vector-like linearity of the past (as memory). The outlines of this state are valid for a split second, not an entire epoch or even a linear lifetime. Everything changes. Quickly.4 Тело становится невесомым. Теплота и холод внутри. Обрывки памяти перед глазами. Воздух дрожит. Свет бьет в лицо, Но оставляет тень, как огонь оставляет пепел. Тень бежит все быстрее и быстрее … Полет – искусство радости. Искусство ли страх? Страх полета. Точное время: 7:03 утра, пятница, 31 декабря 1999 года – утро последнего дня тысячелетия. [The body becomes weightless. Warmth and cold within. Fragments of memory before the eyes. The air trembles. Light beats the face. Yet it leaves a shadow. As a fire leaves ashes. The shadow moves faster and faster … Flight is the art of joy. Is fear an art? The fear of flight. Exact time: 7:03 a.m., Friday 31 December 1999. The morning of the millennium’s last day.]5

There is no first person pronoun here, yet there is a “flight of joy,” a frightening option just before historical time posits its biggest milestone for a thousand years, a flight into personality stripped of all personal references. Can I embrace and affirm both the fear and the speed of “fragments of memory,” only some of which I choose? Malikov depicts that fear with the metaphor of a sun-cast shadow, of a huge, non-material presence (light) paradoxically proving the presence of matter (a human) on Earth: what is not here is greater than what is. Man as mere solar shadow is a figure shipped wholesale from baroque poetry, one of insignificance; his presence on Earth is proven only by his blocking or inhibiting of a divine solar radiance – yet he

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must realize that nullity if he is to comprehend the majesty of the sun. He must shrink in order to grow. Hence the baroque leap of faith is repeated as the willing adoption of nothingness in order to become everything – just in time to outdo linearity on New Year’s Eve 1999.

nikolaev and litsei: deceit, mirrors, and the surrender to nature How free, asks the artist, am I to embrace the fear of leaping out of the first person pronoun? In 1995, Igor’ Nikolaev was unaware of where his own “flying” could be conducted and of how much that movement was even under his control. The positioning of oneself outside of stable coordinates had become daunting. Fear comes from questioning one’s location on a vertical axis, between the sun and Earth, and simultaneously on a horizontal one, between here and there (where one is). In the consideration of one’s insignificance relative to either axis there emerges a frightening “deceit – or illusion – of mirrors.” Отражается солнце в реке, В глазах – облака. А мне бы отгадать, кто синица в руке, Ну а кто, тот журавль в небе. Отражается в окнах закат. Тает розовый свет прощально, Где в толпе твой единственный свет Взгляд отражает – обман зеркальный. [The sun is reflected in the river. Clouds are reflected in eyes. I’d like to know who is the bird in the hand, and who the crane in the sky. The sunset is reflected in the windows. The roseate light fades in its farewell. There remains only an illusion among mirrors, where a gaze reflects your special light in a crowd.]6

The causes of this disorientation are equally disconcerting and are to some degree reflected in Nikolaev’s chosen aesthetic. We have seen in this book that, thanks to an early endorsement from Alla Pugacheva, Nikolaev entered estrada sooner than many of our chosen performers; his initial work also reflected the style of that period, circa perestroika. Grandeur was the order of the day. Some of the famous songs he wrote for Pugacheva, such as “Iceberg,” begin with a few imposing piano chords, chased by the audible rush of an arctic wind in the background. Adopting a pose on stage that matched the musical drama,

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Nikolaev took to standing before chest-high banks of synthesizers, long blond hair flowing; a wave of the arm orchestrated the rolls of timpani towards another grand crescendo. As the stadium-oriented rock of the eighties lasted in some form after Gorbachev’s exit from political life, Nikolaev often merged the anguished whine of a guitar solo with violins in his penchant for the orchestral. To this day, the importance of emotion in Soviet estrada is what continues to give his tales of love’s dignity their majestic dimensions. It is strange, therefore, that his stunningly successful career as author of songs for other performers presents him in a different, much gentler, light. As noted earlier, Nikolaev has championed various chanteuses, such as the younger Irina Allegrova, Natasha Koroleva (whom he later married), and, in 2000, the blind artiste Diana Gurtskaia. In 1995 Nikolaev penned a highly successful song for Koroleva entitled “Zheltye tiul’pany” (“Yellow Tulips”), a symbol of leavetaking: fountains had already dried up and summer ended at a time when the singer was once given yellow tulips. The two departures – of summer and a lover – are caught in another mirror-like illusion of cause and effect. Whether the giver of the flowers is the cause or the effect of seasonal, “natural” results is unclear. Ты уедешь скоро Опустеет шумный город. После нашей ссоры Может прав ты, я не спорю, В том, что разбились мечты Не виноваты цветы. [You’ll leave soon and the noisy town will grow empty. I won’t argue: maybe you’re right. Maybe the flowers aren’t to blame that our dreams were broken after we argued.]7

Here we see a key element of post-Soviet estrada: the sentimental “absorption” of oneself into natural cycles or processes of growth and decay. Koroleva’s early songs from Nikolaev’s pen match this lyrical shift. The forlorn picking of an acoustic guitar replaces the violins; two or three backing singers harmonize in quiet moments when the soundtrack is stripped down to calm, percussive ticking. The orphan aesthetic that fueled some of Koroleva’s early work with Nikolaev changed circa 1997 to a sexier use of guitars in a melange of Latin lovers, castanets, and (in 2001) black leather dresses with the back entirely cut out. Her recent manipulation of youthful eroticism allows her to enjoy a young audience while moving increasingly into

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the headier realm of club-oriented r & b bass lines and hip-hop influences. There were already signs of this more enthusiastic aesthetic in her poppier songs of the mid-nineties, such as her use of suggestive, vaguely s & m outfits in singing a modest tale of lost childhood (“Neuzheli èto ia?” [“Is That Really Me?”]). They were always playfully puerile, though, as in her versions of traditionally tragic Russian folk laments that make loving fun of freckle-faced maidens in the countryside, such as “Muzhichok s garmoshkoi” (“Man with an Accordion”). This type of song contains more love for rustic simplicity than any philosophical discussion of nature’s cyclical movement. In Litsei’s hugely popular “Osen’” (“Autumn”) of 1996, however, the questions that define Nikolaev’s illusions are addressed directly to natural processes. The singers speak to nature. These cycles do not represent the eternal return of something analogous (the same summer, an identical spring); rather, they embody change. The supposed permanence of linear development (here, of a relationship and unending sadness) is undermined by something natural, impersonal, endlessly mutable.8 Свет твоего окна Для меня погас, Стало вдруг темно: И стало все равно, Есть он или нет, Тот волшебный свет. Свет твоего окна, Свет моей любви, Боль моей любви. Ты отпусти меня, Ты отпусти меня И больше не зови, не зови, не зови … Осень, осень Лес оcтыл и листья сбросил, И лихой Ветер гонит их за мной … Осень, осень, Ну давай у листьев спросим, Где он май, вечный май. Свет твоего окна, Был он или нет: И выпал первый снег … Снег – это же вода, Растает и уйдет, Как моя беда, Раз и навсегда.

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audio: the sound of music and mutation [The light from your window has gone out for me. Suddenly it has become dark. It’s now all the same to me whether that magical light exists or not: the light from your window; the light of my love, the pain of my love. Release me, release me and call no more. Autumn. The forest has grown cold and thrown down its leaves. The evil wind is driving them after me. Autumn. Let’s ask the leaves where my eternal May has gone. Was the light from your window there or not? The first snow has fallen. Snow is nothing more than water. It’ll melt and flow away, just like my sadness, once and for all.]9

If we look at one of Litsei’s recent recordings, Nebo (Sky) (1999), it is clear that the empyrean into which Malikov and Nikolaev wished to fly is akin to the seasons and the forest of “Osen’.” Nebo largely continues the style that marks both “Osen’ ” and the band’s first few albums: vigorous strumming of three acoustic guitars by the three women in unison. It adds a folky, spontaneous air to the jangling electric guitars, snare drum, and hi-hat of the modest backing band. The women sing their own lead and backing vocals, once again evoking the self-sufficiency of buskers, even in an increasingly synthesized art form. Elder dignitaries of Soviet estrada, such as Lev Leshchenko, have often praised Litsei for preserving songs in the face of whatever synthesized nonsense everybody else is performing on the small stage today. Nebo stripped instrumentation down to simplicity unheard of among modern, top-flight ensembles, bringing the acoustic elements even more to the fore. The band now dressed in sneakers and white teeshirts; again, their attire may have evinced increased opposition to the general musical context. The name of the album’s title track epitomized the clarity towards which the band strove, with its invocation of a large, unencumbered space, one of potential movement and change, opposed to the confines of wholly material existence. Paradoxically, matter and earthbound existence in this framework are not the domain of solidity, unity, or permanence; rather, they represent “woes and leave-taking.” Only in the movement of clouds or birds does subjectivity cohere. Wholeness occurs in the surrender to an amorphous, immaterial space. Кто-то скажет: Оглянись, Правит здесь земная жизнь – Просто красит все вокруг Цветом бед и разлук. А высоко – и светло и легко, А далеко – мне светло и легко, А высоко … где небо … [Somebody will say: Look around. Earthbound life rules here. It colours everything around with the hues of woe and leave-taking. But up on high

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evidence of two solutions things are bright and easy. But far away I feel joyous and light. But up on high … Where the sky is …] 10

dolina, agutin, and bulanova: is surrender physical or not? It would, of course, be easy to suggest that these “surrenders” could be seen in sexual terms. Indeed, that is sometimes the case, albeit rarely. Larisa Dolina, for example, made the connection on a 1995 recording entitled Dólina v dolíne strastei (Dolina in the Valley of Passion). (The title is a play on the position of stress in her surname: Dolína strasti.) She sings of the “fear of flying” (as it were) in a sensual, tangible context. She is frightened, yet happy to make the leap into change, since at present she has “insufficient happiness.” Долина страсти, ты неземной любовью Вновь околдуй меня И сердце я открою … Все это для тебя. Долина страсти, нам с тобою Ночь поможет Оторваться от серых дней. Долина страсти, что со мною происходит?! Будь свободным, целуй скорей! [Valley of passion, bewitch me again with your unearthly love and I’ll open up my heart … This is all for you. Valley of passion, the night will help us escape from dull days. Valley of passion, what is happening to me?! Free yourself and kiss me at once!]11

It would be possible to draw an extended parallel between issues of unnervingly radical change or control and Dolina’s fickle, frequent movements among genres. Her jazz beginnings are well documented at the outset of this book, and it is not uncommon today to hear people (such as the comedienne Klara Novikova) lamenting her abandonment of jazz for popular estrada. The essence of such criticism is that Dolina’s voice, undoubtedly capable of unamplified projection from a Broadway stage (if not an opera set), was wasted on more popular forms of music.12 Nevertheless, Dolina moved away from jazz. The polite and polished “estrada rock and roll” that replaced it soon gave way in its turn to the frenetically percussive, wantonly frivolous ditties penned for her by estrada’s nutty composer of the early nineties, Arkadii Ukupnik. Perhaps the best indication of Dolina’s changing pop-rock

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styles in recent times is the long medley of Western songs on her 1999 album Pevitsa i muzykant (The Chanteuse and the Musician), in which she bows respectfully before the foreign songs that helped to form her style. They include the Beatles’ “Get Back”, the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction,” Tom Jones’ “Delilah,” and Sting’s “Fragile.” Dolina has also covered Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” and Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.” It is with such an enormous accumulation of traditions behind her that Dolina – grand dame of the post-Soviet estrada – today performs gracefully in her sequined gowns; we hear the self-assured application of jazz not to youthful improvisations but to classic and classy ballads. The sounds of change and improvisation that began her career are now those of veneration and established esteem. Change becomes the post-Soviet canon. In the song from Dolina’s recording excerpted near the beginning of this section, change is a cause of worry. Within a year of that recording, in the song “Proshchai” (“Farewell”), surrender to a nonpersonal notion of subjectivity is presented as more broadly “natural” in the sense that – as in the songs of Litsei – it is found in the elements. Only the leaves, cranes, and rain demystify the illusion, the questions and whispers concerning Dolina’s ability either to exist (existentially) or to control events. Закружила осень Желтою листвой, И куда-то к югу улетают журавли, Лишь вчера мы были Счастливы с тобой, А сегодня, словно вовсе не было любви … Мы в глаза друг другу Смотрим и молчим. Нам о чем-то шепчет Грустный дождик проливной. И, быть может, будешь Счастлив ты с другой, Жаль, что не со мной, Жаль, что не со мной. [Autumn spun around like yellow leaves; the cranes have flown off somewhere to the south. We were happy just yesterday, but today there’s been no love at all … We look each other in the eye and stay silent. The sad, pouring rain whispers something or other to us. Maybe you’ll be happy with another. It’s a shame you’re not with me. A shame you’re not with me.]13

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Downpours appear in the same role elsewhere, for example, Leonid Agutin’s 1998 song “Letnii dozhd’” (“Summer Rain”), in which drizzle “forces” the performer to remember a lost love.14 These expressions of self in (and as) nature are to some degree the extension of a folkloric tradition. Subjectivity is seen and realized in the inexorable, slow, often invisible animacy of the natural world. Man and woman are not in proud isolation from larger, shifting events; they are within and part of them. Agutin’s vague leanings towards this type of “ecoaesthetic” are not only reflected in his “natural,” unkempt blond locks and loose, bright shirts. As mentioned, he is the most consistently acoustic artist discussed in this book, employing flamenco guitar styles, Latin percussion, and samba and bossa nova rhythms to accompany an appealing, somewhat artless, vocal delivery. His genuine ability as a guitar player – when he steps beyond the purely acoustic – leads either to a southern picking style suggestive of Vince Gill’s brisker offerings or, conversely, to elements of jazz-funk driven by the loose, fluid structures of a fretless bass. Agutin’s “natural” appearance and his absorption into nature are amplified by other performers. Tat’iana Bulanova’s “Serebristyi topol’ ” (“Silver Poplar”) takes this aesthetic to an extreme as a direct invocation of rustic folklore, replete with anthropomorphized trees. The wind above those trees knows how to change and how to become; it is beyond the trivial dimensions of pride or personal loss in the material world. Серебристый Тополь Вновь ко мне пришел. Шелестит листвою, говорит со мной: «Ой, Береза белая, ты грустишь давно, Подойди, склони-ка Кудри на мое плечо.» «Ой, ты милый Тополь, Под окном не стой, О любви своей лучше мне не пой. Ты не пой, не пой, хоть и серебрист, Сердцу не прикажешь Мне тебя любить.» Тихо ветер шепчет: «Ясень не придет, Он в сетях у Ивушки околдованный. Ой, Береза белая, не грусти о нем, Хоть и сердцу больно, отпусти его.» [The Silver Poplar came to me again. Rustling his foliage, he says to me: “Oh, White Birch, you’ve been sad for a long time. Come, rest your curls

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audio: the sound of music and mutation upon my shoulder.” “Oh, my dear Poplar, don’t stand beneath the window. It’s better not to sing to me about your love. Don’t sing, even though you’re silver. You can’t make my heart love you.” The wind whispered quietly. “The Ash won’t come, he’s bewitched in the Willow’s netting. Oh, White Birch, don’t cry over him. Even though your heart hurts, let him go.”]15

Once again the wise whisper comes from something fluid. Rain and wind (water and air) know how to become; if one embraces mutations, there can be no such thing as loss. What is especially interesting is that their sage observations on the theme of transition are heard. The wind and the rain do not show how to change so much as they explain, and they do so out loud. In another song from the same year, “Moi nenagliadnyi” (“My Beloved,” a folkloric adjective), Bulanova loses a lover but consoles herself with the thought that “I’ll fly above you any night as a quiet voice. That’s love; that’s purely love. The divine song of love cries and calls.” Language – as song – effects a unity that affirms mutation and transience; it thus outlasts the crudity of physicality or even physical presence. It is not by chance that Bulanova, a diminutive, attractive woman of urbane appearance, should turn to this decidedly rustic aesthetic. The waver in her voice gives it – among those of all our chosen performers – the only sense of a tradition based on serious folk delivery. The balladic heritage she so powerfully exercises through ispovedi and the sirotskii nadryv also allows her to channel the woes of folk culture into a convincing modern context. Her occasional use of slow, almost waltzing rhythms reveals an unspoken debt to the Soviet chanteuses of melancholy, such as Klavdiia Shul’zhenko; she has also recently covered an Edith Piaf classic. Even when Bulanova turned to a rock element in the early nineties, extended keening from an electric guitar was used to plaintive effect rather than in expressing the grandeur of a romantic sensibility, as in Nikolaev’s music. Today that tradition of melancholy is so well established in Bulanova’s œuvre that, even when she sings guileless electro-pop, she often does so in the most magnificent of dresses, for example, a sea of navy blue taffeta descending from a tiny waistline. The business of melancholy, of lovers and subjectivity lost to grander processes (politics or nature), demands respect – and the dresses demonstrate it very well. Aided by appearance, song relates losses. Language and song both hope, in Deleuze’s words, to “become everybody / everything [tout le monde]” and thus begin “to world [faire monde], to make a world [faire un monde].” By affirming natural, eternal possibility over (brief) necessity, they are also able to challenge the type of man-made calendrical or seasonal phenomena that are supposedly guaranteed to recur, 125

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displaying the same state as that in which they left. To take one example: in Litsei’s 1997 song “Novogodniaia” (“New Year’s Night”), the date brings back memories (repetition of the past). With the sound of chimes, the tick of a clock, and starlight, it also delivers “a kind of light from the heavens, [so that] a sprinkling of miracles can tumble into our hands.” The apparent sine qua non (a calendrical system and its repetitious units) is part of a bigger, inherently disorderly, miraculous arrangement.16

all together now! the powerful potential of affirmation In failing to see such miracles, by embracing the ineluctable (the calendar), one can easily lapse into fatalism and misunderstand the workings of eternal change as both alien to personal desire and utterly cyclical. One sees only a string of New Years’ Nights, not the “sprinkling of miracles”; and the shifting of seasons becomes a tight circle of finality. Никого не пощадила эта осень, Даже солнце не в ту сторону упало. Вот и листья разлетаются, как гости После бала, после бала, после бала. Эти двое в темно-красном Взялись за руки напрасно, Чуть подует - все пройдет, И все пропало. [This autumn took pity on nobody; even the sun went down the wrong way. And so the leaves fly away in all directions, like guests after the ball, after the ball. This pair dressed in dark red grabbed each other’s hands in vain. The wind’ll blow and all will be lost.]17

Dmitrii Malikov’s pessimism in these lyrics marks one extreme, that of maximum passivity. The other extreme is to dismiss all external events in one’s life, to see it proudly as a self-made project. Irina Allegrova, who relies so heavily on the sadness of fate’s victims for her ballads, performs (with tongue firmly in cheek) a number expressive of such pride entitled “Devochka po imeni Khochu” (“A Girl Called ‘Want’”). Laying claim to many spaces or places in such songs creates the girl’s subjectivity. I have made much of this positive process both in this book and in Red Stars, but in the example quoted below, Allegrova shows no subsequent submission to extra-spatial phenomena.

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She zips freely around the globe, fashioning both her own fate and that of her “blue-eyed boy.” This worldliness is a major part of Allegrova’s aesthetic, one that contributed to her most common moniker in the Russian press, “The Empress of Love.” Her long, peroxide blond hair and ample bosom were used to great effect in early songs, some of them penned by Nikolaev, where rock elements (à la Pat Benetar, perhaps) were used to advocate private emotions, with the result that love often came across rather crudely, as sex. Allegrova’s costumes were on occasion more reminiscent of Mad Max than of anything Soviet, with gold-plated brassieres much in evidence in particularly exciting moments. With age and moderation both on the increase, Allegrova sings today of yesterday’s emotional power, her roughly voiced ballads weakening knees from the Baltic to the Pacific. Renowned for her enduring sensuality, she has played for years upon (fabricated) rumours of a romance with her main composer, Igor’ Krutoi. To keep their likelihood alive, in 1997 she began to sport a slick, cropped, black hairstyle while keeping the indispensable bosom. A women’s magazine was inspired to announce that “The Empress of Love Has a New Image.”18 In this excerpt we hear the worldly empress in action: Мальчик синеглазый, нравлюсь я тебе. Для чего возникла я в твоей судьбе? Нет, не состоится детский наш роман. Я хочу так много – ты сойдешь с ума. Я в Майами укачу, На Канары полечу, Я ведь девочка по имени Хочу. На лазурном берегу Загуляю и сбегу, Нужен мальчик мне по имени Могу. [Blue-eyed boy, you’ve taken a liking to me. Why did I pop up in your fate? No, our childish romance won’t take place. I want so much, you’ll go out of your mind! I’ll pop off to Miami, fly off to the Canaries. After all, I’m a girl called “Want.” I’ll go strolling down on the Cote d’Azur. I need a boy called “Can.”]19

Between the extremes of Allegrova’s and Malikov’s songs, between Can and Cannot, between existential arrogance and fatalistic passivity, lies the give and take of affirming everything, of embracing both the a priori and one’s a posteriori potential. One of Igor’ Nikolaev’s more famous songs is “Vyp’em za liubov’!” (“Let’s Drink to Love!”). As post-

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Soviet Russia’s most prolific and successful composer, he tries hard in his anthem to reject unidirectional time and all the heavy-handed metaphors of its grand narratives in favour of the sentimental and the proximal (the person now sitting behind the same table). Even if one does accept the logic of linearity, then watches it fall away in a grand show of bridges burned, love will build another bridge. Sentiment can go one step further than an imposing narrative. Love and sentiment will be “returning” by affirming absolutely everything: present, future, and past. They raise a toast and say yes to the lot (whilst trying not to dwell on sadder moments). Пусть прошлое раскрошится Волною о причал, Мы вспомним все хорошее, Забудем про печаль! Умчалась юность бедная За даль туманных звезд – И за любовь последнюю Я поднимаю тост! Выпьем за любовь! Как блестят сейчас твои глаза! Выпьем за любовь! Пусть дрожит хрустальная слеза! Выпьем за любовь – И уже не надо лишних слов, Выпьем за любовь, родная, Выпьем за любовь! Прости меня за все цветы, Что для других срывал, Прости меня за все мосты, Что за собой сжигал! Но мы построили с тобой Последний хрупкий мост! За возвращение любви Я поднимаю тост! [Let the past shatter like a wave against the moorings. We’ll remember all that’s good, we’ll forget sadness! Poor youth fled beyond the misty stars and I raise my glass to my last love! Let’s drink to love! How your eyes shine now! Let’s drink to love! Let a crystal tear tremble! Let’s drink to love! We don’t need superfluous words. Let’s drink to love, my dear! Forgive me all the flowers I picked to give to others. Forgive me the bridges I burned behind me! But we’ve built the last, fragile bridge together. I raise my glass to the return of love!]20

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Moving still closer towards a concept of affirmative temporality is Kirkorov, in particular in his boldly positive Tell the Sun: YES ! of 1995. One of the songs on the album is a dialog between a “prodigal son” (bludnyi syn) and his mother; the son has followed paths (dorogi) into foreign lands, away from his friends and fiancée. The mother wonders why he acted so, and in her final question asks her son about the most important issues of all: songs, and his love for her. Here and only here, the son has a happy (or vaguely consoling) answer.21 Мне мама тихо говорила: − Зачем забыл родные песни? Прости мне мама, Чужие песни В чужой прекрасной Стороне. Я все забыл их. Одну лишь помню, Что ты когда-то Пела мне. [My mother quietly said to me: “Why did you forget your native songs?” “Forgive me, mother, for foreign songs in a foreign, beautiful land. I forgot all the native ones. I remember one song only, which you once sang to me.”]22

Later in the same recording, after this tenuous connection to positive, productive sentiment, Kirkorov makes a statement of much wider affirmation, one in keeping with the album’s title: “Spasibo Vam, vragi moi” (“Thank You, My Enemies”). He thanks his foes for giving him “courage and strength,” for denying him stasis or calm. That lack of repose is certainly evident in the rapid costume changes of his shows and videos. In the video “Ogon’ i voda” (“Fire and Water”) of 2000, we see in less than three and a half minutes a loose, vibrantly red mohair sweater, black dungarees, both red and silver jackets made entirely of tinsel, a reflective golden wide-lapelled shirt, and flared snakeskin trousers. All this from the tallest man in Russian show business, sporting shades and short spiky hair bleached white. The broad range of genres to match this wardrobe and voice has already been noted, but on one of Kirkorov’s most recent albums alone we can hear many of them. There are traces of the type of music that slipped – with little ideological argument – onto Soviet turntables of the seventies, such as Abba and Boney M. Add elements of Las Vegas, plus cruise ship cabaret, rock and roll, funk, soul, and – to everybody’s surprise – the occasional foray into discord or pure atonal 129

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noise with narrated (not sung) lyrics. The man cannot be faulted for his sense of adventure. The affirmative spirit says yes louder still in the song “Bud’, chto budet,” which translates roughly as “Que Sera, Sera.” What sounds like fatalism is in fact Kirkorov’s expression of Vaikule’s “cosmic” subjectivity: the self as everything. Kirkorov rejects the passage of time, for he “lives by all that God gives,” now or then, here or there, good or bad.23 Как быстротечны наши дни. Куда-то вдаль летят они. Но я, как птицелов, их не ловлю. Все эти годы напролет Живу всем тем, что Бог дает, И сам себе при этом говорю: Будь, что будет! Эх, будь, что будет! С обрыва в омут лечу. Будь, что будет! Эх, будь, что будет! Я буду жить, как хочу. И быть хочу самим собой Я в каждый миг земной. И только для любви моей Я буду неземной. Так пусть же − будь, что будет! Эх, будь, что будет! Я сам по счету плачу. Хочу за тридевять морей Послать почтовых голубей И снова ждать их в небе голубом. Хочу влюбляться и любить, Хочу всегда любимым быть, Счастливым быть сейчас, а не потом! [How fast our days rush by. They fly off somewhere into the distance. I cannot snare them like a bird-catcher. All these years I’ve lived by everything that God grants and at the same time say to myself: Que sera, sera! O, que sera, sera! I fly from the precipice into the maelstrom. Que sera, sera! I’ll live the way I want. I’ll be myself in every natural [i.e., earthly] moment. Only for my beloved will I be supernatural. So – que sera, sera! O que sera, sera! I’ll settle my own accounts. I want to send carrier pigeons beyond the seven seas and then wait for them once more in the blue sky. I want to fall in love, I want to love, I want to be loved, to be happy now and not later!]24

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The reference to somewhere “beyond the seven seas” (za trideviat’ morei) is straight out of folklore. As in Bulanova’s “Silver Poplar,” we see the time-honoured “soaking up” of all phenomena (people and objects, humans and trees), both active and passive affirmation of events, now and not later. Kirkorov actively leaps into the maelstrom to passively, yet joyfully, experience all it offers and thereby realize his faith. The exhaustion of “every natural or earthbound moment” he remembers is enacted in the name of “supernatural or unearthly” sentiment. He overcomes his fear of flight and embodies Malikov’s inclusion of opposites in order to fuel an experience of joy, “faster and faster,” with “fragments of [sentimental] memory.” Perhaps the most significant aspect of happy, paradoxical inclusion in the aforegoing is that all three Kirkorov songs just discussed are the work of Il’ia Reznik, the Soviet Union’s most significant pop lyricist since World War Two. The Soviet Union dies but estrada turns linear history back on itself; it renews and re-experiences the past.25 Estrada keeps changing and subverting the very narratives that made it what it is today, in order to salvage the private from the wreckage of the public, the lyric from the ruins of the civic.

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VIDEO: ESTRADA ON FILM SINCE PERESTROIKA At long last Larisa started to look after herself properly. She went on all kinds of diets, shed some pounds and gradually rid herself of those numerous complexes that had arisen as a result of being overweight. Her voice began to grace all the most popular television programs.1

introduction: the rhyme and reason of everything in cinema We have already seen the problems of reality and effort involved in broadcasting and filming music; here we look at the films themselves. This chapter offers some explicit examples of ways in which aural estrada has used visual representations since the eighties. The fact that the Russian song today often resorts to the newer media of film, concert footage, and promotional video does not mean that its multigeneric heritage vanishes into abject mimicry of some post-modernist melee. Itself born of a heritage that dismissed exclusive, intolerant “verities” with humour or movement to another genre (song to circus to puppetry), estrada has long employed vision in the service of sound. Even though there is always much more information in a frame of film than in any sung sentence, that information engenders neither impressionistic work nor chaos, but the “commitment to [a] mobile positioning” of shifting standpoints within it.2 The information from twentyfour celluloid frames every second, each containing more than what is required, helps to encourage broad-mindedness rather than narrowmindedness (or the wholesale loss of one’s mind). Film is potentially a philosophically manageable and useful medium, if today’s performers can overcome their original reservations of the early nineties. “Broad-mindedness” in what sense, though? The word suggests movement back and forth along a scale, yet images are not absorbed in that way. The eye wanders across an image in the manner that it reads a small poetic text; most televised images have a suggestive linearity or syntax (lines of perspective and plane), but such impressions of structure are short-lived. As regards poetry, we might begin by hypothesizing that the kindred workings of verse emerge only when re-read (or remembered), when they are recognized as units of rhyme

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or rhythm, each evoking a similarity with a prior unit.3 Rhyme and rhythm move both forwards and backwards; they both suggest where they are going and recall where they have been. If a text is brief enough to be held in memory in its entirety, associations move back and forth, up and down simultaneously along the information on those two axes. Film, too, subjects the linear nature of structural devices (even the limits of the frame itself) to the excess details of nature, of what was and will be shown. The subjectivity of one stable viewpoint dissolves in mobile surplus. The [movie] shot is not content to express the duration of a whole which changes, but constantly puts bodies, parts, aspects, dimensions, distances and the respective positions of the bodies which make up a set in the image into variation. The one comes about through the other. It is because pure movement varies the elements of the set by dividing them up into fractions with different denominators – because it decomposes and recomposes the set – that it also relates to a fundamentally open whole, whose essence is constantly to “become” or to change, to endure; and vice versa.4

Division into multiplicity or surplus is not a capitulation to chaos; it is one’s potential, conscious choice to embrace surplus, to say yes to what is beyond selfhood. It is the loss of choice in order to choose everything, the leap out of uncatholicity and into something bigger than received notions of subjectivity and their ordered lines, biographies, and narratives. The eye, wandering and briefly retaining the variety of each frame, senses the objects, sounds, and partially hidden entities of that “bigger something” that have lain and will lie beyond the screen.5 DAY OF THE FULL MOON: a perfectly folded narrative

The story of any country, of any state is made up of our individual fates, of our tiny private stories.6

The representation of the material world in film can therefore potentially serve to illustrate a temporal process, the rhizomatic movement through framed centres of intensity where multiple events are caused, invoked, and experienced for a brief moment before dissolving into other frames, forms, and combinations. In the recent years of Russian cinema, perhaps no film has displayed this tendency better than Karen Shakhnazarov’s 1998 work Den’ Polnoluniia (Day of the Full Moon), which offers an intricately folded view of various moments in modern Russia

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and their connection to a Soviet past.7 The film has an enormous cast, since no more than three or four minutes are ever spent with one actor before attention is turned to an entirely different story line. The vignettes centre on contemporary Moscow in the summertime and follow connections between people formed momentarily in the most inconsequential manner; we move from one person to another as he or she looks at, dreams of, remembers, or hears somebody else. A director’s assistant in a movie company looks at an attractive woman walking down a corridor; we leave him and follow her. She runs for and catches a bus; it stops briefly in traffic and she smiles at a young man in a car. We follow the car. It pulls into a vacant lot beside a railway line. Suddenly a minivan appears and gunmen throw the side door open, spraying the youth and his three colleagues with bullets. We stay with their bloody corpses for a while, until a suburban train stops at the concrete platform; a female passenger gets off while an old man on board notices, through the gaps in a concrete fence, that the car is oddly parked. Now we turn to this pensioner on the train. Not suspecting (or indifferent to) what has happened in the car, he soon falls to musing on an event from his past, when he was dining in the Sovetskaia hotel’s restaurant one afternoon in 1948. Our attention is turned to that past event; it seems a soldier and his stylish date at a nearby table have recently argued. The atmosphere worsens when she deliberately drops her wineglass on the stone floor and walks out. The film moves in this manner through space (when a glance is cast afar) and time (when a distant event is recalled). The past is even created, for example, when a little boy reads about Pushkin’s adventures en route to the Caucasus. The five minutes we then spend with the poet are a combination of what the boy passively experiences from the text, what he adds to it consciously, and what he adds unconsciously, since the manner in which he reads Pushkin (or anybody else) is a consequence of his own multiple, ever-changing experiences. Creation of the past is just as evident in the Sovetskaia restaurant incident, albeit in a different manner. The scene is returned to three times in the film, though there is absolutely no reason for the return or any indication in the strings of glances, memories, and noises to suggest in advance that we will see the lovers’ tiff more than once. We could have taken any one of millions of other routes through the city, connecting people who would not lead us to the hotel. The reason we do go back, however, is that the pensioner mentioned above was only one of the people there in 1948. We also see a man who was then a podgy child enjoying ice cream on that same afternoon with his parents, as well as one of the waiters. None of these people notices the others that day, nor will they ever meet in the future, yet they all

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see the arguing couple. The dropped wineglass, what it meant, means, and would mean for all involved constitutes an event, the result of what was and what will be. The wineglass envelops or develops both past events and future potentials. It is a fleeting intensity. We move in and out of the sequences to the tune of several estrada songs playing quietly in the background – and not just in the Sovetskaia. Tat’iana Bulanova’s “Iasnyi moi svet” (“My Bright Light”) is the last song that the drive-by shooting victims ever hear on their car radio. In a later, equally gruesome scene, a sniper assassinates a Moscow businessman from a rusty rooftop, then drives off with his groceries to the tune of Valerii Siutkin’s 1995 retro-style hit “7,000 nad zemlei” (“7,000 Metres above the Earth”).8 A girl in Vladivostok requests that song on a national radio show; we see her dancing in her distant bedroom. A policeman in Moscow interrogating a criminal also hears it; he looks down at squabbling workmen in the courtyard. The labourers’ boss sees an old dog lying in the same courtyard. The dog dreams of its erstwhile owner and hunting trips to the marshes; from its low viewpoint it sees the feet of a couple walking by. They part company and the man goes back upstairs into his apartment where he sees some old photos of his parents and remembers eating ice-cream in 1948 … and so on. On several occasions in Day of the Full Moon songs prompt an unexpected twist or turn. Sometimes a song delays one-way time, since a melody is heard in several places at once; sometimes it doubles time (through memory) and gives it a new meaning in an ever-renovating present. The same is just as true of the three television musical extravaganzas discussed very briefly in Red Stars, Starye pesni o glavnom (Old Songs About What Matters), celebrating the first hours of 1996, 1997, and 1998.9 OLD SONGS ABOUT WHAT MATTERS: “we’re talking about kindness”

There have been grief, hardship and tears in my life, but I’ve never demeaned myself. Never!10

The three television musicals sharing the title above adopt an increasingly “involved” stance towards their own history; how estrada views itself on television becomes a growing “commitment to mobile positioning.” The first shift we make is backwards for Old Songs #1, which takes place on a collective farm during Stalinism. Estrada classics from the period are performed by most of the artists in this book, dressed in period costume, on a series of studio sets. The show’s producer, the

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head of ort, originally introduced it together with a leading female newsreader. “Let’s forget our problems, at least for one evening,” he said. Problems are undeviating; they began yesterday and will keep going tomorrow (because they were not solved yesterday). Songs offer a brief respite from discouraging narratives. Old estrada songs are welcome because, as the newsreader added, “It’s only a real holiday when we all sing together.” Estrada offers a sense of community not evident in “our problems.” What is it that brings people together? “These songs aren’t even in our memory. They don’t have to be taught. They’re in our hearts.” This is not the immutable nostalgia of cultural dopes, because good-natured sentiment is the essence of an estrada that allows the past (memory) to remain constantly in the present in new forms. Sentiment also allows the newsreader to explain the show’s title as “Old Songs About What Matters, and that means we’re not talking about what’s old, but about kindness.” The significance of decent sentiment is important when the program begins, because a commentator prefaces it with a strange disclaimer: “We won’t say in which village this all takes place, in order not to offend anyone.” Although there is slight mockery in the twentyone old songs’ depiction of life on a communal farm, it is done so lovingly that villages not named as the model might equally be upset. Here is a farming community where “people are friendly and hardworking. They sing songs.” Their labour creates an ideal social significance that is constantly valid, whether in the quagmire of Stalinist politics or on 1 January 1996, five years after the Soviet Union passed away. Kinship, hard work, and honest songs survive during terrible political narratives and outlast them. At the end of the broadcast the same commentator’s voice sounds: “And so ended another day in the singing village.” The little narratives of a three-minute song or a tenhour working day are constantly revived and invested with novel significances while relying on their old ones. The narratives are somewhat longer in Old Songs #2, which is set in the period twenty years after the first show. We have moved from southern farm to northern courtyard, in a city “where there once lived some good and jolly people in a certain courtyard. There they sang songs about what matters.” Same story, same hard work, and same sentiment, but an entirely new significance. Part of the show is filmed as if it were in the studio of the Soviet New Year’s broadcast, Little Blue Light. Irina Allegrova performs an Èdita P’ekha song in a new staging; she waits for three different heroes: an officer in a uniform from Stalin’s heyday, a geologist of the sixties, and Boris Shcherbakov, a popular actor from the seventies.11 It does not matter how old a song is, since it is always a receptacle for

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new, distinctive meanings. Shcherbakov and the other heroes are all shown leaving Allegrova’s apartment, yet only he tumbles down in his rush to leave. He is a slightly unsatisfying modern champion. Allegrova herself dreams of all three men, but it appears as if none of them will ever come back. A little boy sees her caressing a non-existent lover: “What are you doing, eh?” Neither the hero nor the heroine’s dreams of him pass muster. Estrada tries to do the right thing and fill this emptiness with what matters. Many other songs were sung and invoked in Old Songs #2, but it was the third broadcast that included the greatest number of references to past variety.12 Old Songs #3 approaches the spatio-temporal adventures of Day of the Full Moon. Its premise was taken from a Mikhail Bulgakov play, which in turn became the third most popular Soviet film of 1973, a wonderful comedy entitled Ivan Vasil’evich Changes Jobs.13 It tells of a time machine that allows for two-way movement between a modern Soviet engineer’s apartment and the court of Ivan the Terrible. In Old Songs #3 the central actors play in a number of scenes between twenty-six songs, on this occasion predominantly from the seventies. The actors must find Ivan the Terrible in modern Moscow, before the Soviet citizen stuck in the regal past (and running the state for the absent monarch) loses his temper after twenty-five years in temporal exile and starts giving away territory to the Poles. The czar, it transpires, fancies himself a movie star and has run off to Mosfil’m, the largest Soviet film studio. Our elderly heroes from 1998 must return from Ivan’s court to the 1970s and find him. Numerous popular films, historical and modern, funny and tragic, are referred to once the multi-set studio is reached.14 Ivan bumps into two actors playing Lenin and Stalin, who are busy making a “documentary film.” The artifice of art outdoes stately narratives; it displaces (or continually rearranges) the events of history. The czar’s stand-in also makes his way back to Mosfil’m, where he becomes confused with the actor who played him, so to speak, in Ivan Vasil’evich Changes Jobs (Leonid Kuravlev). The real-life actor plays an impostor who is filmed in a parody of that film, then begins a series of sketches based on his real-life status. He stumbles onto a set where Alla Pugacheva is auditioning for singer in Èl’dar Riazanov’s comedy Ironiia sud’by (The Irony of Fate). Kuravlev is asked to read the script to Pugacheva. “I wasn’t in that film!” he protests, but is pushed onto the set anyway. He may not have been in the film in the “original” of 1975, but now – as the dice tumble to produce that year once more – he (briefly and necessarily) is. Iurii Iakovlev, playing a grumpy fiancé on New Year’s Eve, made the lines read by Kuravlev famous in The Irony of Fate. Now, on the same

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(but very different) holiday, he is instead playing his role as Ivan the Terrible from the Bulgakov film. He has not been divorced from his connections to Riazanov’s comedy entirely, though. A little corner of cinematic history is turned back on itself, so that it is repeated yet lived anew. In The Irony of Fate Iakovlev’s character drowns his bitterness in alcohol, and at one point takes a shower (fully clothed) in his fiancée’s bathroom. In Old Songs #3 Ivan the Terrible takes a shower in his regalia, distressed by the pressures of evading his pursuers. I could document more of these twists, turns, and altered events (reinforced by the songs from all these films and many more), but the chaos would seem too great. Ivan is told as much by the elderly time travelers: “This movie business just isn’t kingly” (Ne tsarskoe èto delo, snimat’sia v kino). The sage pensioners are absolutely right; Ivan must return home or “there won’t be any movie.” They may be referring to Ivan Vasil’evich Changes Jobs, because if the czar stays in the 1970s, he will not see his reign to the end, will not become known as a great ruler, and will not be the central character in a future comedy of 1973. They may be referring to Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible (1944–46), or other epics. In any event, estrada is not here reliant upon linear history; it puts it back in “order” only to play with that order centuries later. The folds of estrada’s history are prior to the straight lines of Ivan’s stately story. They rescue it.

staging a rescued past: enormous changes in set design The happiest day [in my eleven years with Dolina] was September 1, 1997. Larisa staged a grandiose concert on Manezh Square in Moscow. Millions of viewers turned up! It was all broadcast by Central Television. I was happy.15

The adventures of Ivan the Terrible and his colleagues take place in a series of sets, which are also used to stage all the songs in the musical. Any estrada show must also stage itself. Does the appearance of stage sets play the same sort of role as Mosfil’m? Does the creation of space(s) on stage say something about estrada’s past and the way it is (or is not) reworked today? In answering, we need to compare the sets for live shows with those for television, since the audience of the latter is now much larger than the total number of viewers assembled during even the grandest of roadshows. Soviet television during and after perestroika presented estrada to a national audience on several broadcasts.16 These programs, when they included studio performances, employed stages of various dimensions. Some, such as Music Exam and Music Ring, preferred a more

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intimate setting. The latter is popular even today, precisely because of that emotional closeness. Performers compete against each other on a raised, square platform reminiscent of a boxing ring (hence the program’s name). They are surrounded by a small audience whose members ask pointed questions between songs, and on occasion dance. The distance between stage and auditorium is minimal, suggestive of a cabaret atmosphere. Not surprisingly, Vaikule and Pauls, when they performed together on early television shows, would sometimes promote the small stage of var’ete they held so dear.17 The Oscar-winning director Nikita Mikhalkov has for several years mentored grander broadcasts, such as Morning Star, a children’s talent show that also makes time for one or two members of a star-studded adult jury to perform their latest songs. For example, Tat’iana Ovsienko used the show to promote her work in 1994. Since Morning Star has always involved a lot of children, the stage is neither rounded to embrace the viewers nor placed in the middle of their embrace, as in Music Ring. Rather, it is wide, straight, and parallel to the first row of the audience. When Ovsienko performed, the stage consisted of two tiers of arches, one slightly higher than the other, like a long, splitlevel aqueduct. The degree of intimacy was minimal and the architecture imposing, because the upbringing and promotion of children is serious business. As we have seen, seriousness is a key component of estrada, but huge, arching structures have precious little to do with affect, so which approach did performers tend to take: small or big, sentimental or serious? Television performances were obviously conducted on stages chosen by studio managers and directors, not by singers. The two most prestigious of all television performances tended in different directions. On New Year’s Eve, Little Blue Light promoted a party atmosphere, while the annual extravaganza Song ’80 (the number changed with the year) remained rather po-faced. Let us see whether seriousness softened at all, whether the stage became any less imposing. Song ’72, one of the first in the series, and its descendants were staged in an almost frightening manner. An expansive and overwhelming wall draped in a sleek pastel fabric backed an interminably wide, straight stage. The stage itself was shallow, barely accommodating the orchestra sitting on a few tiers above the boards. A catwalk (or, rather, a plank) thrust out into the first few rows; both it and the stage were very high indeed. Front-row seats did not appear to offer a good vantage point. The entire affair was conducted with the house lights on. By the late eighties, the long, straight lines had been softened a little, as the orchestra moved down to the audience’s level; the musi-

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cians’ seating curved towards the viewers, as did four sets of steps winding from the traditional lofty stage to a lower plane. The onceubiquitous drapery was now replaced by a series of slender vertical rectangles suspended just in front of the back wall to give an impression of depth, of the stage moving away from the architecture and towards the audience. Stepping forward in time to 1994, we see the stage has shrunk even more, to a small enclave boxed in by three intricate panels of art deco glass. What would appear to be a process of increasing post-Soviet intimacy as the civic spirit walked off into the sunset actually turned out not to be so. Song ’95 and those following suddenly opted for the grand scale of earlier Soviet broadcasts. The stage grew again, and was made of hard surfaces, now glazed and edged with neon.18 The long, straight stage of Song ’72 in 1995 became a large “c” curving towards the audience, so that the steps at either end did not descend into the wings but pointed towards the viewers. After (or even during) a song, a singer descended to the audience. This design both emphasized the time-honoured seriousness of the show and directed it down towards the audience, as opposed to over its head. The same large, reflective surface was an integral part of Song ’96 as well, but it was covered with three small raised islands: one for the presenters, another for the performers (in a shape reminiscent of a recumbent guitar or violin), and a third at stage right for the orchestra (which incidentally also played for variety shows at the Kremlin). A couple of arches at the back of the stage acted as a bridge to bring the singers down onto the central island. Thus, amidst a grand sea of glass, a little closeness was still preserved in one or two places, where music came down to meet its viewers. Song ’97 was staged in the same way, with two broad, flat domains, one slightly lower than the other, so that they created a couple of steps downwards. The descent was actually quite steep, since the vertical backdrop in both 1996 and 1997 was of a nocturnal Muscovite cityscape traced with illuminated dots. The viewers’ gaze descended from the heights of Moscow’s monuments via the two levels of the stage to the audience. As if to emphasize the old-fashioned intermediary role of songs, a couple of musical scores over two metres high stood open on stage, while an equally large old-fashioned gramophone revolved slowly closer to the footlights. Tradition, audience-directed movement, and a grand Soviet scale were combined.19 Unwillingness to adopt a small scale for the presentation of modest sentiment was a tendency we noted in the chapter on directorial work. Estrada always takes its work very seriously, but perhaps the examples above are not terribly helpful in drawing a parallel with set design,

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since the artists themselves did not choose the scenery; television stages were the work of television employees. But what about sets designed by the people who also took them on the road? Stages used in road shows, like those seen on television, demonstrated what we might call the competition between the flat and the curved. The flat stage made no pretense of including or approaching the audience; the curved platform did. Moreover, the degree to which each type of stage was filled with props also differed greatly. Flat stages tended to be emptier, not only because they were older and colder but also because performers did not build the venues they visited, they only decorated them. Most Soviet-era halls, even in the provinces, were (and remain) big and flat. Such stages needed to be filled with something, such as extra, curved walls or drapery, to distract attention from their emptiness.20 The roadshow of Igor’ Nikolaev and Natasha Koroleva serves to illustrate such efforts. Their early combined performances (as “the Dolphin and the Water-Sprite”) also used a cityscape backdrop, albeit one scribed with neon strips, not bright dots.21 A raised platform that carried on the theme added a higher level to the flat stage, yet it did not raise the performers above the audience. Nikolaev and Koroleva entered through a neon doorway on the loftiest platform, then descended to the stage proper. The show began on a high (perhaps even presumptuous) register but spent considerable time and effort in moving lower and closer to the viewers. The boards, though, remained somewhat empty. In this musical program and others of the early nineties like it, the stage and its scenery could look a little skimpy, with scaffolding much in evidence.22 Estrada would gradually (with more money) be able to fill the holes and cover the piping. Still, flat, sparsely adorned stages have a certain enduring grace and dignity. As recently as 1998, Irina Allegrova used one to great effect.23 The entire back wall was shielded by a series of vertical smoked-glass panels. Through them could be seen a painted sylvan scene that changed on occasion to reflect different seasons and ambiences. Its depth, however, remained pressed behind the glass, so flatness was predominant. The panels revolved to allow dancers in and out, but there were virtually no props. Smoked-glass windows and an uninterrupted glassy floor smoothly encased the wistful, untidy woodland. The performance did not come to meet the viewers, it moved away from them – and even that movement was seen through thick glass.24 The grandest showman of all, Filipp Kirkorov, must surely be a good test case for the hypothesis that estrada has managed to express the private and sentimental whilst using the impersonal grandeur of the Soviet stage to uphold and display its seriousness. Kirkorov staged two

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shows, Atlantida (Atlantis) and Nebo i zemlia (Heaven and Earth), in 1992 in St Petersburg. Both met with great success, and both demonstrate the reworking of Soviet grandeur. The quintessential Soviet set was comprised of tall, smooth planes, perhaps consisting of rows of arches. The set that Kirkorov chose for Atlantis made use of, yet subverted, those imperial forms (replete with aquiline crest): he pushed them over.25 It was simply a wall of arches that had been pushed over from the audience’s point of view, so that it leaned at forty-five degree angle against the back of the stage. Kirkorov’s push had two results. First, it made the whole stage descend towards the viewers, rather than confronting them. (Kirkorov’s steps to the stage also declined at the same angle.) Second, and somewhat paradoxically, it made the stage look bigger by creating an impression of radical perspective, as if the audience was lying on the floor and looking up at a tapering, towering complex. The set thus effected a descent towards the hall while maintaining the old aura of majesty.26 The space between the backdrop and footlights in Atlantis and other Kirkorov shows (such as Ia ne Rafaèl’ [I’m no Raphael]) was small, so a modest number of dancers was used. In Heaven and Earth, however, the emphases were reversed, even though the program was staged in the same year as Atlantis. The influence of Las Vegas was enormous; feathers and flesh were everywhere. The set was a very dull series of three panels, all parallel to the back wall; two hid a section on either side of the stage, while a larger middle panel stood across the centre boards, with a recess in its middle. As a result, a second wall was created parallel to the footlights and halfway towards the back of the stage. Soviet flatness was reduced to a bare minimum, referenced rather than reconstructed. A bold human presence took its place, perhaps even operating on the same grand scale. The stage that had once looked serious now inspired and was replaced by an equally serious performer, even if he or she presented his or her work in the spirit of Caesar’s Palace. And this is just what Kirkorov did. His 1998 tour included shows at Bally’s in Las Vegas, close to dates by Anne Murray, Paul Anka, and Liza Minelli. On that tour, Kirkorov’s intentions as expressed in Atlantis and Heaven and Earth did not evolve, they involved. Gone was all flatness. The stage was small, no longer a platform parallel to the rows of seats but a central point from which a series of catwalks radiated out into the audience. There was probably more stage space among the audience than in front of it. At the centre of this polished star was a flat-topped pyramid crowned with a large solar motif. The centre of the stage radiated out to the viewers, yet it was just as much an effect of their “channeled” presence towards it. The large, social, straight stage became a serious event, a locus of hard work and private sentiment.

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This was not just a repeat of the Soviet stage / hall dialog; the Soviet tradition had come to its end and was now eternally reworked, reinvested with new meanings. The flat and the curved, the civic and the lyric did not now create a dialog or even a binary opposition, but formed part of the ever-changing relationships between many sounds and images (old and new, made and heard, Soviet and post-Soviet). Everything was present. As one young Russian put it, “I am stylistically omnivorous. I say yes to everything.”27 The big Soviet show dissolved into its audience, with all its scale and sobriety intact.

video: showing the complexity and humour of subjectivity [After my operation] I didn’t believe that I’d ever be able to live the way I used to or even get back on my feet … When, however, I read all the letters I got from people who’d seen me on tv … 28

One can only say yes to something that is there to be affirmed in the first place. Affirming cinematic influences in estrada became difficult when cinema itself was dying; during the 1980s movie audiences in Russia declined radically.29 Television ownership went through the roof under Gorbachev, a development that was also detrimental to radio, save for stations playing Western popular music.30 Nobody went to the cinema; everybody watched television and listened to Western songs. Thus the video was born. It came into being slowly for both philosophical and financial reasons. A glance at Russian filmed songs of the eighties reveals that a great deal of material was shot by each television show that broadcast it. There was considerable outdoor footage; singers lip-synched to lyrical musings as they strolled aimlessly amidst birch trees and brooks. Andrei Razin, the founder of Laskovyi mai, had a brief solo career at this time. One of his videos was filmed on a steamship with Boris Moiseev’s dance trio, whose members had forged their career working with Pugacheva and were still working with other early stars, such as Irina Ponarovskaia.31 This straddling of generations was apparent in extraordinarily cautious – if not static – staging. Despite a lively musical arrangement, Razin sits in an empty passenger lounge (hugging a poodle), while Moiseev and his female colleagues move tamely behind him. The shots are lengthy and immobile. Subsequent scenes on deck were filmed at night, no doubt to give the impression of being at sea without actually having to go to the trouble of raising anchor. Special effects were rare in the eighties; even split screens were uncommon. Depth was sometimes added to a studio performance with

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the use of blue screen techniques to give at least the impression of layers, of discernable foreground and background. As in the West, a tunnel effect was sometimes favoured for dramatic moments: an evershrinking number of frames, one inside the other, makes the square television picture the entrance into a tapering, angular pipe. It is no doubt a sign of weak innovation that some of the most interesting promotional films of the eighties were made by and for the previous generation, notably Alla Pugacheva. Her daughter Kristina Orbakaite ventured into visual projects at this time with a supremely meek presentation of the song “Pust’ govoriat” (“Let Them Talk”). Orbakaite sits in and walks around an ornate armchair, which stands on a bright white floor together with a freestanding window frame (giving depth to flatness) and a few dolls. With her feet hidden in dry ice, the schoolgirl smiles and ponders the troubles of her “transitional age” (perekhodnyi vozrast). Such lyrical expressions remained the basic driving force behind videos as they grew into a more established and accomplished medium. Further examples will show how the lyric managed to orient itself within the excess information that constitutes any frame, to express a broadly relevant “collective reflection with the particular emotions of each individual.”32 Music has always been an important part of Russian film; even in pre-revolutionary cities movie houses vied with each other by hiring the best orchestras to play with the film and in the lobby.33 Modern videos created an equally vital connection by working in what we might term lyric, dramatic, and comic veins, advancing the serious, socially responsible fun of estrada. The early workings of these three emphases are clearer in the work of female performers, especially in the career of Alena Apina over the first few years of post-Soviet Russian entertainment.34 One of her earliest solo songs, “Lekha” (“Aleksei”), retained a touch of Soviet civic spirit, albeit in a most private context. The young man of the title is doing his military service; as he moves through an assault course, Apina marches in her studio to the martial rhythm of a simple dance beat. The studio (a flat white backdrop) is hung with large red stars, as is her dress. What matters is the fact that Lekha is away too long; who or what he is fighting for goes unmentioned. The once bravely earned stars have now become part of the brave jollity that Apina effects in his absence. The survival of lyricism – come what may – is just as clear in other videos. Apina looks from the window of a Soviet high-rise housing complex to dream both of the future – of jazz played aboard a cruise ship – and the past – of two children playing with paper ships in a puddle (“Parokhodik”). That reverie can be pushed further into the

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past, to an age of ball gowns, grand pianos, and a bejeweled décolletage (“Ukradu” and “Neskol’ko chasov liubvi”). It moves further into the future, as well, to the time when she hopes to run amok in Western shops or even live out the dramatic role of Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard (“Samoubiitsa” and “Yves Saint Laurent”). Tat’iana Ovsienko also used both the past and the future to compose a private present. The clothes, television sets, and musical styles of the Thaw were used in her video “Zhenskoe schast’e” (“A Woman’s Happiness”) to evoke the innocent joy of a previous generation’s romance deep within the Soviet system. One of her more recent efforts (shown in one of the photographs in this book) places a futuristic female amidst modern traffic along Petersburg’s Liteinyi Prospekt, while giraffes run across the river’s surface and planets spin above the city’s horizon (“Ia budu letet’ za toboi” [“I’ll Fly After You”]). Such extremes dissolved the singer’s self in a broader canvas, which was then extended both forwards and backwards in time. This kind of positive diminution can – and often did – take place in space as well. In the video for Ovsienko’s song about long-haul truck drivers (“Dal’noboishchik”), she played a traffic cop filmed in close-up during torrential winter rain, who recalls summer nights once spent with a loved one around a faraway campfire (itself filmed from a distance). Proximal and distal shots are used to emphasize and connect the space between here and there, now and then. Even when Ovsienko is physically in dreamy locales, such as a seaside resort, for the “now” of a video’s narrative, the video still contains spatial shifts or flashbacks to nocturnal scenes on a different beach (“Za rozovym morem”). The more lyricism is displayed, the more the single narrative dissolves into (or is the product of) other times and places. Estrada may not love video, but it makes very good use of it. Perhaps one of the most extreme of these displacements of self appeared in Natasha Koroleva’s “Malen’kaia strana” (“Little Land”). She is shown in a playroom, and is soon led into reverie by an old leather-bound tome. In scenes of both animated and live action, she finds her prince atop a mighty steed, only to return to the playroom. One of the kingdom’s rabbits forgets his hat in the “real world” and is spotted by Koroleva, which leads to a moment of real and joyful contact between the two realms. Another moment of unexpected communication, when here and there, now and then, make contact, is seen in her video “Neuzheli èto ia?” (“Is That Really Me?”). Blackand-white portraits of childhood become the adult Koroleva, drawn on a green and pink landscape. Bolder still is “Podsolnukhi” (“Sunflowers”), an innocent display of blooms and studio dance numbers until the singer decides in the closing seconds to push her breasts towards

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the camera with remarkable vigour. Childish and decidedly adult endeavours overlap in the name of a sentimental lichnost’. The other great exponent of puerile charm, Anzhelika Varum, has made similar Lolita-like connections between sexual charm and childhood. When she does make use of a fully adult scenario, it is in some way undermined or merged with another domain, such as a nod in the direction of homosexuality. In “Zimniaia vishnia” (“Winter Cherry”), Varum drives a convertible around nocturnal Moscow, collecting strange men, apparently as a prostitute. All of them bore her. Only when teasing glances are exchanged with another woman does anybody smile. Other performers, such as Litsei, have also made use of youthful themes, as in “Podruga noch’,” if for no other reason than they they themselves are young. Tat’iana Bulanova has managed to make more interesting connections between an adolescent present and other realms, thanks to what she terms the “hard labour” (tiazhelyi trud) of video-making, together with a penchant for somewhat dramatic footage.35 Although she may sometimes adopt a loopy personage in the mold of Varum or Ovsienko’s television nostalgia (as in “Vot i solntse selo” [“The Sun Has Gone Down”]), she is just as likely to develop subjectivity in a stately, stagey context, even further from the spatiotemporal contours of the present. She may encounter visitors from outer space (as in “Korostel’” [Corncrake”]) or from Heaven. In “Tol’ko ty” (“Only You”), a fundamentally unhappy modern urban woman is compared with her distant counterpart, a nunnery’s young initiate. As the latter lies down, teary-eyed and prostrate, on the floor of a faraway chapel, her modern double spills red wine and pomegranate juice on a tablecloth. The symbol joins two genres, two women, two spaces, two times, and their disparate sentiments. Videos by male artists have demonstrated less dimensional or generic movement, no doubt because estrada was structured in such a way that the subjective depths of (for example) a lyrical ispoved’ were considered wholly female territory. Artists such as Igor’ Nikolaev, who has written so much for female performers, may wander through their promos in silent retrospection (“Blagoslovliaiu ètot vecher”), but the mental and physical distances covered are not likely to be extreme. Dmitrii Malikov, for example, plays two roles in one video (“Ty odna takaia”); while singing he also performs as a fashion designer seen simultaneously at home (drunk or disheartened) and on the catwalk (full of social grace and gratitude). Leonid Agutin in the video “Papa, Mama” poses as a nineteenth-century explorer, flying in his balloon across the world (as antique map). The many peoples visited (and given footballs) dance together – African natives, Peruvian and American

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Indians, Inuit hunters, and so forth – yet the happy relativity is somehow distant from Agutin himself, flying above and accepting letters from hang-gliding mailwomen. If there is a male performer in our group who has managed to realize some extreme movement, it is Kirkorov. He has done so primarily through humour, which (unlike excessive affect) can be found to varying degrees in the work of both men and women. Humour serves to marry and make relative the most stubborn or stable of meanings. Old and new, near and far, big and small – all come together in witty film. Western scholars have an extremely hard time seeing Russian comedy as comedy; it is usually referred to as satire.36 Instead of tying the private to the political, though, let us not forget the epic effort involved in maintaining even a simple domesticity in the Soviet Union, and consider it as boldly apolitical, enduring relativity.37 The most famous examples of this bold humour are those in which animation has been used together with live action, such as Koroleva’s “Little Land.” In Kirkorov’s “Milaia” (“My Darling”), for instance, a cartoon tomcat tries to impress a female cat, but all attempts (including two at suicide) fail. Only when he sings of his private matters on a rooftop are other cats attracted, including the one he tried so hard to win. Through laughter, this and other animated videos by Kirkorov (such as “Zaika moia” and “Medsestra”) unite the man himself, his role in a cartoon world, the heroine of the film, and his real-life leading lady Alla Pugacheva. Humour is used by other singers to make equally adventurous connections, sometimes directly invoking a circus heritage,38 often using the clichés of silent, pre-revolutionary melodrama made famous in Russia by such directors as Evgenii Bauer.39 The excessive gestures permissible in the infancy of Russian cinema match those of clowns and latter-day comedians. They engender a sense of continuity, as shown by Kirkorov’s “Malo” (“Not Enough”), in which the singer dons dreadlocks and platforms in a series of mock confrontations with the camera. What appears to be anger is happiness; what appears to be confrontational in fact creates a sense of unity with the audience. What appears to be a brief reference to the past is in fact an inclusion of that past in an ongoing process (which never really stopped). If these displacements of oneself into other times, places, and roles were an ongoing, multidirectional activity, what happened to longer visual narratives, such as those of filmed biography or feature films? If the excess of information in (and beyond) film helped to break grand narratives and fill a given informational space with everything, could the people who actually constituted the major objects in those frames sense (or wilfully construct) a story from that abundance, from

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myriad facts? Could the people who make, commission, or star in many tiny videos (each a grab-bag or potpourri of influences) see a tale of some description in their long-term projects?

visual biography: advocating work to the point of absurdity Having just had a baby, she was completely confused. She didn’t know if she should continue her career in the movies, perhaps be a singer or even a dancer.40

Two long narratives implicit in the work of late or post-Soviet video makers were the biographies of those who starred in them, and feature films, the longer stories they may also have helped to make. Many video collections of estrada artists included biographical information: interviews with the performers on the subject of their youth or reminiscences of their parents. Reminiscences per se have, of course, always been of great interest to the public and Russia has its own variety talkshows today, including Zhenskie istorii (Women’s Stories), Russkie prianiki (Ginger Snaps), Strizh i Ko. (Ksiusha Strizh and Company), Naobum (Off the Cuff), Abazhur (The Lampshade), and older favourites such as Subbotnii vecher s … (Saturday Evening with … ). This last broadcast has conducted long interviews with Laima Vaikule and Filipp Kirkorov, to name but two. Both interviews made much of baby photographs as the starting point of a (fated) meteoric career. The connections between early biography and adult performance were neatly woven; Kirkorov’s life and behaviour were termed a grand “solo concert” that began the day he was born. That concert, as we have seen in previous pages, was a combination of fate and chance, of events both started and suffered. When Vaikule talked of her own “lifeline,” even though she sometimes paralleled the account of Kirkorov’s biography as foreordained, she preferred a less rectilinear image: “Everything in my life happens by chance.”41 Ultimately these broadcasts hold little interest for us; the combination of talk with songs is much more valuable. This juxtaposition sometimes takes the form of documentary films recording a given album’s production. Tat’iana Ovsienko, for example, recorded the making of her Beyond a Pink Sea in the city of Perm’. The private intent of this type of film was often stressed, the desire to emphasize a recording’s subjective significance for the performer and its relationship to an equally private childhood (since to do so today is to reclaim those years from their usual or prior political significance). Ovsienko placed her song and video “Nash dvor” (“Our Courtyard”), for example, in the

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context of “fond childhood memories” and the whispers of fourteenyear-olds: “I love you and maybe I’ll give you a kiss.” She also enjoyed working with a small youth choir for the song “Gorod detei” (“City of Children”), since children’s opinions are “sincere and genuine.” This type of comment reduced the big, public star to a small, private someone whose “little life has been amazingly interesting.” Songs were sung because they were amazingly interesting and meant a lot to one person, who was herself “akin to a child living in a [big] adult world.”42 When given a chance to talk on camera, the star deliberately made herself small amid magnified dimensions for subjective purposes. Using youthful sentiment in discussions of the future was also a common practice, because it turned biography into a kinetic, neverending present. Vaikule said in the broadcast Saturday Evening with … that happiness for her is always “just a moment” before another impetus takes her off elsewhere; Kirkorov said in a documentary on his Supertour ’98 that “I’m never satisfied, either with myself or those around me.” That desire to keep working was fostered in a Bulgarian schoolboy; painstaking changes on the estrada had enabled the adult Kirkorov to outlast “any one-day wonders, such as Laskovyi mai.”43 Variation both shunned and outlasted linear notions of success. When these performers discussed the visualization of such notions, it was clear that variation born of youthful sentiment also filled the stage. Kirkorov was unable to take one of his huge stage shows to Las Vegas and New York, but that mattered little “because he brought himself, a volcano of energy.” He himself was the set, and the show – a viewable and mutable moment of the present – was his biography.44 Given this hypothesis, it is interesting that two of the leading exponents of the big stage, Kirkorov and Irina Allegrova, have both produced several collections of concert footage interspersed with biographical facts, family reminiscences, and other mileposts, in which childhood photographs appear everywhere. Such television broadcasts or films turn the “then” of childhood into the observable “now” of what happens on stage.45 Two interesting variations on this treatment of visual biography came with video collections from Litsei and Natasha Koroleva. The members of Litsei were (and are) still young and had less personal history to manipulate. Their parents therefore did the job for them. As Aleksei Makarevich, their manager (and the father of one member), explained how he organized the trio, he gave an interesting insight into the way estrada fosters its own “children.” Makarevich admitted that he demands work from the young women “to a extreme degree, sometimes to the point of absurdity.” That effort allowed changes to take place in their lives and songs. “Each person [in the ensemble] is

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multifaceted, so that she can be one character in one song and another character in a different song.”46 Since exertion helped to foster metamorphoses, the women (following the philosophy of their manager) would keep plying their trade: “Our plans? We’ll work.” Natasha Koroleva’s use of biography was even more closely woven when made visible. In the video for her early song “Dve sestry” (“Two Sisters”) she appeared with her sister Irusia, a well-known singer in Ukraine, and their parents.47 Childhood sentiment no longer propelled estrada; rather, it ran beside and entered it directly – the past entered the present. We cannot make too much of these intrusions, though, because the video collections in which they are interwoven are something of a patchwork, no piece of which has dimensions of longer than three minutes and wider than a television screen. Let us increase time and size and see what happens. How were the lives of multiple characters, often from a distant past, structured and developed over two hours on a cinema screen? How did estrada present its own life (as tradition or hero’s biography) in the cinema?

feature films: amusing and (perhaps) better stories She: “ I’m no prima donna.” He: “ But I can’t go on without you.”48

Of the many films starring our estrada artistes, I have chosen eight that reflect the basic processes under investigation. The earliest was made in 1978; the most recent in 1994. It makes sense to examine them in approximate order according to where their subjects lie in history; thus, the two concerning the most distant past – the eighteenth century – are discussed first. The films are historical adventures that grew from a popular Soviet miniseries entitled Gardemariny, vpered! (Midshipmen, Onwards!). The four-part series inspired our two feature films: Hurrah, Midshipmen! in 1991 and the appropriately titled Midshipmen 3 in 1992.49 Both starred Kristina Orbakaite in the role of a very young Catherine the Great. The first film takes place in 1744, a year before the future Peter III married Catherine, who was then a German princess, Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst. He was fifteen, she sixteen, and their future life together would be a disaster. After seventeen years of marriage, she would force him to abdicate and a few days later he would be murdered in mysterious circumstances. This dramatic picture is painted in even more dramatic terms by the Soviet screenwriter, who equates Russia’s choice of monarch – the young Sophie – with the nation’s choice in the tenth century between Christianity and “pagan”

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polytheism as the state religion. Despite this imposingly broad canvas, the film’s central characters strive to invest their lives with a private, sentimental significance outside of history’s impersonal and sometimes murderous narratives, as they had done in the television series.50 The film is full of richly romantic dialog such as, “You have the kind of eyes one could drown in, Your Highness. Fortunately I am an excellent swimmer.” The conflict between bottomless eyes and limitless conspiracy is considerable; genuine affect struggles to remain alive amidst the byzantine workings of court intrigue. The task is very difficult; Orbakaite says in the film: “True love [in this royal court] is like a ghost. Everybody talks about it, but few people have seen it.” It would appear that even Sophie never sees it after she changes into Catherine, into the ruler of an age that the film’s conclusion calls “terrible.” The director therefore chooses the youthful, quiet innocence of a princess over the state-sponsored crudity of an elderly empress. The biography is cut short when it starts to look ugly. Midshipmen 3 is just as keen to preserve its modest emotional focus at the expense of public matters. We now move to 1757, when Russia is at war with Prussia and Sophie is in the process of becoming Catherine. The previous theme of “true love” is here renamed “love and fidelity” – in other words, personal loyalties under pressure from public (i.e., royal) responsibilities. The world of intrigue and espionage moves fittingly to Venice, to the time of carnival, masquerade, and circus. Political and amorous masks interweave, because personal honour is hard to maintain in the face of corrupt civic impersonality (especially on the battlefield). The honest, honourable sentiment of two people (in love or friendship) is raised by the end of the film to a national ideal. Hence the midshipmen’s famous song, according to which “a sail and the soul are as one. As one are my fate and the nation.” The lonely sailing ship – of Sophie’s childhood sentiment or a midshipman’s youthful honour – becomes an example for others in the eighteenth century, just as it is in 1992. Matters of the heart outlast and outshine those of government. The third film we are considering takes place in a magical, unspecified time, but sartorial and other cultural clues would suggest the late nineteenth century. Obyknovennoe chudo (An Ordinary Miracle) is based on an extremely popular children’s play by Evgenii Shvarts.51 The story has equal resonance for an older audience, and in 1978 was made into a film for adults. Although the movie was made just before the period under consideration in this book, it is still important, because it is one of the works for which Dolina sang off screen in her early career and was mentioned by the singer herself in terms of the effort involved in adopting a sung role of this type. An Ordinary Miracle is the tale of a

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magician, bored after the eighth year of an uneventful marriage. To relieve the tedium, he turns a bear into a handsome youth. The bear will regain its bestial form only if a princess falls in love with and kisses it. Despite his cruel design, the magician is unwilling to reverse the metamorphosis, since that would be “uninteresting.”52 Of course, a princess appears; like the bear, she is an orphan. Dolina’s dubbed character is Èmiliia, a woman in the royal entourage who spends much of the film in a state of (emotional) flux herself. By chance she meets Èmil, an hotelier whom she loved twenty years before, in her youth. As her past moves into the present and that love returns, Èmiliia’s severity lessens and she is reborn as a gentler, more sentimental woman. Both couples play out a drama of love versus brute nature, change versus stasis, good versus evil, magical free will versus apparent fate. These oppositions are all contained within the world of the magician, who pens the fairy tales that constitute his own (biographical) narrative. His wife tells him: “You’ve written a bad tale. Time to forget it. The day will come when you’ll write another one – a happy and beautiful story.” And he does so, though it is entirely possible that it is by simply wishing a happier ending. It may be that his heart overruled his head to produce what his wife later calls “an amusing, successful and, perhaps, better story.” All ends well. If writing a personal tale or narrative was hard among cantankerous magicians, it was tougher still among politicians. The film in which Dmitrii Malikov starred, See Paris and Die, is difficult to watch, a story of personal desire and private dreams crushed underfoot by the bigger plans of political ideology and public prejudice.53 It takes place during the sixties, a time of supposedly greater tolerance for various forms of romance. Malikov’s character has lost his father in the war and is therefore “orphaned,” like the bear and the princess. (One could argue the case for Princess Sophie’s social orphanhood, too.) He is a young, gifted pianist whose mother would dearly love to see him play in Paris, perhaps because she dreams of visiting the city herself. The pressures of developing the shy boy’s artistic temperament are already considerable in a noisy communal apartment, but the arrival of a boorish neighbour worsens the situation. As this anti-Semitic newcomer gradually discovers and makes public the family’s Jewish roots, the mother is forced to denigrate herself emotionally and sexually to keep her son’s life safe and secret. All the time she is obsessed with Edith Piaf, but Paris slips further away. Russian estrada songs heard occasionally in the background do little to lighten the mood.54 The mother is eventually driven to suicide, but Malikov’s character goes on to post-Soviet success, underlining the suicide’s waste, since most of the political obstacles that kept the mother in Russia had vanished by the nineties.

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Did films built around actors taken from estrada suggest that personal narratives of artistic self-realization were any jollier after 1991, though? The next of our films, Limita (VIP ), was made in 1994 and is set in that year, amongst the problems of those allowed to reside in Moscow for a given limit of time or a particular job (thus we have more “orphans”).55 A small group of young friends from the industrial town of Piatigorsk moves to the capital with only 160 rubles. One of them, Ivan, manages to make a large amount of money as a hacker, working on commission for Mafia clients. Through early scenes of financial success the film cuts back constantly to eight-millimetre footage of the friends’ first few days in Moscow, before the pressures of work and profit drew them apart. One of them, surprisingly, has found employment designing hacker-proof systems for a bank and is saddened to learn that Ivan has been hired to crack his finest work, a particularly complicated program. He eventually asks to see his friend’s “most interesting” project. Meanwhile Ivan falls in love with a certain Katia (played by Kristina Orbakaite) and tells her he is a bank robber: “Wow! I’ve only seen them in the movies. That’s so interesting. Let’s do a robbery together!” His love for Katia makes Ivan question his morals, especially because he thinks (wrongly) that he assaulted her while in a drunken, drugged stupor. Consequently he invites his bank employee friend on a drinking binge, so they can remember and relive kinder times. They steal some pickles from a store by distracting a banana-munching saleswoman with questions about her sex life. While very inebriated, Ivan then decides to take pity on his friend and not work further on cracking his code. He also welcomes Katia into their lives and plans a celebratory meal. Word soon reaches the Mafia that Ivan has stopped deciphering the program; when they come to punish him only the bank employee is at home, since everybody else is out buying provisions for the party. He is shot dead, execution style. Ivan cannot bring himself to adopt a reciprocal cruelty and murder the murderer. He sits, drinking heavily, on the steps of an abandoned riverbank stadium he has recently bought in the hope of building a nightclub called vip (Voroshilov Ivan Palace) to accomodate 2,000 people. The big personality, created through capital or a stadiumfilling subjectivity in the capital, is led by love and friendship to scale itself down radically and reject the linear notion of business (of increasing profit). The sentimental dignity of Orbakaite’s character inspires and validates that downscaling. The pressures of capital and crime on friendship are just as dramatic in a 1991 thriller starring Laima Vaikule, V russkom stile (In a Russian Style).56 There are three central characters: a girl who has been missing

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for two weeks, her father, and a mysterious taxi driver (Vaikule) who agrees to help find her. The taxi driver helps the father buy a gun illegally in order to avenge his daughter’s disappearance. In a scuffle with the supposed kidnappers, the father shoots his opponent. As if the situation were not bad enough, Vaikule’s character then admits she had once suffered herself at the hands of the same criminal and wanted somebody to kill him, hence she was happy to instigate and further the father’s dramatic plan for justice. A ransom is arranged, and the taxi driver’s knowledge of chemistry allows her to prepare a bomb, triggered by opening the briefcase, which is full of money. The criminals suspect such a ruse and force the father to open the case himself. Thankfully there is a delay in the detonation process and he manages to walk away before the bomb explodes, leaving him, the taxi driver (with whom he is now in love), and his daughter safe with a portion of the ransom money for themselves. Once again capital is juxtaposed with sentiment in the form of family and romance. Capital loses badly; family wins. In case the viewer is wondering about the overall status of stately, governmental, and grand narratives at this time, another film featuring Vaikule neatly shows the relationship of the linearity of civic projects to biography during perestroika. Tantsy na kryshe (Dances on the Rooftop), a movie by the famous Gorkii Children’s Film Studio, concerns fifteenyear-old Viktor, wavering in his choice of future career and social significance.57 “You’re an adult now,” says his mother. “You’ve got to answer for your acts.” Nothing really matters to Viktor, though, neither career options nor girls (who all think their dreams will come true by the year 2000). He goes to a Vaikule concert and hears her perform the song “Find Me”, a tale of discovering personally significant emotion, “even though I’m always rushing off somewhere or other.” He cannot make the same discovery himself, and after the dazzling concert realizes that “there’s not enough spectacle in my life,” which is a problem because spectacular “beauty costs money.” He wavers between an offer of factory work and the unimpressive company of his break-dancing friends. The factory is presented in a way that should impress Viktor, for there are lingering civic tendencies in the movie; he sees footage of Britain’s long and tragic miners’ strike on television, but neither Soviet pros nor Western cons allow him to make peace with his private, local life. He spends much time wandering the city streets alone and relates his unfinished private tale only to a female friend (since she might sympathize). “There was once an ordinary boy, nothing special. He had a lot of friends and sometimes they danced on the rooftop [of their building]. He looked in the mirror to see

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himself one day, but the mirror was blank … I haven’t decided how the story’ll continue yet.” The film ends with Viktor sitting alone on an empty rooftop, still debating. If there was little hope for private meaning in modern Russia, did the West offer any viable alternative in estrada movies? We have looked at the significance of America for songs. When those songs’ singers took to the silver screen, the most telling Western narrative came from Kristina Orbakaite in the 1993 film Charity Ball.58 A film director in New York begins after several years to regret having left Russia, which for him now means abandoned “friends and family.” He has not been able to obtain the funding he requires to work and therefore remains idle, saved only by his poorly paid work as a lift operator. Even his tuxedo for the ball of the film’s title is rented. Loudly drowning his woes at a hotel bar, he accidentally interrupts a woman’s audition for lounge singer. Ignoring an American’s irritating summation of Russia as “Moscow, kolkhoz, and Gulag,” he is inspired to shed his selfish selfpity and help the girl get a second audition. He collects thirty signatures from those nearby attesting to her fine voice. On leaving the bar he also decides to milk his twenty-four-hour expense account and have a massage. He meets Shirley (played by Orbakaite), a girl working the late shift in the hotel spa. Shirley has always dreamed of acting and argues with the director over her ability to become an actress. “Each of us has his path,” he says hopelessly; she counters with the more optimistic assertion that “each artist has his face, his voice.” Through kindness and sympathy, she offers an alternative to hopeless fatalism and happily accepts his invitation for an audition in his hotel room. He asks her to play the role of a goodnatured woman wronged by great evil. Her performance is inspired, and the director in turn is inspired by it, but he is stuck in a country where he has no money, cannot work, and therefore cannot help her. The audition turns into a one-night stand.59 On leaving New York, the director calls Shirley and apologizes to her for turning art into sex. She, oddly, is very grateful, because she saw how her acting touched him and now knows that she can – and will – become a star. His sentiment inspired the same feelings in her. Together, two people briefly overcame the problems of exile. Although the director is no better off at the end of the film than he was at the start, the final frames show him dancing away into an airport lounge. Kinship and feeling, if lasting only a moment, have beaten exile (the primacy of space and linear time as directed by the state). For a few minutes the importance (or weight) of the past is lost in a celebration of a sentimental present. The film has a happy ending.

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conclusion: estrada films try to show change as normality Larisa, I remember that I saw you on the tv very recently and you looked a little chubby. But now I see the television program Women’s Stories and you’re an absolute treasure! You’re an example to all of us! Only the most courageous and stubborn kind of woman can make that much of herself!60

In Midshipmen, Onwards! Kristina Orbakaite sings “Pesenka o sverchke” (“A Little Song about the Grasshopper”). The fifteen-year-old princess, not yet a terrible empress, celebrates the way music changes the world (and is itself changed) when inspired by the heart: “How the violin bow sings when the grasshopper is in love!”61 Dolina, heard as Èmiliia on the soundtrack of An Ordinary Miracle, relates how her romance with Èmil has been reborn after twenty years of loneliness. Both the weather and the evening seem to have changed; although these metamorphoses are “difficult to explain,” the pair conclude that their reunion is the cause.62 In the original play, Èmiliia wishes that she could live in a land where such changes were natural, where no magicians write bad narratives that others must enact. Change should be so modest and private that it goes unnoticed, part of a natural flow. Oh, how I’d love to go to those remarkable countries that we’re told about in novels. The sky there is gray, it rains a lot and the wind howls in chimneys. They don’t have that damned word “suddenly.” Things flow from one into another … Unusual events happen there so rarely that people don’t recognize them whenever they do – after all – actually happen. Even death itself looks explicable in such a place, especially the death of other people. In that country there are neither magicians nor miracles. When young men kiss girls they don’t turn into bears, or if they do, nobody gives it any special significance. It’s an amazing world, a happy world.63

The desire to see normality – or change as normality – has been the central theme of this chapter. The changes of estrada’s history, which effected a normal, unassuming, but “happy world” of metamorphoses with no special significance, lay at the foundation of Russia’s most famous celebration of songs and their “remarkable countries,” Old Songs About What Matters. Here the past, be it the forties or sixties, was tucked into the present, where it gained a new significance. That representation of renewed time had a counterpart in the constructed space of stage sets; the way estrada viewed its history was shown in the way it viewed the place where it performed. The flat stage of Soviet variety

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gradually became rounded as the myriad significances of those sitting in the hall were enveloped; the one voice began to embrace others. As we saw with Kirkorov’s stage for his Supertour ’98, the inclusion of the audience into the space of a stage was also accomplished by radiating outwards into their seating. The small, bright light of the performance area was extended by a series of long, bold catwalks; thus the old meaning of an audience (from cabaret and var’ete) was reclaimed. An expansive radiating stage today can claim and rework the modest social subjectivity of pre-revolutionary cabaret. Videos have attempted a similar process in that they, too, knead past meanings into the present; we saw as an example Apina’s “Aleksei,” in which Soviet martial symbolism served a modern lyrical purpose. In Ovsienko’s “I’ll Fly After You” a futuristic scene was also used to highlight a present emotional state. The linear movement of time involved to create a richer, ever-present now. On occasion, it even resulted in the depiction of a time that is outside of time, such as the fairy-tale settings of Koroleva’s “Little Land.” The manipulation of temporality in such a way that it mimicked the spatial changes on stage was more of a female endeavour, since it was done sentimentally, and Soviet estrada (if not Slavic folklore) granted women more room for lyrical expression than (emotionally stunted) men. Comedy went a long way towards erasing this difference; it allowed for a unisexual involution of both time (in video) and space (on stage) – men are not expected, even in the Soviet tradition, to be any less funny than women. Fond mockery of phenomena both past and present has made comedy in estrada videos a rich and powerful vein of non-linear narratives (as in Ovsienko’s “Morozov” and Kirkorov’s “Vinovat, ia vinovat”). As three-minute patches of time and space helped to create a quilted patchwork narrative in collections of estrada videos, so too did the biographies of its performers. Singers highlight moments (presently) of “interest”; as a result, the notion of self is constantly changing. This shifting subjectivity is so akin to the stage by which it is framed that, as mentioned, one of Kirkorov’s colleagues believed his mere presence on a stage could compensate for the absence of an entire Las Vegas production. The estrada lichnost’ both fills and is the stage, as a record of visible, ongoing effort, of endless “labour” in the material world (physical and financial). Labour repeatedly helped to reach an ideal beyond matter. This task, born of Soviet estrada, was very evident in the films that starred estrada performers during and after perestroika. (It was even felt in films from the Brezhnev years, such as An Ordinary Miracle.) These longer narratives

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took place amidst impersonal political stories: eighteenth-century royal courts, battlefields, distant (magical) kingdoms, the heavy industry of Piatigorsk, Mafia business in modern Moscow, the pressures of antiSemitism in communal apartments of the 1960s, the disillusioned youth of Gorbachev’s late Soviet doldrums, the expensive hotels of New York. None of these “domains,” tangible or ideological, left any real room for subjective experiments or investigation into personality. They were all busy telling their own, direct stories of prestige gained, land conquered, quotas surpassed, Jews displaced, or socialism salvaged. Nevertheless, Dmitrii Malikov, Laima Vaikule, Kristina Orbakaite, and Larisa Dolina, to name but four, tried hard to save the private from the public, the ideal from the material, the potential of the present from the dictates of the past. In the words of Shirley the masseuse (who is very far outside of any grand narrative), they tried to help “each artist to find his face and voice.” By doing so they ensured that a significant philosophy was – and continues to be – heard from the most insignificant of mouths. The little presence harboured the very big idea. Having shrunk to these minimum dimensions, our study has one final question to ask, and does so by reversing our perspective. What were the overarching forces of signification in Soviet cultural history that led us to the peculiar position where a lonely little woman means so much? What kind of governmental history got us to this point?

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RUSSIAN POPULAR CULTURE AFTER 1982: THE BIG PICTURE

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“WHY AM I SINGING NOW ?” GRAND NARRATIVES AND THEIR HARD-WORKING SURVIVORS Apparently there’s some kind of strange correspondence between life’s overall design and those little stories that constantly occur in people’s lives, the kind of stories those same people consider pointless.1 Russian show business has long displayed its similarity with our political system: only the most notorious heavyweights have any chance of survival.2

the nation’s biggest birthday party invites the wrong guest If I am correct in hypothesizing that little people such as Charity Ball’s Shirley harbour or embody extremely big ideas, that her minor “Slavic” state reflects several major cultural and historical processes, then we are now in a good position to formulate some broad theories about our chosen subject. There is perhaps no better place to start than 6 June 1999, when Russia celebrated the 200th anniversary of the birth of its most famous cultural figure, the poet Aleksandr Pushkin (1799– 1837). Already in January state television had started trumpeting the “Cultural Event of the Year,” but it managed to bridle its full glee until spring, when a dog-eared copy of the poet’s versified novel Eugene Onegin took centre stage. Two stanzas were broadcast daily from this typical Soviet card-bound edition in a series of one-minute programs, designed to punctuate a national countdown. Equally typical members of the public were cornered on the street or at work by television cameras and asked to recite lines shown to them seconds before. Meanwhile this romantic poet, whose aura of rebelliousness had unnerved Soviet leaders and educators, was also celebrated (off-camera) by those same citizens in endless jokes that underscored Pushkin’s heritage, his enduring historical and political relevance. Stalin decides to build a statue in 1937 to commemorate 100 years since the poet’s death. Three sculptors, sweating with fear, make some suggestions face-

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russian popular culture after 1982 to-face with their leader: “A statue of Pushkin reading a book by Stalin?” “That’s politically correct, but historically incorrect,” comes the reply. The second sculptor steps up: “A statue of Stalin reading a book by Pushkin?” Stalin thinks for a while: “That’s historically correct but politically incorrect.” The third sculptor comes forward: “A statue of Stalin reading a book by Stalin, perhaps?” “Mmm,” says the dictator. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.”3

The significance of Pushkin’s heritage was apparent in several domains and was used to great effect by many businesses, which managed to promote their wares and the bard’s verse simultaneously. Some newspapers began – rightly – to doubt the degree of sincerity or selfless erudition at work, and offered an alternative, formerly Soviet, and truly popular tradition to celebrate: the recent fiftieth birthday of Alla Pugacheva, loved by one and all, young and old. Here is what the people really know and care about, claimed one nationally published journalist in a fit of pique. In the month before the poet’s birthday, he could stand no more profit-oriented poetry: “Who said ‘Pushkin’? Was it you? Get out! pu-ga-che-va! pu-ga-che-va!! … Sure, all those soldiers, milkmaids and bus conductors read Eugene Onegin in unison on the tv; it looks like they know what’s what. But you lock ’em in a room, let them have a smoke and then ask them to recite some Pushkin. They don’t know a ****ing thing! … Ask them about Pugacheva, though, and they’ll sing you her entire repertoire.”4 The work and the scandalous biography of the redheaded diva Pugacheva mattered more than Pushkin. They still do. They matter a lot. Many people would agree with this journalist. When considering the workings of canonized literature (or music), the current Western academic context tends to hold that modernist, linear narratives or “totalizing theories” such as a progressive poetic tradition are neither valid nor viable. Both create big, objective stories from a little, subjective information, then expend enormous time and energy legitimizing, and promoting themselves – in the case of the Pushkin anniversary, by being broadcast in nationwide, suitably decorous, “traditional” poetry readings from Eugene Onegin. In the concluding chapter of our markedly populist study, must they be dismissed as wholly invalid, though? Is Pugacheva the outright winner? The purpose of this chapter is to pause for sober thought, to examine some linear governmental or historical narratives in Soviet culture, the forms they took, and why – despite Pugacheva and others like her – they do perhaps still matter.5 What were the enduringly successful forces of signification or legitimization in Soviet official cultural history outside estrada that led after decades to this point – to an isolated, doggedly surviving masseuse in the nineties – and that paradoxically maybe even aided her

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enormous significance? Such post-modernist issues acquire a special significance on post-Soviet Slavic soil. That significance needs to be formulated as we approach the end of our journey across virgin territory. One way to do so is to start with an idea of Jean-François Lyotard concerning precisely what he terms the “survivors” of a historical event (such as Shirley). Recent research by British sociologists Anthony Giddens and Rob Stones will then help us to institute a cautious yet clear rationale for history’s ongoing validity, together with ways in which that validity can be cultivated and shared socially. The most exciting recent developments in socially applicable philosophy have come from Gilles Deleuze. His thoughts on the constitution of a social “personality” dovetail with those of Giddens and Stones. Together, these men allow us to question both the nature and the usual interpretation of grand narratives. Consequently we might be able to offer a new and productive slant on how to approach history. What Russians have to say about their Soviet roots makes a great deal more sense if we can re-institute certain aspects of a historical narrative, albeit in an unorthodox manner.6 Together, artists and audiences constitute all the people involved in what makes Russian estrada the significant cultural phenomenon it has been for decades. With its approval and affection, this audience gives estrada the ability and the right to say that it has a history.

lyotard: surviving the end of somebody else’s history A cultural principle has a certain, fixed period of existence, roughly a thousand years. Over that period the principle goes through the same stages as a human being; a culture can be young, old or in demise. It’s exactly that kind of demise that’s going on now.7

The French philosopher Jean-François Lyotard is perhaps best known today for his definitions of modernism and post-modernism. By drawing on his work, we can place the Russian popular song of the last twenty years in a helpful context, especially since Lyotard makes some pertinent observations on the nature of Marxism and its positioning relative to the structure of grand narratives.8 Some of his key thoughts on Marx are made in a discussion of how the “legitimacy” of history is negotiated among its participants. Drawing a parallel between negotiating, talking, and fighting – or at least the rough-and-tumble of playing – Lyotard points out why such fights are often unfair. Discourse conducted with any institution or institutionalized ideology is lopsided because “an institution always requires supplementary constraints for

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statements to be declared admissible within its bounds.”9 An institution has rules to define what it is and what can be said about it. Thus, the nature of knowledge, competence, and verity in a given institutionalized field – such as the writing of history – is defined and canonized in certain tales, legends, and myths about the way things were, are, and will be. These tales are the stories of people and events developing, of a destination. Knowledge of the world is legitimized by two main categories of these linear accounts. The first is a grand tale of “humanity as the hero of liberty.” Liberty is to be gained scientifically, despite the interference of the Church and political opponents. Such an argument is often employed in a simplistic manner for political ends. “The State resorts to the narrative of freedom every time it assumes direct control over the training of the ‘people,’ under the name of the ‘nation,’ in order to point them down the path of progress.” 10 The second type of narrative is not political, but philosophical; it is complex, not simple, and is designed to give unity to speculative activity as embodied by universities. “The only valid way for the nation-state to bring the people to expression is through the mediation of speculative knowledge.” The narrative of this type of learning advocates knowledge for its own sake, so that learning does not pander to the state; rather, it says what the state is – and therefore perhaps takes its place as the single source of wisdom. “Knowledge first finds legitimacy within itself, and it is knowledge that it is entitled to say what the State and Society are. But it can only play this role by changing levels, by ceasing to be simply the positive knowledge of its referent (nature, society, the State, etc.), [and by] becoming in addition to that the knowledge of the knowledge of the referent – that is, by becoming speculative. In the names ‘Life’ and ‘Spirit,’ knowledge names itself.” This type of narrative looks for knowledge that it claims is there in the first place, justifies its own activity over time, and therefore justifies history. The first of the two kinds of narratives is the tale of simple humanity, the second is that of the complex university; the first makes knowledge subservient to a purpose, the second makes the purpose subservient to (critical) knowledge. Lyotard believes that Marxism has vacillated between the two types of storytelling. It would be easy to show that Marxism has wavered between the two models of narrative legitimation. The Party takes the place of the University, the proletariat that of the people or of humanity, dialectical materialism that of speculative idealism, etc. Stalinism may be the result, with its specific relationship with the sciences: in Stalinism, the sciences only figure as citations from the metanarrative of the march towards socialism, which is the equivalent of the life of the

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spirit. But on the other hand Marxism can, in conformity to the second version, develop into a form of critical knowledge by declaring that socialism is nothing other than the constitution of the autonomous subject and that the only justification for the sciences is if they give the empirical subject (the proletariat) the means to emancipate itself from alienation and repression.11

Since World War Two, great skepticism towards such narratives has arisen with the advent of technological growth, both in and far beyond Russia. Traditional knowledge of truth, morality, and beauty has fallen to a principle of efficacy: the more efficient a procedure (the less energy expended), the better. Knowledge is now no longer an end in itself. It is therefore no longer the domain of scholars, priests, or other traditionally oriented individuals. Information and “truth” are now fair game for an ever-changing number of experts, each of whom reigns only until he or she is outmoded. One aim of this book has been to examine all three forms of legitimization mentioned here, in particular, their relationship to the performance of popular songs: the very public, socialist emancipation of humanity (as civic spirit); the unification of speculative thought (as ethics or self-awareness); and the endless renovation of knowledge and skills in a post-industrial context (innovation versus conservatism). In particular we have examined their relation to events at the waning of the Soviet Union, a time when the first two of these narratives stopped dead yet all forms of cultural expression continued. The resulting question was, How did Russian performers legitimize their art after 1991, and did this issue in fact arise before the nineties, because most of the singers examined were also famous in the eighties? And what happened to the pre-1991, Soviet practices? Songs – the focus of our attention – kept going after the ideology that had validated their existence vanished. They proved themselves to be “survivors” of a sort, a condition Lyotard has touched upon in an essay of the same name.12 He talks of the mysterious state of nature that follows the end or postscript of any narrative. The rather complex paragraph that follows is of great importance is finding a loophole in the problem I have just outlined, in the non-choice between “truth” or knowledge as self-legitimating myth and the lack of stable, longterm verities. The word survivor implies that an entity that is dead or ought to be is still alive. The concept of this “still,” a reprieve, a stay of death, brings with it a problematic of time – not just any problematic of time, but one of its relation to the question of the being and non-being of what is. More precisely, of a time in which the entity is in relation with its beginning and its end, in relation

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russian popular culture after 1982 with the enigma in which the entity comes to its being as entity and then leaves this being. It is therefore necessarily a double enigma, in that time is twice in relation with “its” non-being: it appears and disappears. But since when the entity is not, it also does not possess “its” non-being (since non-being is non-relation), the enigma to which I refer is that of a relation with what has no relation, that is, with an absolute.13

The finite presence of a survivor somehow has a connection to an infinite realm; a bounded entity stands in relation to (i.e., is bound to) boundlessness. Lyotard attempts to link the two by comparing a survivor’s unexpected presence with birth. The surviving subject does not directly experience the birth or appearance of itself; others tell it of its relation to something more than itself, to an absolute. “My birth is always only recounted by others, and my death told to me in the stories of the death of others, my stories and others’ stories.”14 By creating a spoken link between where I am and what I have survived, I am twice linked to absence, belittled relative both to the absolute that frames the time of my existence and to the massed truancy of those to whom these narratives link me. This mystery that comes with the stories constituting any biography (as told to its subject) is often lost in what Lyotard calls “the most authorized and linking of traditions,” existing with no room for mystery or difference, based as they are on utter conformity. The way to reduce these traditions’ arrogant dismissal of meaning outside, before, or after themselves is to somehow assure that “the enigma of a something to which there is no response must continue to inhabit the mind secretly (the question of ‘why me?’), the enigma of the singularity of birth, which cannot be shared, like that of death. The persistence of this enigma can make the mind accessible to something that is prior to the world of culture and tradition.”15 Lyotard says that “only” by keeping this mystery alive will the moribund hold of traditional narratives be held at bay. One type of story must be told to keep another at bay; the structure of one, supremely private type of tradition can inhibit another, public one. What kind of stories preserve that enigma, though, remains itself a mystery. Let us try a different approach in order to unravel it.

build a tradition! how? socialized skills or “lecherous” labour? The Russian economy goes further and further down the toilet, yet business is booming, growing stronger and venturing into international markets. Think for a second about the people around you. What are they trading in? Utterly immaterial things: television and radio airtime, advertising space.16

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Elsewhere I have referred to the sociology of Anthony Giddens in trying to unravel a kindred mystery.17 Giddens maintains that individuals draw upon their knowledge of a given context (which we might call “tradition”) in order to act according to their wishes. The results of an act (successful or not) are added to future, better, and fuller knowledge of that context. More desired acts add new, altered knowledge to a new, altered context. Shared, objective knowledge of that context goes hand in hand with subjective wishes and results produced by an act. “The threat of personal meaninglessness is ordinarily held at bay because routinised activities, in combination with basic trust, sustain ontological security.”18 That is, if I decide I would like to trust them, contexts, shared knowledge, and tradition allow me to get things done. Giddens here is placing “self,” defined by wishes and desires, where Lyotard would place “the enigma of the singularity of birth (‘why me?’).” Who I am and what I want are matters that, although informed and prompted towards a certain type of answer by tradition, define my singularity and are, one hopes, not dictated by the structures of custom. A recent application of this process of “structure→agency→structure” has been made by another British sociologist, Rob Stones, in the attempt to rescue Gidden’s work from accusations that it merely reestablishes restrictive modernist narratives. In essence, Stones feels that doubt can act as the saving grace of such narratives – the admission that neither knowledge nor tradition is comprehensive, since both pass over myriad facts and figures as they happily hypothesize the meaning of history. He hopes that sociologists, in aspiring to objective knowledge, will “luxuriate ostentatiously in a steep sweeping bow before the life-affirming goddess of doubt.”19 To doubt a narrative is to allow room for mystery and the enigma of singularity. If doubt can be maintained, “epistemic gain” will hold sway over any pretensions to absolute truth, all in the desire to build a “bridge between high theory and empirical research.”20 Doubt has been a very significant aspect of this study. Lyotard, Giddens, and Stones all presume that some form of tradition still exists, yet we have examined popular songs after 1991, when perhaps there were no traditions any more.21 Having left one totalizing theory – socialism – perhaps the survivors (singers and performers) have only been turning back to the past for another similar theory in hopes of one day gaining something resembling ontological security. A survivor of such a past is, in Lyotard’s words, “an entity that is dead or ought to be [yet] is still alive.” As stated earlier, the very fact that an individual survives something in particular presupposes a connection between that individual and what it was that did not

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survive. In this case we are dealing with survivors of a traditional way of singing. Surely a singer is not a survivor until he or she sings after that tradition has disappeared. If a performer shut up after 1991, he or she had not survived anything at all. Therefore, as soon as a postSoviet song rings out, the question can come from the stage: “What on earth am I doing and why am I doing it now?” It is a question of the fretful doubter who thinks himself or herself unable to do or make what used to be done traditionally: I am (apparently) doing this on my own, but I have absolutely no idea why. One of the chapters of Red Stars is entitled “Why Sing?” During the Thaw, one answer to that question could be given by an analogy between singing and the kind of honest labour that could change the world.22 I employed post-Stalinist philosophy to show that within Marxism there was room for a little private idealism, and also that singers found it. They knew why they sang. If, however, labour per se in the land of materialist philosophy is halted or debased in the shambles of the former Soviet Union, then the room for an ideal vanishes. What are left are exhaustion, brute matter, and doubt as to why or how one might make claim to the role of a survivor. Why even bother? The debased significance of labour, which grew with the cynicism of the seventies in the Soviet Union, is neatly formulated in an essay by Mikhail Èpshtein. The author plays upon a line from the 1931 Mandel’shtam poem “Midnight in Moscow,” which refers to the “lechery of labour.” In Russian “lechery” and “labour” rhyme (blud / trud), and Èpshtein discusses the unseemly “feverish passion” with which labour was organized and conducted in the late ussr in order to make all property (sobstvennost’) social and thereby rob individuals of what was theirs, particular to them (svoi + osobennost’). Tracing this thought back to the blueprint of the grand socialist narrative, the Communist Manifesto, Èpshtein sees a dishonest and disagreeable logic at work: People realized that in all salvationary projects, beginning with the oldest socialist teachings and ending with scientific socialism, the collectivization of property was [eventually] going to be crowned with the collectivization of wives and women. Socialism does not presuppose sloth, as its slanderers declare. It only presupposes sex and labor as activities with no claim to their harvest, since they place it instead at the sage disposal of the state. Everybody should work for one another – both at the domestic hearth and the blast furnaces. Mandel’shtam [with the connotations of his rhyme] really didn’t say anything terribly novel. Social ownership of (a) the means by which things are produced and (b) people are reproduced already presupposes and consecrates a ritual lechery. Lechery is what labor becomes without the institution of private property. The same is true of married life without the institutions

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of family and wedlock. “Lecherous labor” is not a metaphor from some fantasy, but the metaphor of a realized utopia’s actuality. In that utopia the collectivization of property and the “common character of wives” [in the Manifesto] must organically supplement one another.23

We need to understand better how constructive labour – which once upon a time permitted the shared construction of ideal significances – was debased to the point where it became an ugly, avaricious assault on private property. By looking at the fate of work, dignity, and property in the late Soviet Union, we can get to the core of what it means for a survivor to ask, “Why me? Why am I doing or singing about this?” in an art form that saw itself (“me”) as the result of traditionally informed, dignified work. We need to know what it meant “to do or make” anything at all in Russia long after Mandel’shtam’s poem, in the Thaw of the sixties. I offer two contexts – first political, then philosophical – to frame the autumn and wintry decline of Soviet history.

build? with WHAT? the fate of raw materials and materialism In actual fact there’s no happiness, only consciousness of happiness. Or, in other words, there’s only consciousness … Everything else, including you and I, exists only insomuch as we enter into its domain.24

Red Stars looked at estrada as a series of cultural changes ushered in by the death of Stalin in 1953. In essence those changes were made possible by the marginally more liberal atmosphere of the Thaw under Nikita Khrushchev. In April 1964 Khrushchev celebrated his seventieth birthday with much pomp and circumstance; by mid-October he found himself ousted from the post of party leader. His reforms, now the object of scorn, had been fueled by the dizzying romance of Yuri Gagarin rushing through outer space and Cuban revolutionaries trekking through dense tropical shrubbery. Soon after began the remarkably lengthy and dull career of Leonid Brezhnev, who occupied the loftiest post of all until his death in November 1982. The Thaw was replaced by Stagnation (zastoi). Among other unpopular ideas, Khrushchev had proposed using regular elections to rotate a third of all party workers – including the nomenklatura, the senior bureaucracy – a suggestion that was rejected as soon as Brezhnev appeared. The upper echelons of the party had no desire to lose their material privileges and adopted a pose of maximal conservatism. Many outsiders were surprised at how intransigent Brezhnev’s political system quickly became, how the erstwhile movement

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of the Thaw now froze solid as some people saw – at last – a chance to settle down after the risks and horrors of living under Stalin. A substantial and distinguished history of Soviet society recently published in Moscow investigates in great detail the slow, insidious ways in which self-serving legislation was introduced by the nomenklatura in order to guarantee its financial stability and privileges. On the basis of his research into quiet daily corruption within the Soviet system, L.M. Timofeev has made a hypothesis concerning the nature of resources – the raw materials of work – in the ussr and their ownership during the “golden age of the nomenklatura” under Brezhnev. Timofeev first states the obvious: that all resources in the Soviet Union were utterly within the party’s field of influence, which excluded the population as a whole. Nevertheless, each and every day, the population came into contact at work with part of those resources, “at the factory, on the collective farm, in a ministry, a hospital or the army.”25 During the time of handling state resources at work, each person had the choice of serving either the state or his or her own aims. A lumberjack might steal some wood for a fire; a dairy worker might take a bottle from the milking shed for her children’s breakfast. These expressions of individual will Timofeev calls “the atoms of economic activity.” Each atom would claim a tiny section of the resources with which he or she came into daily contact and, without any qualms, use them as he or she saw fit, often on the black market. At a slightly loftier level – say, forest manager rather than lumberjack – more of the same resources would be available to use for gaining different rewards, for example, promotion or privilege. On the highest stratum of all, the nomenklatura was able to line its pockets by shifting the activities or assets of sizable operations into a shadow economy resulting from the system-wide movement of state resources for private gain. By the time the Soviet Union began to endorse privatization, the process had basically been completed on the sly. Timofeev extends his theory by tabulating the contradictions between conservative state dictates and real-life practices, between social pronouncements and their private interpretation. To the grand schemes of civic planning he opposes the “common sense of the average person.” To the interests of a state-sponsored corporation he opposes the “needs of the individual.” The average worker perceived a “right” to own and distribute a part of official property. In place of state distribution of customer goods and services he or she saw an allembracing black market, one based on transactions conducted under the counter and a system of mutual back-scratching. Prices fixed by the state meant nothing in comparison to “real,” black market prices.

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Stepping back from this picture of petty transactions and favours, we see a rather bleak canvas emerging. Instead of Soviet systems of power acting as the guarantor of “doctrinal order,” as officially declared, they actually existed in order to guarantee the shadow economy, since without a vertically structured system there could be neither desirable favours nor back-scratching. The persistence of private over public processes, of common sense over senseless socialism, is summed up by Timofeev’s assertion that the greater the prohibition against the ownership and movement of private property, the more was owned and the more it moved. Once again by implication, this means that the more loudly the nomenklatura expressed its distaste for capitalism and private gain, the more it benefited from an economic process that grew in size and speed, since it was sitting at the top. Given the universal inclination to better one’s lot, the daily differences between capitalism and communism were not as great as we might assume. “A shadow market appears first and foremost because there exists an inexhaustible reserve of resources, itself located within a[n all-encompassing] network of shadow property.” Two things are clear from this scenario. Firstly, the average Soviet citizen was a lot savvier than his Western counterpart has typically assumed. The Cold War metaphors we apply with happy abandon to decades of Soviet social history mask a more complex system of hierarchies than the puerile simplicity of “master and servant.” Soviet market acumen – potentially – afforded the average worker more freedom than is usually acknowledged. Secondly, that freedom was far from the spiritual or cultural havens of the intelligentsia. The worker bought and sold his way into a better life. His free will was expressed as, was fueled and fashioned by, capital: material gain and material goods. An individual’s ideal was maintained in the material world by an accepted shadow system of dishonest work. “The butcher in the shop next door knows that each Friday, when I buy an off-cut under the counter that’s officially in short supply, I won’t run off and tell the police. A patient, who – unnoticed – slips a neatly folded banknote into the pocket of a hospital nurse can bank on the fact that all his injections will be done on time.” What are the philosophical consequences of this state of affairs?

what a mess! why even bother? the spoiled ideal of effort The past is a train that is dragging the future behind it … You’re traveling back to front and see only what has just vanished.26

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Time for a little hope. In Red Stars I made considerable use of an important Soviet philosopher’s views on the relationship among labour, matter, and the “ideal” within a Communist system. Èvald Il’enkov (1924–79) advocated a way in which an ideal significance, one not naturally residing in the material world, could be made to manifest itself through human activity or work, in particular socially determined activities acquired or learned from others.27 To take an initial and simple example, here is what he had to say about the interaction of man and clay: The ideal is nothing else than the form of things, but existing outside things, namely in man, in the form of his active practice, i.e. it is the socially determined form of the human being’s activity (author’s italics). In nature itself, including the nature of man as a biological creature, the ideal does not exist. As regards the natural, material organization of the human body, it has the same external character as it does in regard to the material in which it is realized and objectified in the form of a sensuously perceived thing. Thus the form of a jar growing under the hands of a potter does not form part either of the piece of clay or of the inborn, anatomical, physiological organization of the body of the individual functioning as potter. Only insofar as man trains and exercises the organs of his body on objects created by man for man does he become the bearer of the active forms of social man’s activity that create the corresponding objects.28

The best and fullest exposition of Il’enkov’s ideas comes when we replace matter or clay with language. For the philosopher, words are also things to be endowed with an ideal meaning that manifests itself only when they enter into human activity, when they are used as a form of raw material. The supposedly objective or reified significance of a word gains an ideal state in the constant repetition of what Il’enkov calls the “closed cycle” of man’s transformational activity upon word-artifacts: “thing → deed → word → deed → thing.” A thingword in human dialog briefly comes alive in a manner that improves upon its material, silent state; the ideal is heard in the word and constantly needs to be socially vivified. If Il’enkov is correct in claiming that language is, like clay, a material substance, reworked into something ideal, that words undergo meaningful transformation, then we can say something about Khrushchev’s period as a whole. The ideal comes from the naming and claiming of space, from meeting a new space, affecting its meaning with words, and thus making it into something else, something ideal. The ability to do so is learned; it is passed down as tradition. Here Il’enkov is in agreement with Giddens. A couple of Russian critics have suggested, though, that Khrushchev’s willingness to accept linguistic change was limited: “His basic dogma

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was that of flexibility and multiplicity – but within the framework of an established worldview … his impulsive dogmatism was in the style of the sixties. Slogans changed, not methods.”29 If so, then maybe words did not change; maybe an ideal could not be created by the end of the Thaw. The fact that Gagarin made his magical flight into outer space only four months before the Berlin Wall went up surely says something about vacillation between sets of opposites under Khrushchev: free and frozen speech, transformed and fenced-off spaces, ideal and wholly material significances. The Thaw held out some hope for the transformation of space; during the Stagnation that hope vanished. The nomenklatura (and the phraseology it embodied) was well ensconced. The average Soviet citizen was unable to exercise a sense of self through ideal transformations – neither through words, nor through the kind of matter claimed en masse as unchanging, zealously guarded state property. Yet, as explained above, the matter of state property resided on a daily basis in the hands of over 200,000,000 Soviet citizens far from the Kremlin. Matter in this system did not change – it just moved around a lot. One’s “ideal” was achieved not through the spoken or physical transformation of space and substance, but merely through maximum acquisition: who I am is defined by what I do, and what I do now is collect all the stuff I need. Pre-existing and existing matter took on supreme significance; as early as May 1961 Khrushchev introduced the death penalty for several economic crimes – for the very transgressions that allowed life to continue on a normal basis. Given the awful complexity of creating anything at all in this environment, it is not surprising that the romanticism of the sixties became the cynicism of the seventies. Even before Gorbachev came into office, noises were being made in high places that market reforms (changes in material relations) were perhaps the only way out of this dead end. To admit that the dead end actually existed, however, meant discrediting all the time, “lecherous” work, and worry it had taken to get that far through the narrative. Such was the dilemma waiting for Gorbachev: the Soviet system’s rectitude waned rapidly, and major events on the road to socialism began to look like major mistakes. In fact, things looked so grim that survival was a more pressing concern than any form of creative endeavour.

phew! songs and the spoken effort of survival after perestroika At long last the Leader quit Russia, his home for so many years. His statues were shipped out of town in military trucks, but in their place there

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russian popular culture after 1982 appeared nothing more than a gray dreadfulness. It had that kind of Soviet soul that rots quickly and then collapses inwards.30

Work had become want (in the sense of both avarice and absence). The ability of the nomenklatura to fill its pockets during the major political mistakes, not only in Russia but also in the provinces and satellite states, exacerbated even nationalist problems. Nobody in the capital wanted to give up the things they had garnered; they were loath to see reform, so regional calls for autonomy were ignored. When it became clear that reform was inevitable, distant officials strove to gain independence from Moscow, ideally in the form of entirely independent nations. Mental and financial preparation for such fragmentation had been considerable, since the shadow system of material transfers had for years shown the falsity of ideology. As a result, many people barely noticed the end of the ussr. “On 25 December 1991, twenty minutes after an announcement by Gorbachev, the red flag was lowered from the Kremlin tower at 17:32. At 17:45 its place was taken by a tricolor. The few Muscovites gathered on Red Square showed no particular emotion … The Soviet Empire gave up the ghost in an atmosphere of amazing indifference.”31 That indifference was highly infectious. There was little political activism or effort among younger people in late Soviet society; they were a lost generation, too young to reminisce, a crowd that lacked the typical “rebelliousness, combined with energy and creativity.”32 There was no desire among them to challenge one narrative with another. Was there anything positive that they might rescue from the wreckage of the Soviet story? The novel workings of capitalism, after all, were not necessarily met with universal joy. As noted above, the shadow economy provided an odd sense of continuity from communism into capitalism but many Soviet citizens, young and old, were perfectly aware of some aspects of the reliable state benefit system that were not so readily available in capitalist cultures. Under Brezhnev, money had remained in people’s pockets more than it circulated; there was no need to spend much on daily necessities and consumer temptation was basically nil, given the poor choice and quality of products in shops. For these reasons, a feeling that the material world was manageable had bolstered a citizen’s sense of self prior to 1990. True, there was no ideal significance in Soviet life after the end of the Thaw, just the drudgery of the unromantic Stagnation, but because of the opportunity (for the diligent and thrifty) to hoard some money, the socialist story could be rewritten on a private scale: Society was supposed to live happily ever after; things went very wrong, but I managed to gather the stuff from which that happy ending was

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going to be written for all, and now I’m fine. The End. (Reached by me faster than the official storyteller.) A bad and protracted narrative was cut short with a happier digression. Nevertheless, when capitalism cruelly came to claim its own a few years later with rampant inflation and materialized values, even the vigorously stuffed mattresses of the eighties were emptied in order to pay for the most basic needs. Material existence per se was no longer a satisfying (or possible) realm in which to exercise or measure a sense of self: If the future is bleak, what other values have I known, values on which I can lean? They cannot be wholly material, materialistic, or municipally social (i.e., big), both because of communism’s failed materialism and because I now cannot compete with – or envy forever – those who have managed to triumph publicly in the huge new marketplace. Effort was therefore concentrated on things personal, but not on personal finances, since they too would vanish with inflation. Consequently, there emerged a retrospective yearning towards that which capitalism ostensibly lacks, the narratives that the Soviet government had fostered, albeit on an excessively civic scale, the narratives that genuinely popular entertainment had long advocated in a lyric register: egalitarian or fraternal relationships of a mutually dependent nature. Hundreds of millions of lyric songs that took the callous metaphors of Soviet fraternity and reclaimed them on a small, private, and sincere scale were sold in the Soviet Union. The work of the Soviet narrative became the private effort of a private life. In the tough times of either black market or free market forces, work was personal, not public: I do what I do to alter and ameliorate my immediate surroundings – today (never mind tomorrow). As an example, consider a typical article from a national magazine after capitalism’s worst shock in recent memory, the stock market crash of 17 August 1998. “Life’s goal today is not an apartment or a current account. It’s not even the effort involved in dragging what’s left out of a failed bank. It’s private life; it’s ‘family,’ if you will. Private life is the one place where we can probably help each other.”33 This was as true in the nineties as in the sixties or earlier. The active creation of an ideal under the Soviets has now become passive, a defensive stance adopted under capitalism, yet it is no less fatiguing. The big socialist narrative was radically scaled down – and works much better. The spoken and sung ideals of the Soviet lyric song helped to console people before, during, and after 1991; they were saved from the political wreckage. In Red Stars I argued that songs were an enormous source of emotional and philosophical support during any tough times, because lyric texts offered a more workable narrative than the objective reality to which they referred. A love story, for example, was

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much more likely to resolve itself happily and promptly than a shabby social epic. Love’s little creations became an ideal, defensive form of survival. “In an ideological [sung] text, the singular or ‘mono-notion’ may be expressed by a formula: ‘We + Them = Struggle.’ In its place the popular song offers: ‘I + You = Love.’ Both formulae indicate a state of happiness: the ideological one is in the future; the song’s is in the present. In a quotidian fashion, the song realizes every day what official ideology [merely] promises. The actuality of a dance-oriented or lyrical happiness makes the ideological happiness worthless.”34 Such was the essence of the lyric song under the Soviets, a genre viewed at times with equal affection and antipathy. The fundamental reason for Soviet antipathy is that socialist realism and all related forms of latter-day classicism were often very troubled by estrada, the overarching form of artistic expression that in the context of this book has concentrated on the popular song. The term “estrada” came into Russian from the French estrade or Spanish estrado, “platform” or “stage”; both meanings are preserved in the Russian. A modern dictionary will offer the English equivalent “variety,” a term that today perhaps bears overtones of Victorian music halls. The one comprehensive Soviet history of estrada and its development until 1977 was forced to admit that there is no Muse of estrada. This conclusion is easily reached when we consider the following categories appropriate to a definition of the term: theatre (of a light or comic nature, as opposed to the classics), literary readings, feuilletons, satirical songs, comic stories, parody, compering, puppet shows, lyrical and civic popular songs, folk music, vocal ensembles, dance, and, finally, circus.35 The Soviet press took a rather awkward attitude towards this multifarious, multigeneric potpourri. The state looked askance at estrada, unnerved by its frequent recourse to apoliticism. In its lyrical songs, estrada offered private, sentimental, ideal dialog instead of massed social interaction.36 As its artists grew in popularity, as they became public (Soviet) figures, they nevertheless continued to stress the effort of a private connection between one performer and one listener, to the extent that the connection between singer and state appeared unimportant at times. This was a matter of neither dissidence nor opposition to the state, but of a quietly proffered alternative within the bounds of officially accepted aesthetics. Only in the eighties – with their inclination in both the Soviet Union and the West for gloss and bombast – did the stage / hall dialog start to get out hand. The mutual emotional endorsement that singer and audience offered each other led to the growing significance of fame and “personality.” Concerts expanded too, and music halls were replaced by football stadia.37 Estrada’s swift turn towards the large and

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loud came on the heels of rock music, which enjoyed much greater freedom in the Soviet Union after perestroika and which was also a keen employer of fraternal metaphors instead of grand, state-sponsored nationwide unity.38 Perhaps we should credit rock with the enduring ideal of private effort, spoken or sung. Or perhaps not, because as perestroika blossomed into free market forces, the metaphors of rock’s fraternity – especially in Leningrad around the club Saigon – became those of a moral elite opposing the distasteful interaction of music and capitalism. Paradigms were established by which rock dismissed the fickleness of popular song, not for its constant re-invention or amorphous, inconstant history, but for being a once-dignified activity now pandering to capitalism.39 Here is a list of terms by which Leningrad rock musicians defined the creation of an estrada song: controlled, planned, commercial, obvious, invented, banal, this-wordly, [mere] entertainment, [just a] job, nonsense, false, weak, simple, standardized, hackneyed, mass, redundant, and cheap.40 Born as a movement of acceptance and brotherhood, Soviet rock music (like that of the West) subsequently took itself far too seriously and went about establishing paradigms and narratives just as exclusive as those of the state. Under pressure from such loud, self-legitimizing, and linear mythmaking, estrada will change tack, not policy, and will often deliberately recede into genres that do not correspond to the scale of the myth. In response to one of the most violent of all such tales, World War Two (in which linearity was literally realized across a map), estrada merely shifted to another register and refused to play by the rules. The Central Political Command of the Red Army met the outbreak of hostilities with an order for 150,000 bellicose songbooks and 12,000 accordions to be sent to the front. Soon, however, patriotic songs fell out of favour.41 Older, lyrical works were much more popular, especially those by Klavdiia Shul’zhenko and Leonid Utesov.42 Shul’zhenko’s songs were “sentimental, eminently personal and intimate romances that had once been assaulted by sturdy proletarians as counter-revolutionary”; Utesov played “pure estrada: a synthesis of bigband music, pop and patriotic songs, comedy and dance.”43 Sidestepping the state is a wise move when estrada finds itself under great pressure, but would the response be the same under capitalism? Here, at the end our historical excursus, we reach the very modern questions that prompted this monograph. Would the dictatorial constraints of capital allow estrada much, if any, room for free development? Estrada could not have survived without the support of Soviet infrastructure – simply to get up on the stage of a booked, approved auditorium; what then, of the relationship between inclusive popsa and

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big business? The prior security of (non-lecherous) labour as a guarantor of the ideal had gone. What could capitalism do to labour in the form of an entertainer’s effort? Perhaps it would turn sentiment and other affects into exchangeable objects, just as private worth and ideals were cynically materialized and circulated in the shadow economy of the Stagnation. If both communism and capitalism do nothing but objectify their subjects, and a song existing in either system faces basically the same problems, could estrada get out of this reified world and advocate the effort of private idealism? Perhaps the rock /popsa paradigms were right in dismissing estrada as controlled, commercial, and hackneyed? In 1982, nobody was sure yet.

summary: a new kind of selfhood to remodel grand narratives “In essence,” said Darwin, “nature is an entirety. It’s all one, huge organism … What on the surface appears to be an irreconcilable battle for life is actually nothing more than the self-renewal of this organism. The same thing happens in any living entity, when old cells die off.”44

Such, then, is the aim of this book’s final chapter: to examine the problems of late or post-Soviet estrada in order to answer the question inherent in the work of any post-historical survivor, singing or not: “Why am I doing or making this now?” I have hypothesized an answer: Estrada’s positive yet modest spirit of work (fostering private affirmation and metamorphosis) endures from the ruins of a Soviet narrative. It is an ideal response to capitalism’s brute materialistic values as well as to socialism’s narrative of materialism. The reader has encountered much evidence between the initial paragraphs and anything resembling proof in the upcoming conclusion. Red Stars offered evidence in the form of biographies, because my interest there was the dual, established, and linear significance of personality (lichnost’) as “sense of self” and “star.” That approach would not suffice here; the performers are too young, estrada changes too fast today, and the nature of personality is very different. Instead of fixed biographies and stable identities, we have seen both songs and performers as “events,” as “open to multiplicities everywhere within them, to the intensities running through them.”45 Here we touch on Deleuze’s description of the wholly material “plane of immanence” across which philosophy conducts its business. This plane is not inhabited by fixed shapes, forms, or personalities but by events. Subjectivity becomes a consequence of various forces and potentialities, all of which constantly metamorphose. The subject now exists as

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endless combinations, as multiple intensities defined not by their centre but by their edges and limits. Intensities of what, though? Of “percepts” and “affects,” which outlast the person who experiences them and are very much kindred spirits to the absent absolute of Lyotard’s survivor. “Percepts aren’t perceptions, they’re packets of sensations and relations that live on independently of whoever experiences them. Affects aren’t feelings, they’re becomings that spill over beyond whoever experiences them.”46 A constant state of affecting and being affected by the world – of being open to influence – turns selfhood and history into a non-linear, constantly becoming series of states. The forces and intensities of percepts and affects, all “held briefly together,” create what we call subjectivity, not vice versa. “A process of subjectification, that is, the production of a way of existing, can’t be equated with a subject, unless we divest the subject of any interiority and even any identity. Subjectification isn’t even anything to do with a ‘person’: it’s a specific collective individuation relating to an event (a time of day, a river, a wind, a life…). It’s a mode of intensity, not a personal subject.” 47 I do not tell one narrative of how the world should be. In my modest project, I am more social than socialism; I have heard its stories and enact them better. I surrender to the ways in which the world and its many histories affect me. We have therefore moved over the preceding pages towards the “dissolution” of the subject by examining such events or metamorphoses in estrada, where one loses traditional subjectivity in order to gain a new individuality.48 This paradoxical, marvelously social state is akin to Joseph Brodsky’s “baroque” aesthetic. The poet’s subjectivity (as a product of his verse) was dissipated across a myriad of words, objects, and other inanimate phenomena. It happily surrendered to a multitude of entities and, as a result of an inclusive worldview of affect and affirmation, overcame the exclusive Soviet system that hoped to punish it with exile in 1972. It also overcame the supposedly chaotic or “baroque” consequences of that system’s demise twenty years later. It shunned the loss of erstwhile, stable significances. The poet’s subjectivity existed wilfully in multitude and in decentred, nomadic flux; it neither yearned for completeness nor shed a tear when sent far from a sociopolitical home. Deleuze defines the (or any) baroque as a “period of long crisis,” a recurring state of becoming and flux. “The baroque refers not to an essence but to an operative function, to a trait. It endlessly produces folds. It does not invent things: there are all kinds of folds coming from the East, Greek, Roman, Romanesque, Gothic, Classical folds … Yet the baroque trait twists and turns its folds, pushing them to infinity,

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fold over fold, one upon the other. The baroque fold unfurls all the way to infinity.”49 Instead of linear history, then, we have a multidirectional “folding” back and forth, in and out. Both organic and inorganic processes in nature display folds: an enveloping and developing of both past events and future potentials, perhaps in a form of ecoaesthetics: “The first fly contains the seeds of all flies to come.” Man’s deep involvement in these universal processes places him in a series of organic doublings alternating with inorganic ones: “When an organism dies, it does not really vanish, but folds in upon itself, abruptly involuting into the again newly dormant seed by skipping all intermediate stages.”50 The proud isolation of human subjectivity therefore dissolves in larger, if not ubiquitous, events. The baroque curve or inflection also symbolizes the loss of all dull notions of a “centred” self in its avoidance of a recognizable tangent. It can become vortical (folding inwards) or the fluctuation of filigree (opening forever outwards): “The world is the infinite curve that touches at an infinity of points an infinity of curves.” The infinitely curving affects, percepts, individuals, and social groups that make up these multiplicities let us see and hope for “intensive,” changing personalities. They match my own understanding of baroque selfhood, and find similar expression in another Deleuzian metaphor used in this book – one worthy of estrada: that of a rhizome, of work and growth that are not linear but endlessly change direction, in and out of themselves. Displaying such movement amidst its survivors, estrada has showed itself as the most surprising of activities, as a new type of history: the hard-working narrative that was not. It began to work hard and show its mettle (yet again) as Soviet repertoires fell into a state of disrepair and decline.

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CONCLUSION: ONLY THE SENTIMENTAL AND INDUSTRIOUS CAN ENDURE I adore any person who is professional in what he does.1

The central issue investigated in this book has been estrada’s raison d’être after its Soviet history and tradition had vanished seemingly forever. Concluding with Lyotard’s definition of post-traditional existence as that of a survivor, we have investigated the relationship of Soviet grand narratives to the musical stories that ran beside and then outlived them, the stories told by songs and those who penned or performed them. Each of those survivors initially asked himself or herself: “Why me? Is surviving a given or a cultivated state? Do I – or should I – wilfully choose to be this way?” The answer suggested by this study is that performers worked – wilfully – in response to unforgiving linearity; they opted for an affirmative (emotive) way of creating post-narrative selfhood. Unidirectional, grand narratives are always based on exclusion, on promoting and perpetuating a small number of people, events, and ideas in order to plot a vector or story of progress. Estrada, on the other hand, developed a policy of inclusion, which is more tolerant: everybody and everything are recognized or “soaked up,” in the words of Bari Alibasov. “Everything” is synonymous with the past, with tradition, as well as with the present and future. True inclusion or acknowledgment, therefore, will be radically opposed to undeviating histories, since affirmation includes not only the few dots that designate a vector, but everything else on the graph as well: all dots in all places at all times. In plotting its own expansive map, Soviet estrada gradually came to know what it was doing. It affirmed itself as part of a changing whole with its audience, albeit initially within a binary or dialogic framework that advocated some form of emotional progress and overlapped with the ethical intent of doctrine. A Soviet performer sang for the listeners as much as for himself or herself. Viewers and performers were copresent and affirmed each other simultaneously. Yet the notion of audience needs to be extended if we are to answer the questions of self-identity posed in December 1991. Those questions led post-Soviet singers, willy-nilly, to reconsider history. As they did so, “audience”

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came to mean one’s absent, remembered predecessors as well as those present in the hall. Yesterday’s dualism of a performer and his or her audience or, in other words, the Soviet stage / hall discourse so strangely close at times to the moral binary structures of ideology, therefore contained the seed of today’s inclusive folding or involution of everybody and everything. We should not forget that the Soviet stage / hall dialog allowed for degrees of affinity in its multiple addressees beyond the footlights. A performer found kinship in the crowd (I am as they, and vice versa), yet he or she also saw some difference, which allowed for the notion of stardom (the extraordinary lichnost’). An entertainer today senses a similar link with his or her predecessors (I am as they, and vice versa), but also sees some dissimilarity, since stardom is still a powerful force. But how does the survivor then employ these traditional bonds and differences? First of all, as already noted, singers of today’s postsocialist light entertainment have cultivated the sense of subjectivity (who they are or were) through the confirmation of a fundamentally, if not exclusively, apolitical and affective concord with these numerous listeners, present or absent, dead or alive: I love you and you love me (or at least would have done so, had you been here). After perestroika, however, recognition of one’s predecessors (and everything else) became a rather driven increase of kinship, even at the expense of marked difference: I recognize, celebrate, and dissolve in all viewers or allied performers from the past. If I am rigorous with this nomadic philosophy, I must also embrace the future in the same manner. As the quote below from Filipp Kirkorov shows, “Why me?” therefore becomes not so much a given state defined by the past as a potential constantly invited by the future. Selfhood is an ethical challenge. “Me” is not a state granted a survivor; I must make myself a survivor – hence, once again, the synonymy of work and subjectivity. The people who come to my concerts know that they haven’t been deceived. I’m an extremely sincere and honest person, somebody who’s both proud and happy that I do what I do honestly. I get something back, too: the love of those who’ve come to see me. I live for their sake, for your sake [gestures to camera]. New stage shows appear and succeed only after great effort. Great effort. That goes without saying. Each time a premiere is drawing near I ask myself “Why?” Why did I dream up all of this [extravganza]? I don’t want to deal with this any more. This’ll be my final show, the final album, the final everything. The show’ll end. It’ll all end. But then a week goes by and I think: What’ll I do next?! 2

“What’ll I do next?” is related to “Why me now?” It offers at least the first hint of effort or hard work as a means of solving the latter 182

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conclusion

question, which is born of one-way, goal-oriented thought. It implies an initial event (in this case, the end of the Soviet Union) and a subsequent altered state of survival after that event, which is qualitatively different and often worse. It is posed prior to seeing and dissolving oneself in completeness: Only when I see, comprehend, and confirm the past can I know my role within it. I am potentially part of everything and should cultivate inclusiveness if I wish to avoid the rigid semantics of either capital(ism) or communism. I should see my lichnost’ as an event, as open to the multiplicities that constitute it from all the audiences of all times. In this context the traditional notion of subject (I) dies, and we have neither evolution nor devolution but involution, the folding in and out of events, of free movement across a flat plane of immanence (without frequent or consequential recourse to the vertical axes of religion). This folding, the melting of lonely points on a narrative’s graph (isolated individuals) into larger, broader processes, began in postperestroika estrada as a tentative challenge to the work of such artists as Alla Pugacheva. It also came from outside of traditional genres, for example, via jazz, thanks to the early work of Larisa Dolina. Traditions were even challenged or embraced within families, for example, the Malikovs or Presniakovs. The shifts and changes of such traditions were initially interpreted through the post-Stalinist metaphor of “seeking.”3 However, as new ideas were sought and found, some performers had doubts about the merging of respectable tradition and irreverent novelty. Malikov continued to favour classical training over happy amateurism; Vaikule had to battle the prejudice against cabaret and var’ete. These doubts soon faded, though, and generic experiments increased. The tendency to be novel whilst referencing established genres made for a hotchpotch of styles and influences. The flux became so hectic that some singers admitted they no longer knew what they were doing. What we had at this point was a rhythmic flux, a series of refrains and repetitions old and new, but not necessarily regular. These reworkings of old songs, ideas, and styles were likened above to refrains in nature, to calls claiming and creating territory. The claiming of ever-novel and newly semanticized spaces flattened the thin line of modernist history into the wider plane. All entities on it created its significance; depending upon how tightly it was folded inwards, one could now potentially claim total membership in the past: Every name in history is I. Custom and convention are therefore inevitable and necessary for a survivor, but only insomuch as they constitute moments of significance within a grander scheme of chance. (I choose to create significances, but the more I embrace, the more those significances also create me. I do not have complete control over all things I reference.) 183

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Stasis comes briefly as a dice combination or one song, before the throw returns again. Since change precedes, underwrites, and outlasts the static moments, such as the dice combination or the staged performance, the endless events of becoming are prior to (static) being. “What,” therefore, is the name, nature, or “being of that [prior state] which becomes, of that which neither starts nor finishes becoming? Returning is the being of that which becomes” (author’s italics).4 Each present moment or performance is part of an eternal process – held for just a second – that “reunites all the fragments of chance.”5 Invariable narratives in this book were subverted by increasing fragments of chance and change; tradition was invited to look beyond itself. Embodying that subversion, Natasha Koroleva and Litsei used sex to instigate a state beyond linearity. They referenced the supralinguistic silence of eroticism – that which cannot be spoken – and forced tradition to stutter or to gaze beyond its own limits. Then, paradoxically, they walked back into the very limits they shunned to embrace naiveté and coyness. Performed over an entire career, these hopefully heartfelt acts can undermine the “progressive” direction of even modest (auto)biographical narratives. After 1991, capital put these transformations under threat by reinstitutionalizing rectilinearity (more profit), stressing matter above all, and offering itself as the prime goal of labour. Given that such emphases are scant relief from the workings of communism, sentiment keeps trying to promote itself as an alternative ideology, but doing so costs money. It is for this reason that even the most successful artists in Russian estrada stress effort (and more effort) long after they have attained a degree of well-being. The toil of matching, meeting, affirming, and reworking the past “ideally” is as important as capital. Fanera is scorned because it allows one to make money faster, but is less work; it is ease born of deceit. Video, although employed to philosophical benefit, suffers similar criticism because it is also “virtual.” The uneasy work of live performances has therefore always been preferred to the lip-synching of videos: “Everything comes from sweat!”6 Exertion persists even after the modest philosophy of a folded lichnost’ is clear to one and all in the audience. Many decades ago, Soviet performers began to move their hands (Vertinskii), then their legs (Shul’zhenko), as they endeavoured to increase movement around the stage and advocate a private, more lyrical form of expression. After the 1980s, gestures changed and became increasingly dramatic – to the point where even their venues (stages) were altered. The once-immobile singer moved a great deal (to promote an increasingly private worldview), and the huge, flat stage began to curve to embrace the audience.7 The biggest shows in recent years have been

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those of Kirkorov, who surely draws upon more movements and genres than any other singer. The flat, arched backdrop slides forwards at its base to create a descent into the crowd; the stage shrinks and extrudes a number of catwalks. The stage becomes an event (which embodies the personality upon it), a series of conduits back and forth between singer and viewers. Estrada is positioned in the audience as much as in front of it. This place – the stage where the performer vanishes into an ocean of countless viewers – is the only place where he or she “feels like a normal person.”8 The Soviet tradition has thus provided the tools with which post-Soviet performers have cultivated a “normal” sense of self – and that tradition or history is not political.9 The disappointment of Soviet political narratives inspired estrada to create a superior version. Igor’ Nikolaev said in 1999 that the Stagnation prompted a better philosophy in estrada among people whose worldview was “pure, openhearted and global.”10 Perhaps this globalism is akin to what Vaikule called ambulatory “cosmic” lichnost’. Nikolaev was asked whether heartfelt globalism put him outside the Russian traditional narratives, since being global would surely mean being less (or non-) Russian? Nothing of the sort. The positive, post-Soviet estrada lichnost’ is within these traditions, yet philosophically broader and older than anything Soviet or geographically political; it is sentimental. “People [in estrada] aren’t bound to a specific geographic locale. They’re bound to their heart, which is their place of worship [khram]. Can anybody really be outside their own heart?” Everything is endorsed by the khram of an inclusive heart, the place that says yes to the totality and exercises a philosophy it learned (paradoxically) from its patriotic socialist predecessors. “Where does the heartfelt lyric end and civic pathos begin? True masters don’t recognize those kinds of distinctions. For them even pathos is lyrical because the suffering and hopes of the world pass through the heart.”11 The workings of the heart, as we are told in Old Songs About What Matters, “just aren’t kingly.” How true; estrada has outlasted the regal aspirations of Soviet grand narratives and now does battle with those of capitalism (as it did prior to the Revolution and during Lenin’s New Economic Policy). Given this pedigree, perhaps sung sentiment can make an even bolder claim: to the status of Russia’s most important cultural narrative today. Estrada was once the most popular form of entertainment after cinema; today, movie audiences have shrunk to a fraction of their previous size, despite the huge sums of money lavished on the renovation of theatres in St. Petersburg and Moscow. Surely estrada has taken over, working on the dual fronts of radio and television simultaneously?

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If so, then the greatest history of all is not direct; it twists and folds so often that it advocates more a philosophical notion of taste than an aesthetic one. (Hence the quote from Bari Alibasov as an epigraph.) If a concept is well made, it is excellent, irrespective of fashion or aesthetics. Deleuze and Guattari define philosophical taste as “the power or being-potential of concepts … of conceptual activity [that] has no limit in itself but only in the other two limitless activities [of hard work on the plane of immanence and the tireless invention of ‘personae it must bring to life’].” 12 Estrada answers the problematic narratives of materialist and materialistic philosophies on that plane, and invents concepts replete with endless, staged personae that are events.13 The rhizomatic process invented and eternally reinvented by estrada has, over the past century, woven with its personalities (lichnosti) a longer, more popular, and better made narrative than any other art form in the world’s largest nation. It may not be kingly, but it both outlasts and matters more than any monarch.

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APPENDICES

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BIOGRAPHIES Note to Readers: Data for these sketches were taken from the newspapers and magazines referenced throughout this book. I also should note my use of two additional publications: I. Razzakov, Dos’e na zvezd (Moscow: Èksmo Press 1999) and B. Savchenko, Kumiry rossiiskoi èstrady (Moscow: Panorama 1998).

agutin, leonid Agutin’s father Nikolai was an established musician in Soviet estrada, having performed with two ensembles, Golubye gitary (Blue Guitars) and Poiushchie serdtsa (Singing Hearts). Paternal inspiration and professional assistance therefore awaited Leonid, born in Moscow in 1968. He first studied at a musical school, then began to experiment with jazz, all under the watchful eye of a local youth organization. A formative moment in his early career came when he briefly fell ill and overheard a conversation in hospital between two young men bemoaning the fact that their ensemble had no keyboard player. Agutin managed to offer his services and thus became a member of the band Kredo. Over and above this amateur enterprise, Agutin entered a cultural institute for further education, but lost his place owing to a Soviet regulation that obliged such organizations to satisfy a certain quota from far-flung agricultural districts. Only when another student unexpectedly declined his acceptance was Agutin able to enroll. He continued his studies until 1986, when he was called up for military service. Thankfully, regimental ensembles enabled him to continue playing, albeit in a radically different genre. Several officers noticed his skills and he was soon transferred to a bigger ensemble, stationed at the time in Leningrad. After his service Agutin resumed his studies, writing songs at night. Scraping together 360 rubles for the briefest of recording sessions in 1988, he committed one song to tape and sent it to a state radio station. To his amazement, they played it on the breakfast show S dobrym utrom! (Good Morning!). Unable to capitalize on this initial success, Agutin continued to work as a session musician to fund both his songs and his education, completed in 1991 with the qualification “Director of Staged Estrada Productions.” His work began to grace television shows (though not the most popular); the experience and money allowed him to travel to and enter an important competition in Yalta. He garnered first prize with a song entitled “Bosonogii mal’chik” (“Barefoot

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biographies Boy”) that is played on Russian radio even today. Further accolades resulted from another competition in the Latvian resort of Jurmala, as well as the television program “Music Exam,” where he was named Best New Composer of 1993. Coming in quick succession, these accomplishments allowed Agutin to stage his first solo concert the following year. His work as both singer-songwriter and composer for other performers has met with great success. Agutin’s trademark long, disheveled hair and often acoustic repertoire brought an air of spontaneity to estrada after years of heavy-handed electronic sounds and rock-oriented singers. Freely admitting his debt to Latin American traditions and jazz-oriented arrangements, his breezy songs have fostered his reputation as a happy-go-lucky individual who receives remarkably little bad press. allegrova, irina (real name: inessa klimchuk) Born in 1961 in Rostov, Allegrova is (like Agutin) from an estrada family; her father and mother worked as a local theatrical director and operetta singer respectively. The former rejected his real surname (Klimchuk) in favour of the onstage moniker Allegrov, the musical nickname he had as an especially energetic young boy. While living temporarily in distant Baku, Irina began to follow in her parents’ footsteps. She entered a musical school, but gradually shied away from daily piano lessons in favour of the vocal practice she much preferred. At the age of seventeen, on the verge of graduating from school, her voice was recognized; she was invited on tour with a radio and television orchestra. Within a year she was married, but was divorced with equal speed after a relationship she has never described in positive terms. All estrada artists eventually make their way to Moscow. Looking for work in the capital, the young Allegrova managed to earn a living with regular evening work in restaurants and hotels. In 1984 she married the composer Vladimir Dubovitskii, who attempted to help her out of hotel variety and into nationwide estrada. He persuaded the more famous composer Oskar Fel’tsman to arrange an audition, at which Allegrova was obliged to sing a great deal of Sofiia Rotaru’s material. To general amazement, Fel’tsman was pleased with her impromptu performance, at once inviting her to participate in an evening of songs celebrating his work. Since that time she has also worked with another kingpin of Soviet estrada composition, David Tukhmanov, who helped her create the ensemble Èlektroklub. That project was unsuccessful, though, and was overshadowed in any case by Allegrova’s marvelous victory at the 1987 Zolotoi kamerton (Golden Tuning Fork) competition. Her flagging ensemble was regenerated by the inclusion of new members, such as the very popular Viktor Saltykov. The result was the oddity of Allegrova’s participating in a more popular ensemble while fulfilling a less important role. This, plus her desire to sing more lyrical texts, led to

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biographies her leaving Èlektroklub. She began to work with Igor’ Nikolaev and sing material by him. With a new repertoire in hand, she started performing solo in 1992. In 1994, remarried and the multiple recipient of the title “Artiste of the Year,” Allegrova began not only to branch out and write romance novels (two of which were published) but also to work with the composer who forged her current success: Igor’ Krutoi. Krutoi’s songs sidestepped Allegrova’s image as the rock-oriented singer of prior years and fostered a new one: grand dame of dramatic ballads. She can easily withstand such metamorphoses because her voice is truly a thing of wonder, honed by years of cigarettes and bad relationships. Together with Tania Bulanova she has championed the confessional ballad (ispoved’), which was crucial to the career of Alla Pugacheva, the Soviet Union’s most famous artiste. Today Allegrova with great aplomb perpetuates another aspect of Pugacheva’s heritage, a somewhat brassy sexuality, replete with teasing suggestions to all men unfortunate enough to be in the first few rows. apina, alena (real name: elena levochkina) Apina was apparently born in Saratov in 1967. (Her age appears to be something of a secret; the early 1960s are mentioned in some articles.) Blessed with access to a family piano at the young age of four, her education quickly began to take shape at a musical school, then at the Saratov Conservatory. When writing the entrance examinations, however, she was uncertain about the dates of several Communist Party Congresses and was therefore not accepted into the piano department. Another attempt a year later met with success in the folk music division. In the second year of her studies, some of the conservatory students organized an ensemble called Kombinatsiia, and Apina was accepted as one of five vocalists. Kombinatsiia toured local villages, performing popular dance music and staying within their very low budget by singing live to a taped backing. Heard on one occasion by a famous singer, the students were offered an unexpected opportunity to move to Moscow, a dream they could realize only by quitting school and selling a car to raise the money for train tickets. Their early lodgings in the capital were railway station benches, friends’ sofas, and – when earnings permitted – cheap hotels. In 1988, they obtained sponsorship from the future advertising magnate Sergei Lisovskii. Thanks to the new backing, the ensemble began to release singles the following year. Their work met with great success, and by 1991 it was clear to Apina that she enjoyed particular attention within Kombinatsiia, so she left to begin a solo career, singing what she called “simple dance melodies.” Engaging simplicity was a philosophically attractive notion after 1991 and it sold very well; the resulting profit and new sponsorship allowed her to develop bolder projects, such as Limita, a cycle of songs supported by up to forty actors. It

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biographies concerns the rise to fame of a provincial girl and includes a song of immense and enduring popularity, “Uzelki” (“Tangles”). Since that success Apina has released several albums, all composed of short, catchy, unpretentious songs, which never reach modish extremes of brash or tasteless display. There is much in Apina’s self-restraint and melodic repertoire that suggests an unspoken debt to singers of prior decades. She remains a consistently charming performer. bulanova, tat’iana Bulanova was born at the close of the 1960s in St Petersburg (then Leningrad). Her father was a high-ranking Soviet sailor; her mother worked as a photographer. Like most of our chosen performers, Bulanova began her studies in a musical school, but met with only moderate success. Perhaps as a consequence she went on to study library science at a local institute, though once again with little inspiration or accomplishment. She tried her hand at the Leningrad Music Hall, in particular with its affiliated institute, and was accepted. On one occasion when she was returning home from school, Bulanova met a young man at a bus stop. They began talking and it transpired that he, too, was a musician and was looking for a vocalist. Discovering that Bulanova could sing, he asked her to audition. All went well and, thanks to the heavy subsidies in the world of Soviet recording, an album was recorded in 1989 by the ensemble, who called themselves Letnii sad (Summer Garden) after the famous classical park in Petersburg. At long last Bulanova had found her calling, and she quit the institute. The years 1992–94 marked the rapid ascent of Letnii sad. Bulanova also gave birth to a son with a member of the ensemble, Nikolai Tagrin. In 1994 Letnii sad sold more albums in Russia than any other act. Their music was rather typical for the late eighties and early nineties in its application of guitar-driven rock-oriented elements to structures reminiscent of Stevie Nicks during the same period. What makes the band different and interesting is Bulanova herself, who has increasingly worked with the folk intonations of her delivery to create a genuinely original sound. Consequently her solo work has proven to be even more satisfying, and she has produced some of the catchiest and most endearing songs of recent years. dolina, larisa Dolina’s voice can, with complete justification, be labelled the best in Russian estrada. Hers is a dramatic tale of a slow, grueling ascent to stardom from a poor background in a city blessed with the richest of estrada traditions: Odessa. Dolina was born in Baku in 1955, moving to the Ukrainian port after a couple of years. The family lived in a cellar converted into a makeshift communal apartment for twenty people. It had three gas rings, one tap, one toilet, and one bath. The Dolina family had seventeen square metres to themselves, a space so elongated that they called it “the trolley-bus.”

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biographies Dolina’s Jewish background did little to make life easier. She understood from an early age that education was her only likely exit, so she worked at the cello, playing in occasional concerts at the local Maritime Academy. She was soon offered work singing for five rubles a night in a local restaurant, although hiding this job from her parents was very difficult. Later she became a member of the Odessa vocal group Volna (Wave), then accepted an offer of employment in Armenia, where she lived and worked for four years. Times there were not easy, and Dolina was more than happy to move to the Black Sea resort of Sochi, where she performed in restaurants. Sochi hosts a huge number of concerts for summer visitors even today, and in 1978 Dolina used that audience to win second place at a locally staged competition. As a result she was offered work in Moscow with the jazz ensemble called Sovremennik (The Contemporary). In the capital she also began her longstanding commitment to cinema, at first behind the scenes, singing for cartoons or for actors with less ability than herself. Despite having lots of work and establishing a friendship with Alla Pugacheva, new problems arose for Dolina. The Moscow authorities forced all musicians in the city without work permits to leave, so Dolina, her husband, and her newborn daughter had to move to Leningrad, into a one-room apartment. She often fell sick in that city’s damp climate; after obtaining a divorce, Dolina moved again, to Ul’ianovsk, where she sang with two bands, Diapazon and Èksport. After a second marriage, Dolina shifted gradually away from jazz and towards rock music, a change that did little damage to her reputation, since in 1991 she was awarded the title “Best Singer in Russia.” Despite reaching such peaks, however, her star waned somewhat in the mid-nineties. Only in 1997, with the song “Pogoda v dome” (“The Weather at Home”), did her career take off again. At this point Dolina adopted the statelier role for which she is known today. Her enormous talent as a jazz singer made the transition to the drama of rock easy for her. More recently, her amazing voice has also revealed itself as able to manipulate both the witty structures of pop and the slow, studied melodrama of ballads. kirkorov, filipp Kirkorov represented Russia at Monte-Carlo’s 1999 music festival as the nation’s best-selling artist. Born in 1967 in the Bulgarian town of Varna, he began his climb to this vertiginous height at an early age. His father Bedros was a well-known jazz musician who worked on occasion with Leonid Utesov. Kirkorov began his education at a school designed for students of French, later moving to a well-known Moscow music institute. He made his official debut in 1985 at the capital’s Theatre of Estrada, and soon after participated in several television shows. Alla Pugacheva invited him to join her entourage; travelling to such places as Australia, Singapore, and Central Asia greatly increased his professional experience.

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biographies At some risk, Kirkorov left Pugacheva’s company in time to garner the “Hit ’90” prize in Leningrad, together with second prize at the enormously significant East European Golden Orpheus festival. By this time, circa 1992, his fame was such that he could sell out St. Petersburg’s biggest concert hall, the October, ten nights in a row. As his popularity waxed in the mid-nineties, however, one event outstripped even the greatest achievements of his solo career: his marriage to Alla Pugacheva. The Russian press was often unkind in its assessment of why the nuptials took place, but the groom has been amazingly resilient in his undying and very public declarations of love for the most famous woman in the country. Even without his wife’s renown and professional assistance, Kirkorov has become a prominent and affluent performer. He has a reputation for great diligence, a trait reflected in his lengthy, expensive, impressive stage shows. (He is also the tallest singer in Russia, according to one national newspaper.) Kirkorov’s deep and powerful voice matches the scope of his shows, yet he does not lapse into bombast. Many of his songs are humorous and are indicative of a stunning disregard for fashion and generic constraints. The latter is perhaps best shown by a recent album of Turkish and Eastern songs – a potential gold mine of non-European influences for a country as big and markedly non-European as Russia. koroleva, natasha (real name: natasha poryvai) and nikolaev, igor’ Natasha Koroleva is not Russian but Ukrainian. She was born in Kiev in 1973 to parents who were members of a touring ensemble. After an unadventurous schooling, in 1988 she entered the vocal division of Moscow’s Institute for Circus and Estrada Arts. The following year she participated in a Soviet-American musical for children called Ditia mira (Peace Child). After touring the United States with the show, Koroleva hoped to enter an American university with funding from Ukrainian émigré organizations, but instead she received an unexpected phone call from Ukrainian central television concerning the composer Igor’ Nikolaev. At this point we must digress. Igor’ Nikolaev was born in 1960 far from Moscow, on the island of Sakhalin. His father was a sailor and a poet of local renown. Igor’s schooling took place on the island, where he met his first wife, whom he married at the age of eighteen. Though they soon had a son, Nikolaev continued his education locally, studying the violin in particular. Given the utter lack of interest in his youthful songs in that place so far from the workings of Soviet estrada, he decided to transfer to Moscow to continue his studies. The ensemble he played in was invited to perform on central television; while grabbing a bite to eat in the studio cafeteria, he spotted Alla Pugacheva and asked her, somewhat arrogantly, whether she needed any new musicians. Thus it was that, to his own surprise, he began to work for Pugacheva, eventually writing some of her most famous songs.

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biographies By the mid-eighties, Nikolaev’s reputation as composer was such that he embarked upon both a solo career and managerial work. At one point he was looking for a young female singer to perform a series of songs he had written. A Ukrainian accent on the Moscow stage did little to incline Nikolaev towards Koroleva, whom he had telephoned about the project. With that call, their biographies begin to merge. Unsure of what to do, he took her on tour to Tallinn to continue the auditions. By the end of the year she had recorded her first album with the composer, Yellow Tulips. A little later they were married. Koroleva’s success was founded upon songs written by her new husband, and in 1992 they recorded an album together, Del’fin i Rusalka (The Dolphin and the Water Sprite). Since that time Nikolaev has released several solo projects and established himself as one of the most prolific and influential composers in Russia. His songs, replete with string accompaniments, often tend towards grandeur, yet somehow they are produced with sufficient tact to stop his overt romanticism from becoming pomp and circumstance. Koroleva has also become a major player in modern estrada, though her audience is considerably younger than Nikolaev’s. Many of her songs are explicitly naïve, yet they often include sexual innuendo within that childlike framework. As she matures as a performer, her stage presence has become markedly more adult. A major step in this direction was Koroleva’s decision to pose for Russia’s edition of Playboy in the winter of 1997. litsei The official existence of Litsei began in April 1992. The band initially consisted of three young women, all born at the end of the seventies: Anastasiia Makarevich, Elena Perova, and Izol’da Ishkhanishvili. The first named is the daughter of established musician and producer Aleksei Makarevich. The three had met in the late eighties as part of a theatrical group, which went on to participate in a Moscow children’s estrada studio at a time when the Soviet Union was falling apart. The studio staged musical plays, which gave rise to the idea of making the three young women into a group, for the sake of additional professional experience. Makarevich was able to offer the young hopefuls direct access to studio time and session musicians, giving the trio an enormous advantage. He also wrote virtually all their songs and lyrics, chose the musicians, handled their costumes, and monitored their stage show. He has said that Litsei should be organized in such a way that the women have only one thing to do: go on stage and sing. During their early years, however, all three band members had something else to do, for they continued their education, albeit with some difficulty. Two of them studied in an institute of business and hotel management, while the third pursued a legal career. Litsei remained in its initial format until 1998, when Elena Perova left in circumstances that – if the press was to be believed – were less than amicable. She went on to create the ensemble Amega, which was immediately successful,

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biographies though it could not hold onto its only female member. Perova left it in 2000, releasing some solo dance music and posing alone for Playboy, something Litsei had already done en masse a few years previously. Meanwhile, Litsei was soon a trio once again and back in business with the inclusion of Anna Pletneva. The change of line-up did nothing to halt the group’s success. When praised by contemporaries, the women are often defined as promoters of songs pure and simple – in other words, devoid of frantic leanings towards fashion. Upbeat acoustic numbers showing no sign of faddishness are indeed the trademarks of the ensemble, which over seven albums has provided Russia with some of its finest pop music. malikov, dmitrii Malikov was born in Moscow in 1970. His father was well known for his involvement in the Soviet ensemble Samotsvety (The Gems); his mother was a ballet dancer. As a young boy Malikov studied at a school affiliated with the renowned Moscow Conservatory. From the age of thirteen he enjoyed occasional appearances on the estrada with his father. He had written his first songs by the time he was sixteen, and two years later performed on national television. His early career was structured along parallel lines: serious study of classical music together with initially frivolous forays into estrada. Interviews with Malikov during the late eighties often assert a firm commitment to the former, but as he went on to write complex, popular instrumental music, the division between classical and estrada in his work lessened. Malikov also continued his successful career as a singer, while releasing the instrumental project Strakh poleta (Fear of Flight). In 1989 he met and soon married the singer Natal’ia Vetlitskaia. By the start of the new decade Malikov was among the most popular performers in Russia. In 1992 he entered the world of cinema and to considerable acclaim played the role of a persecuted young pianist in See Paris and Die. By this time his marriage to Vetlitskaia was falling apart to the strains of a new romance with a model, now his wife. Overcoming obstacles such as the 1995 loss of his studio to fire, Malikov has become a most respected musician. Companies such as Proctor and Gamble rely on that respect to advertise their shampoo. His songs are romantic, like those of Igor’ Nikolaev, but are orchestrated in a less traditional manner, since Malikov employs unexpected percussive techniques to frame the long-established structures of estrada songs. His classical training is evident in the intricacy of his recordings, albeit not lyrically but musically. His flair at the keyboard and his good looks have bolstered Malikov’s reputation as “a wellbehaved young man from an educated family,” in the words of one journalist. na-na There are two aspects to the all-male ensemble Na-Na: the performers themselves, and their manager Bari Alibasov, who is evident in all that Na-Na does.

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biographies Alibasov was born in 1947 in the tiny village of Charskoe in Kazakhstan. His stage career began in 1966 when he assembled the ensemble Integral. Once the fame and attention garnered by Integral had faded, Alibasov’s next move of national consequence came in 1988, when he decided to play a managerial role in the formation of a new troupe. Auditions were announced in Moscow, and about 1,000 young men turned up. Eventually six of the contenders were chosen: A. Kitarev, V. Iurin, V. Levkin, V. Bureiko, A. Karpukhin, and A. Zaporozhets. Choreographers, designers, poets, and composers went to work on the sextet. Using a backing track recorded by Integral, Na-Na made its highly successful debut in 1989 in Moscow. Despite problems with the eroticism of its show, the ensemble was named “Discovery of the Year.” This success and its subsequent growth were not based entirely on successful marketing; hard work played a role, too. In 1992, for example, the group broke all records for the number of concerts performed in one year: 830! The line-up had changed considerably by this time, with four of the original members leaving and three others replacing them: Valerii Iurin, Vladimir Levkin, Vladimir Asimov, Vladimir Politov, and Viacheslav Zherebkin. After some raging arguments with Alibasov, Iurin soon left as well. The resulting quartet embarked on increasingly exotic tours overseas, while domestic interest remained constant throughout the mid-nineties. Since that time the ensemble has been surrounded by an enormous number of scandals, none of which has a place here. Suffice it to say that the young audiences of Na-Na are prone to excessive displays of enthusiasm, especially in the provinces where tours rarely venture. The grand dimensions of Na-Na’s performances seem to invite audience response on a similar scale. The group’s notion of “show” is at times perhaps even more dramatically inclined than Kirkorov’s, given that the stage contains several performers, not just one. Costume and set changes are designed to fit Na-Na’s relentlessly upbeat repertoire, arranged as distraction from the nation’s daily woes. For that reason, the members of the ensemble are today the most important and dramatic exponents of the staged song (teatralizatsiia), which slowly emerged during the Soviet years. orbakaite, kristina The most famous thing about Kristina Orbakaite, unfortunately for her, is that she is the daughter of Alla Pugacheva. There can be no grander presence in Russian estrada to complicate a young performer’s burgeoning independence. In fact, Orbakaite, born in London in 1971, made her grand entrance into estrada not through music but film. As discussed in the text, she starred in the movie Scarecrow, a dark tale of bullying in a small provincial school. Her own education began in a music school at the age of six. When she was ten, she transferred to a dance academy affiliated with the Bol’shoi Theatre. After the initial triumph of Scarecrow, her biography in the popular imagination was marked by her romance with Vladimir Presniakov, whom she met at the age

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biographies of fifteen at a concert by Laima Vaikule. They saw each other again at the shooting of a nationwide New Year’s variety show in which Orbakaite was working as a dancer. It was not long before Presniakov (then nineteen) and Kristina (still fifteen) were living together. In 1991 she gave birth to a son, Nikita. The couple would not stay together forever, but as the marriage failed, Orbakaite’s solo career took off. Using her father’s Lithuanian surname, she released a debut album, Vernost’ (Loyalty), which she does not today remember as a success. Perhaps as a consequence of her insecurity in the field of music, she took part in more films, including Charity Ball (1993), Limita (1994), and Midshipmen 2 and 3. By this stage she was looking back upon her early career in various interviews and claiming that she had already lost her youth to the impersonal workings of estrada. Orbakaite soon skipped between genres again, this time into live theatre. She took on the role of Helen Keller in Monday after the Miracle by William Gibson, for which she was awarded Komsomol’skaia pravda’s prize for the best debut of a non-professional actor in 1996. The following year, after considerable trepidation, she performed on the stage again, this time in Pushkin’s Mistress into Maid. These dramatic endeavours occurred simultaneously with the release of another album, Nol’ chasov, nol’ minut (Zero Hour, Zero Minutes). But it was her third cd, Ty (You) of 1998, that truly showed the maturation of her voice – helped to no small degree by the production skills of her mother. Orbakaite’s work continues to impress, both in recent recordings such as Mai (2000) and on stage, where her talent as a dancer works hand in hand with her music. ovsienko, tat’iana Ovsienko, born in Kiev in 1966, is yet another example of the significant Ukrainian presence in Russian estrada. She graduated from a Ukrainian technical college in the mid-eighties, majoring in hotel management. She began her career working as a hotel administrator, but after a few months, while she was seeking local accommodation for the ensemble Èlektroklub, her situation altered radically. Irina Allegrova’s husband Vladimir Dubovitskii fell ill during the stay, and in helping him to a local hospital, Ovsienko met the man who would later become her husband. Her story later became linked to another Moscow ensemble, Mirazh, which – as described in this book – was almost too famous. The group suffered from a profusion of bogus bands travelling around the Soviet Union, all pretending to be the real outfit. After one vocalist left to form her own version of the group, there were two “genuine” Mirazhs, each lip-synching to the same taped music and vocals. The band’s manager then had the gall to find a Moscow beauty queen and create a third Mirazh, which also used the same tapes! Natal’ia Vetlitskaia filled the gap left in the original, “quintessential” Mirazh. It was during this time that the band stayed in the Kievan hotel where Ovsienko was working, the Bratislava. The two women became acquainted;

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biographies Vetlitskaia suggested to Ovsienko that she become the band’s costumier and move to Moscow. Not long afterwards, Vetlitskaia herself fell ill and then, for different reasons, left the band altogether. Somewhat begrudgingly, after various unsuccessful searches, her position was offered to Ovsienko. The cost of re-recording all the ensemble’s material for touring with a new lip-synching vocalist was prohibitive, so for a while Ovsienko was obliged to use a previous vocalist’s tapes. This caused a scandal so loud that she stopped performing entirely until her own new tapes were prepared. The band enjoyed success until 1991, when Ovsienko felt she could risk the bold step of a solo career. Since that time the quality of her work has changed as radically as that of Orbakaite, to the point where I would call her 1997 album Beyond a Pink Sea perhaps the finest collection of pop songs in post-Soviet estrada. presniakov, vladimir jr. Vladimir Presniakov’s father, Vladimir Sr., is an established jazz musician; his mother is also a performer. Both played in the Soviet ensemble Samotsvety of the seventies with Dmitrii Malikov’s father. Born in 1968, Vladimir studied in a school in Sverdlovsk while his parents played in distant concerts. He himself was often absent from school, preferring the adventures of a tour to the classroom; as a result he had a somewhat nomadic childhood. When Presniakov’s further education in the field of music began, his absence from the classroom was again noticed. He failed to graduate, expelled for habitual absenteeism. The fact that he was also found rummaging through the trash of the American Embassy for interesting tidbits did little to mollify the school’s severe ruling. His difficult transfer to another institute in 1983 was worsened by the simultaneous loss of his voice. To the amazement of all, his voice then changed to a strong falsetto, which would subsequently become his trademark delivery. Although his abilities began thus to manifest themselves, Presniakov was once again expelled, and was now obliged to begin a musical career without the proper education. He was very lucky to find employment with Laima Vaikule, while conducting a long-term relationship with Kristina Orbakaite. Presniakov’s first solo album was released in 1989 and sold extremely well. Within two years he was firmly ensconced among the most popular performers in Russia; he was equally renowned for his love of parties. His fame and devilmay-care attitude helped to cast Presniakov in the role of post-Soviet estrada’s first genuinely youthful star, the first to work along anything resembling Western lines. By the latter half of the nineties his star had nevertheless waned somewhat, despite the fact that he was seen constantly on television and in 1996 released his sixth solo album. Presniakov was one of the very first Russian artists to venture into American studios and contract negotiations, yet the experience was initially so upsetting to him that he returned home in a fit of nationalism and asked to be baptized into the Orthodox Church. To this day

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biographies Presniakov remains a very important figure in popular music and is a guaranteed presence at all major functions and concerts. vaikule, laima Laima Vaikule, as her name suggests, is not Russian. She was born in Riga, Latvia in 1954 and for years wished to become a doctor, not a singer. Nevertheless, she took part in amateur singing competitions from the age of eleven. In 1969, a conflict of interests arose when she first felt the desire to abandon school in favour of estrada. That conflict was decided for her at the age of fifteen, when the influential Latvian composer Raimonds Pauls noticed her ability. Her commitment to the stage grew at the expense of medicine, and by 1979 Vaikule was singing regularly at the hotel-club Juras Perle (Latvian for The Sea Pearl) in the resort of Jurmala. Pauls was once again taken with her commitment to the notion of “show,” to songs in a cabaret context, and decided to work with her on a continuing basis. Vaikule’s early career would soon come to be based wholly on Pauls’ numbers. One of them, “Vernisazh” (“Vernissage”), was awarded first prize at the important East European festival Bratislava Lyre, and made the late eighties a period of dizzying success for the artiste all across the Soviet Union. Like Vladimir Presniakov, Vaikule made a foray into foreign markets as the Soviet Union toppled, working in both America and Japan. Also like her male colleague, she met with some disappointment in the United States, though Asian opportunities proved pleasant and profitable. In 1993 she extended her extra-artistic activities with the opening of a beauty salon in Riga called Laimaliuks. It proved to be troublesome in the woefully bureaucratic atmosphere of post-socialist business, but marked a brave step into natural commercial practices after an unnatural regime. Vaikule also fell victim to certain post-Soviet property laws that returned Latvian real estate to the prior and often longforgotten owners. Vaikule’s importance in the development of estrada is enormous, since she has constantly perceived her songs as only one aspect of a fully-fledged show. Her cabaret work in Riga was invaluable experience, which she brought to Russia where it was spliced with the Slavic traditions of teatralizatsiia. Today Vaikule frequently appears on Russian television and continues to develop the same staged heritage. As Latvia’s post-Soviet independence has served to emphasize the nation’s cultural differences from the culture of Russia, Vaikule’s reputation as arbiter of foreign elegance has become more marked than it was when Pauls began to champion her burgeoning talents many years ago. varum, anzhelika (real name: mariia varum) Varum was born in 1969 to a father who is to this day an extremely successful composer and a mother who works as a theatrical producer in their hometown

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biographies of Lviv, Ukraine. During Anzhelika’s youth, her father’s work often required him to be in Moscow, and in 1987, when he was working on the songs of Soviet star Valerii Leont’ev, she joined him there. She tried at this time to enter a major theatrical institute in the capital, but was unsuccessful. Her father’s frequent work in a studio context allowed Anzhelika to gain free access to recording opportunities, so she often practised outside the official and exclusive confines of theatrical institutions. Her abilities were nurtured at home, and by the late eighties she was being given work as a backing vocalist for several performers. Like Laima Vaikule, she augmented this early employment with additional experience in cabaret. By 1989 Varum had enough experience to record her first song, “Polunochnyi kovboi” (“Midnight Cowboy”). The number met with a wonderful response across Russia and led to national television appearances. In 1990 Varum began to make solo appearances, thanks perhaps to the extra promotion arising from Pugacheva’s inclusion of her in the New Year’s extravaganza Christmas Rendezvous. She released albums in 1992 and 1993, Lialia-fa and Osennii dzhaz (Autumn Jazz); within two years the national music awards program Ovation crowned her Russia’s best singer. She also walked away with prizes for best album and best video. In the late nineties Varum became linked both professionally and personally with Leonid Agutin. They recorded together, and some of Agutin’s songs, written especially for Varum, produced mature and impressive results as his Latin rhythm combined with her delicate pop sensibility. Varum’s childlike vocals were initially applied to some rather simple songs, but since 1997 her ventures into quieter and jazzier territory suggest that her sensitive, lyrical delivery will become a fine and significant influence in modern Russian estrada.

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AUDIO-VISUAL SOURCES

sound recordings Compilations with multiple artists are not listed here, for a couple of reasons. They are both too numerous and too often re-released in formats that differ only slightly from the original; pirate compilations are frequently spliced together from existing collections and offered to the public as new. Single artist collections are listed here in their official format, but some pirate recordings containing new songs have been added. Several of the recordings listed are re-releases that I have chosen over the originals (with their often different labels). The more recent releases will be easier for readers to find, should they desire to discover a little more about estrada. The sound quality will also be superior, given the recent transition from vinyl to cds. I would suggest that readers who care to obtain some of these recordings (without traveling to Eastern Europe) should contact one of the music and video stores in New York or Los Angeles that cater to an émigré clientele. All such shops today advertise on the Internet. The major Russian search engines will also reveal a substantial number of audio files, often available for free. Agutin, Leonid Bosonogii mal’chik (1994) Sintez Dekameron (1995) Sintez Letnii dozhd’ (1998) Soiuz Sluzhebnyi roman (2000) Kvadro-disk / with Anzhelika Varum Allegrova, Irina Èlektroklub (1995) Jeff Records Ia tuchi razvedu rukami … (1996) ars / Bekar Records

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audio-visual sources Imperatritsa (1997) Rec Records Irina Allegrova (1994: two volumes) Gema Nezakonchennyi roman (1998) ars Suzhennyi moi … (1994) Russkoe snabzhenie Teatr (1999) I.A. Prodakshin Ugonshchitsa (1994) Jeff Records Vse snachala (2000) jrs Apina, Alena Alena Apina ’93 (1993) Soiuz Alena Apina ’95: Luchshie pesni (1995) Jeff Records Alena Apina ’95: Uzelki (1995) Jeff Records Do i posle (1994) Jeff Records Limita (1995) Jeff Records Liubi kak ia (1998) Soiuz Ob”iasnenie v liubvi (1997) Soiuz O sud’be i o sebe (2001) Soiuz Pliazhnyi sezon (1994) Jeff Records/ Image Propashchaia dusha (1995) Jeff Records Sopernitsa (1996) Soiuz Topolia (1999) Monolit Bulanova, Tat’iana Den’ rozhdeniia (2001) Grand Ia svedu tebia s uma (1996) Soiuz Izmena (1994) Soiuz Moe russkoe serdtse (1996) Soiuz Moi son (2000) Iceberg Obratnyi bilet (1996) Soiuz Skoro bol’ proidet (1995) Soiuz Staia (1999) Iceberg Sterpitsia – sliubitsia (1997) Soiuz Strannaia vstrecha (1994) Bekar / Russkoe snabzhenie Zhenskoe serdtse (1998) Extraphone Dolina, Larisa Dolina v doline strastei (1995) sba Records Èpigraf (2001) ld Studio Pevitsa i muzikant (1999) ld Studio Pogoda v dome (1997) ld Studio

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audio-visual sources Privykai … k Larise Doline (1993) Jeff Records “Proshchai” … Net. “Do svidaniia” (1996) Z Records Prosti menia!!! (1993) Gala Records Schastlivaia dolia (1998) ld Studio Zhit’ po-novomu (2000) ld Studio Kirkorov, Filipp Diagnoz: Chelofiliia (2000) Monolit Ia ne Rafaèl’ (1994) General Records Ia za tebia umru (2001) abp Kilimandzharo (2000) Nox Mysh’ (1999) kdk Records Ogon’ i voda (2000) abp Oi, mama, shika dam! (1998) Soiuz Primadonna (1995) General Records Sinbad-morekhod (1996) Melodiia Skazhi solntsu: Da! (1995) General Records S liubov’iu k Edinstvennoi (1998) Extraphone Takoi-siakoi (1992) General Records Ty poverish’? (2001) abp Ty, ty, ty (1996) Moroz / kdk Records Vchera, segodnia, zavtra i … (2001) Soiuz Koroleva, Natasha Brillianty slez (1997) Extraphone Del’fin i rusalka (1992) Zeko / with Igor’ Nikolaev Konfetti (1995) Soiuz Poklonnik (1994) Zeko Serdtse (2001) Monolit Zheltye tiul’pany (1995) Zeko Litsei Domashnii arest (1992) Sintez Nebo (1999) Extraphone Otkrytyi zanaves (1996) Soiuz Parovozik-oblachko (1997) Soiuz Podruga noch’ (1995) Sintez Ty stala drugoi (2000) Iceberg Zhivaia kollektsia (1998) Soiuz

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audio-visual sources Spinoff projects: Amega, Vverkh (chast’ 1) (1999) ort Elena Perova, Leti za solntsem (2000) Nikitin Malikov, Dmitrii Biser (2000) Iceberg Do zavtra (1995) jsp/ Dzhem Idi ko mne (1995) jsp/ Dzhem Igra (2001) Universal Sto nochei (1996) Bekar / Rec Records Strakh poleta (1997) Rec Records Zvezda moia dalekaia (1998) jsp/ Dzhem Na-Na Faina (1994) Image Krasivaia (1993) jsp Luchshie pesni Na-Na (1996) Soiuz Na-Na nad zemlei (1999) Monolit Na-nastal’giia (1995) PolyGram Russia Ne zhenis’ (1990–1991) Souvenir Noch’ bez sna (1996) Zeko Prikin’ (1997) Rec Records Vsia zhizn’ – igra (1998) ort Solo projects: V. Asimov, Odin (1998) ort V. Levkin, Esli èto liubov’ (shagi k sebe) (1999) kdk Records Nikolaev, Igor’ Fantastika (1995) Zeko Igor’ Nikolaev ’98 (1998) Extraphone Korolevstvo krivykh zerkal (1995) Zeko Malinovoe vino (1995) Zeko Vyp’em za liubov’! (1995) Zeko Orbakaite, Kristina Mai (2000) ort Nol’ chasov, nol’ minut (1997) Rec Records Remixes (2001) Nox

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audio-visual sources Ty (1998) ort Vernost’ (1996) Soiuz Ovsienko, Tat’iana Kapitan (1994) rdm Mirazh: Dance Remix (1997) jsp Mirazh: Greatest Hits (1996) Soiuz Mirazh: Zvezdy nas zhdut (1987) jsp Nado vliubit’sia (1995) ars / Rec Records Ne sudi … (1994) Bekar Records Reka liubvi moei (2001) Monolit Tat’ianin den’ (1995) No label The Best (1994) Jeff / Apex Za rozovym morem (1997) ars / Soiuz Presniakov, Vladimir Sliun’ki (1996) Soiuz Strannik (Izbrannoe) (1996) Soiuz Zhanka (Izbrannoe) (1996) Soiuz Zhivaia kollektsia (1998) Soiuz Zurbagan (Izbrannoe) (1996) Soiuz Vaikule, Laima Akh, vernisazh, akh, vernisazh … (1995) Melodiia / with V. Leont’ev Ia vyshla na Pikadilli (1996) Soiuz Latinskii kvartal (1998) Extraphone Luchshie pesni (1995) Russkoe snabzhenie Milyi proshchai (1997) Moroz / General Records Tango (undated pirate copy) Zerkalo (1999) Soiuz (double album) Varum, Anzhelika Goodbye, moi mal’chik (1994) sba Records Izbrannoe (1995) jsp Lia-lia-fa (1993) Jeff Records Osennii dzhaz (1995) Zeko / Gala Records Sluzhebnyi roman (2000) Kvadro-disk / with A. Agutin Tol’ko ona (1999) Soiuz V dvukh minutakh ot liubvi (1996) Jeff Records Zimniaia vishnia (1996) Soiuz

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audio-visual sources films This brief list contains only those films discussed at length in this book. Blagotvoritel’nyi bal (1993) dir. È. Sevela Chuchelo (1983) dir. R. Bykov Den’ polnoluniia (1998) dir. K. Shakhnazarov Gardemariny – 3 (1992) dir. S. Druzhinina Gardemariny, vpered! (1987) dir. S. Druzhinina (four films) Ivan Vasil’evich meniaet professiiu (1973) dir. L. Gaidai Limita (1994) dir. D. Evstigneev Obyknovennoe chudo (1978) dir. M. Zakharov Primadonna Mèri (1998) dir. A. Èiramdzhan Starye pesni o glavnom 1, 2 & 3 (1996–98) Tantsy na kryshe (1985) dir. V. Volkov Uvidet’ Parizh i umeret’ (1992) dir. A. Proshkin Vivat, Gardemariny! (1991) dir. S. Druzhinina V russkom stile (1991) dir. A. Prosianov and A. Boiko concert footage and video collections Miscellaneous Not included here are the very numerous collections of video materials compiled by independent (pirate) distributors throughout Russia and North America. Goriachaia desiatka (ongoing series of video compilations) Pesni 80-kh (two volumes) Pesnia 88 Pesnia 94 (two volumes) Pesnia 95 (two volumes) Pesnia 96 – Pesnia 2001 (in various forms) Pesnia goda 1972–1974 (two volumes) Soiuz (ongoing collections of video material, released on average twice yearly) Agutin, Leonid Letnii dozhd’ Allegrova, Irina Ia tuchi razvedu rukami Nezakonchennyi roman

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audio-visual sources Apina, Alena Limita Ob”iasnenie v liubvi Bulanova, Tat’iana Parad paradov Sterpitsia-sliubitsia Dolina, Lariza Dialogi Pogoda v dome Kirkorov, Filipp Atlantida Ia ne Rafaèl’ Nebo i zemlia Liubov’ i stsena Nemnogo o liubvi Parad paradov Skazhi solntsu – DA ! Subbotnii vecher s Kirkorovym Supertur 1998 Koroleva, Natasha Konfetti Litsei Na samom dele Osen’ Na-Na Kontsert 1995 Prikin’ – Da Nikolaev, Igor’ Igor’ Nikolaev i Natasha Koroleva Tvorcheskii vecher

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audio-visual sources Ovsienko, Tat’iana Za rozovym morem Zhenskoe schast’e Vaikule, Laima Ia vyshla na Pikadilli Luchshie pesni Subbotnii vecher

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NOTES

introduction 1 Should the reader wish to examine the work of these two artists, recent representative recordings are Gazmanov’s Luchshie khity (Russkii proekt) and Belousov’s Luchshie pesni (Maxi), both released in 2001. Gazmanov has been a successful composer for performers such as Tat’iana Ovsienko and Filipp Kirkorov, while young, recently modish artists have covered some of Belousov’s works – for instance, Devchonka-devchonochka – so both men still enjoy an implicit presence in this study. the decline of a soviet repertoire 1 V. Konnikov, Mir èstrady (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1980), 269. 2 The use of juvenile estrada as an ideological tool was by no means a political device born of perestroika and pop. For an earlier, callous, and officially sanctioned parallel between physically and ideologically immature audiences in estrada, see I. Sharoev, Rezhisser èstrady i massovykh predstavlenii (Moscow: Ministerstvo kul’tury rsfsr 1975). Here the author suggests to future estrada directors that the skills needed to entertain an audience of children can be used to fine political effect (107). It appears that by the early eighties estrada directors were unnerved by the radically more powerful ideological tools offered to light genres by television and radio. Two guidelines published by the Soviet Ministry of Culture in 1982 and 1983 stress the need for music teachers to study those media tools in order to understand them better (Instrumental’naia muzyka i pesnia na èstrade [Moscow: Ministerstvo kul’tury SSSR 1982 and 1983]), 4–5. 3 An article by I. Abel’ in the journal Televidenie i radioveshchanie (#10: 41–3) notes the tendency of Russian central television even in 1990 to

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notes to pages 8–12

4

5 6

7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16

play down the extravagance of many estrada shows when presented to a nation-wide audience. For a more detailed, albeit subjective account of Laskovyi mai’s rise and fall, see A. Razin, Zima v strane “Laskovogo maia” (Moscow: Grafis 1990). Razin’s comments on the ensemble’s disregard for Soviet tradition are very telling, as are those concerning the quick transition from political to commercial control in late Soviet estrada (124 and 174). For a brief history of Mirazh, see F. Razzakov, Dos’e na zvezd (tom 4): Za kulisami shou-biznesa (Moscow: Èksmo-Press 1999), 378–84. A rather dramatic response by the newspaper Smena to the rumours surrounding Laskovyi mai, as recorded in Zima v strane, 141 The seven survivors are Èdita P’ekha, Iosif Kobzon (both born in 1937), Lev Leshchenko (1942), Sofiia Rotaru (1947), Valerii Leont’ev and Alla Pugacheva (both 1949), and Irina Ponarovskaia (1953). The inquisitive reader might care to know in advance that these performers are Leonid Agutin, Irina Allegrova, Alena Apina, Tat’iana Bulanova, Larisa Dolina, Filipp Kirkorov, Natasha Koroleva, Litsei, Dmitrii Malikov, Na-Na, Igor’ Nikolaev, Kristina Orbakaite, Tat’iana Ovsienko, Vladimir Presniakov, Laima Vaikule, and Anzhelika Varum. Press cuttings and sound and video recordings respecting twenty-three performers, working either individually or in collectives, were consulted. If, however, we consider all performers discussed in these pages, including ex-members of some ensembles, that number increases significantly. Valerii Leont’ev in P. Markov, Persony: zvezdnoe dos’e (vol. 1 [Moscow: Olma-Press 1999]), 202 and 213. Lev Leshchenko in Persony: zvezdnoe dos’e (vol. 2), 140 and 142. Filipp Kirkorov in Ibid, 86–7. “Bumazhnyi zmei” (“The Paper Kite”), an Alla Pugacheva song covered in 1998 by Dmitrii Malikov for the album Zvezda moia dalekaia. A. Kolosov, “Znakomyi golos bliuza,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #2 (1982): 24. G. Deleuze and F. Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1998), 106. A. Kolosov, “Golos,” Moskovskii komsomolets 27 May (1983). M. Sigalov, “Prizvanie – èstrada,” Kul’tura i zhizn’ #11 (1985): 34, and T. Martynova, “Zolotaia lira – ‘Vernisazhu,’” Sovetskaia kul’tura 2 June (1987): 8. T. Sekridova, “Ironiia sluchaia,” Ogonek #46 (1987): 16 (Vaikule), and D. Shavyrin, “On predan pesne,” Televidenie i radioveshchanie #11 (1988): 40–1 (Nikolaev). See also L. Tikhvinskaia, “Kuda ischezla ‘nastoiashchaia èstrada’?” in Èstrada bez parada (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1990), 388–9. For another, contemporaneous critique of eighties

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notes to p age s 12–13

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18

19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27

problems of repertoire on the estrada, see M. Grin, Publitsist na èstrade (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1981), 154–5. E. Ol’gin, “Rastroenie lichnosti,” Muzykal’naia zhizn’ #17–18 (1992): 29–30. What are being equally forgotten are the canons in which Utesov found himself ensconced. The memoirs of Soviet children’s author Rina Zelenaia include the interesting and relevant assertion that by the time Leonid Utesov was celebrating his eightieth anniversary in 1975, Soviet estrada was confident enough of its own heritage to create retrospective canons. From the mid-seventies, in other words, estrada began to speak of its own suspiciously happy genealogy and generic dictates. Some of these worried Zelenaia, as the evidently aged Utesov found himself lauded as “young and handsome … I have to tell the absolute truth: that was simply incorrect. In the past, when the authorities used to criticize Utesov, he was a lot better – and a lot better-looking” (Razroznennye stranitsy [Moscow: Soiuz teatral’nykh deiatelei RSFSR 1987], 87). A similar situation exists with regard to the work of Klavdiia Shul’zhenko, who is known to younger performers such as Kristina Orbakaite only because her grandmother sang Shul’zhenko’s songs. T. Alekseeva, “Rossiia vsegda nuzhdalas’ v Pugachevykh,” Sem’ia #18 (1995): 24. È. Zvonitskii, “Kapitan ‘Kapitana,’” Gudok 31 December (1988). S. Biriukov, “Diktator. No zabotlivyi,” Trud 4 May #78 (1995): 6. M. Sadchikov, “Da, ia takoi-siakoi!” Smena 6 November #258–9 (1991): 7. For the father’s version of the same story, see N. Iaralova, “Filipp prezhde vsego moi syn,” Severnaia stolitsa 1–7 March #8 (1996): 9. “Bedros Kirkorov: ‘Ne otstupi svoe serdtse, synok!’” Chas pik #103 (1995): 16. A.Vul’f, “Presniakov bez zamka i bez dozhdia. Na pereput’e,” Muzoboz #4 (1996): 4–6. N. Mikhailovskaia, “Mne nravitsia zhit’ shiroko,” Mir zhenshchiny #7 (1997): 30. Dmitrii Malikov on Valerii Leont’ev, “Zvezdnyi chas Dmitriia Malikova,” Moskovskii komsomolets 31 August (1989). V. Terskaia, “Filipp Kirkorov: Ia poiu o liubvi i o zhenshchinakh,” Delovaia zhenshchina #9 (1992): 14. Tat’iana Ovsienko on P’ekha and Sofiia Rotaru. E. Gribkova, “Menia nazvali ‘tolstoi korovoi,’” My #1 (1994): 190–3. The remark on P’ekha’s beauty is by Tat’iana Bulanova and from N. Maliarov, “Prosto Tania,” Vechernii Peterburg 16 September #199 (1994): 6. For a male version, in which Kirkorov compares his success with that of Valerii Leont’ev, see “Velikaia liubov’ Filippa Kirkorova … ” Sankt-Peterburgskie vedomosti 5 August #145 (1997): 5.

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notes to p age s 13–15 28 On Leshchenko, for example, see “Znakomye neznakomtsy nashei èstrady,” Woman #12 (1997): 38–40. 29 A remark made concerning V. Leont’ev in Èstrada i tsirk #2 (1992): 2. 30 E. Èpshtein, “Svoia nosha ne tianet,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #2 (1988): 23–4. 31 A. Kucherov, “Peshkom na lunu,” Smena #16 (1989): 22–4. 32 L. Pal’tseva and V. Bel’chenko, “Dvoinoe priznanie Laimy,” Alla #10–11 (1997): 14–19. 33 A. Marinin, “Chas udachi,” Televidenie i radioveshchanie #10 (1990): 54–5. 34 K. Kliutkin, “Razrushenie stereotipa,” Kommunist Tadzhikistana 19 January (1990). Dolina continued to speak well of Pugacheva even in subsequent years: T. Furman, “Ia mogla by spet’ ‘Traviatu,’” Kul’tura 12 December #28 (1992): 5. Pugacheva returns the compliment in I. Goriunova, “Luchshii golos Rossii,” Rossiiskie vesti 27 December #244 (1996): 3. 35 K. Segura, “Zolotoi kliuch uspekha,” Sovetskaia kul’tura 19 May #20 (1990): 9. 36 I. Evseeva, “Uzelok zaviazhetsia … ” 24 chasa #9 (1996): 4, and M. Sadchikov, “Gotovliu muzhu makarony s ikroi … ” Smena 20 January #15 (1996): 6. 37 T. Alekseeva, “Rossiia vsegda nuzhdalas’ v Pugachevykh,” and O. Kushanashvili, “‘Chuchelo,’ kotoraia poet,” Stas #2 (1996): 28–31. 38 M. Sadchikov, “Mne dazhe vliubit’sia nekogda … ” Antrakt March #4 (1990): 7–8. 39 A. Perevalova, “Otchaiannaia shoumensha,” Nedelia October #40 (1992): 13; or N. Dumova et al., “Ispoved’ Iriny Allegrovoi,” Severnaia stolitsa 5–11 January #1 (1996): 9 (on Allegrova), and O. Khrustaleva, “Ministr i krasavitsa,” Kommersant Daily 8 February #18 (1996): 13 (on Vaikule). 40 M. Sadchikov, “Kak by ne tak – ia poiu i tantsuiu … ” Smena 30 November #270 (1996): 6. 41 A. Pugacheva, “Na kontserte Tat’iany Bulanovoi,” Alla #9 (1997): 26–9. 42 M. Gus’kova, “I grust’, i slezy … ” Smena #10 (1994): 132–4. 43 V. Kolesnik et al., “Ne prosto Filia,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 17 November #211 (1995): 12–13. 44 L. Kudriavtseva, “My s Alloi rodilis’ v aprele … ” Rossiia 26 April – 2 May #11 (1995): 9. 45 The singers who began to replace Pugacheva after perestroika often stressed their total commitment to lyricism. See Vladimir Presniakov in M. Sadchikov, “I vot vunderkind vyros,” Smena 31 July #175 (1989): 4. Pugacheva has bequeathed a lyrical tradition, which was often harassed under the Soviets. Take, for example, two overviews of Soviet

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notes to p age s 16–19

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56

57 58 59 60 61 62

63

estrada by the same author, Iu. Dmitriev, from either end of a decade. In 1962, during the Thaw, overly private or intimate whisperings into the microphone were harshly criticized. In place of a heroine’s “passion and sufferings,” Dmitriev suggested in 1968 (with Khrushchev out of office) that television’s growing audience should give murmuring artistes more important “and greater [social] responsibilities” to worry about. Iskusstvo sovetskoi èstrady (Moscow: Molodaia gvardiia 1962), 109, and Sovetskaia èstrada: Kratkii ocherk istorii (Moscow: Znanie 1968), 73. N. Malysheva, “Molodaia mama iz ‘Letnego sada,’” Nevskoe vremia #58 (1994): 5. “Teper’ nezachem plakat’,” 24 chasa #30/372 (1996): 1. È. Govorushko, “Eshche idut starinnye chasy,” Obshchaia gazeta February #5 (1998): 1b. V. Kuznetsov, “Neskol’ko ‘pestrykh’ voprosov Laime Vaikule,” SanktPeterburgskie vedomosti 9 August #149 (1995), 5. N. Tikhonova, “Doroga k chernomu Mersedesu,” My #4 (1991): 180–2. I. Abel’, “Zriteli vybiraiut Filippa,” Kul’tura i zhizn’ #1 (1991): 47. “Moe tsyganskoe detstvo,” Nedelia February #6 (1995): 9. “Po vashei pros’be: Vladimir Presniakov,” Krest’ianka #12 (1991): 26. M. Sadchikov, “Pobedit’, konechno, pochetno. No pochemu by i ne proigrat’?” Smena 20 May #116–17 (1992): 6; “Ne sprashivaite Del’fina i Rusalku o lichnoi zhizni!” Smena 6 May #104–5 (1992): 6; A. Kolbovskii, “Prosto Laima,” Stolitsa #47 (1993): 54–7; I. Goriunova, “Filipp Kirkorov: Zvezda, muzh zvezdy,” Rossiiskie vesti 17 November #218 (1994): 8. V. Novikov, “Zvezdnaia sem’ia,” Argumenty i fakty March #10 (1995): 6. “Svoego vraga ‘graf’ Kirkorov mozhet obozvat’ vsego lish’ svoloch’iu,” Rossiiskaia gazeta 22 March #53 (1994): 8, and Alekseeva, “Rossiia vsegda nuzhdalas’ v Pugachevykh.” Litsei, “U brodiachikh muzykantov” (1996). A. Snezhinskaia, “Gost’ 13-i stranitsy: Na-Na,” Nedelia October #43 (1994): 13. A. Kolosov, “Obshchii iazyk,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #7 (1984): 23. Igor’ Nikolaev in A. Evdokimov, “Samyi molodoi iz populiarnykh,” Kul’turno-prosvetitel’naia rabota #1 (1987): 50–3. M. Sadchikov, “Nadezhdy dvenadtsati ‘Nadezhd,’” Smena 7 February #32 (1985): 4. Èpshtein, “Svoia nosha ne tianet.” Yet Pauls himself criticizes her for a weak voice and a “rather meagre dramatic temperament.” (“Legko li byt’ zvezdoi” Panorama 89: Molodezh’. Iskusstvo. Vremia. Moscow [1989], 117–24). Sadchikov, “I vot vunderkind vyros.”

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notes to p age s 19–21 64 M. Sadchikov, “Kliuchi ostav’ druz’iam,” Smena 28 February #209 (1988): 2. The significance of audience contact and visual emphases in the Soviet tradition was great. As a light-hearted indication of that significance, I offer the following anecdote. Once when Èdita P’ekha and the ensemble Druzhba were on tour in Kutaisi, the singer felt after a few encores that she could sing no more. She pointed to her throat to indicate fatigue, but an elderly Georgian man stood up and shouted across the auditorium with his thick accent: “You don’t have to sing. Just stand there a while – it’s nice to look at you!” The hall broke into laughter and P’ekha somehow found the strength to sing her admirer one more song (P.A. Goriachev, Moi druz’ia artisty [St. Petersburg: Tipografiia im. Kotliakova 1995], 47). 65 A. Gasparian, “Umeite liubit’ drug druga!” Moskovskii komsomolets 16 July #216 (1989). 66 T. Sekridova, “Vladimir Presniakov,” Smena #22 (1987), back cover, and I. Abel’ “Presniakov glazami Presniakova,” Televidenie i radioveshchanie #8 (1989): 54–5 and inside back cover. 67 I. Abel’, “Ne khochu nachinat’ snachala,” Televidenie i radioveshchanie #11 (1989): 26–8. 68 “Zvezdnyi chas Dmitriia Malikova.” Na-Na would also be criticized in the nineties for a similarly fluid membership: “They’re not at all a group, but a crew. Like that of an airplane. You can change the mechanic, even the pilot, but the plane will still fly.” “Nash poster,” Sobesednik October #35 (1993): 12. 69 G. Deleuze and F. Guattari, Anti-Oedipus (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1998), 106, and A Thousand Plateaus, 66. 70 G. Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy (New York: Columbia University Press 1983), 4 and 156. 71 N. Tikhonova, “Bez dublera,” Kul’tura i zhizn’ #8 (1990): 48. 72 “Ne sprashivaite Del’fina i Rusalku o lichnoi zhizni!” 73 Kliutkin, “Razrushenie stereotipa.” Given this criticism, perhaps the entire genre of civic songs, of social concerns, is doomed and no longer a part of a contemporary repertoire? There certainly have been some proponents of matters civic, such as Oleg Gazmanov or the ensemble Liubè; both make reference to the pride and dignity of military traditions, specifically Soviet in the case of Liubè. I have noted that Gazmanov’s career has been successful, both as composer and as performer, but the lyric tradition utterly dominates post-Soviet estrada. For a skeptical view of Gazmanov and Liubè even in 1991, see G. Shestakov, “Tri èstetiki, tri sostavnye chasti pop-muzyki” (Part Two), Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #2 (1991): 6–9. 74 M. Sadchikov, “Dozhdat’sia svoei minuty,” Lesnaia promyshlennost’ 11 August (1990).

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notes to pages 21–7 75 M. Sadchikov, “Ne sogreshi so shliagerom,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #8 (1991): 4–5. 76 G. Shestakov, “Tri èstetiki, tri sostavnye chasti pop-muzyki,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk (Part One), #1 (1991): 10–12. 77 On this issue, see Nietzsche and Philosophy, 186. 78 Litsei, “Spoi mne” (1997). 79 V. Vernik, “Ia nikogda ne poluchal udovol’stviia ot shampanskogo,” Nedelia 14–20 October #42 (1991): 20. 80 T. Zhurbinskaia, “Ia podariu vam liubov’,” Muzykal’naia zhizn’ #4 (1992): 10. 81 I. Ozerskaia, “I kazhdyi raz boius’ provalit’sia,” Nevskoe vremia 27 October #209 (1992): 6, and M. Sadchikov, “Golos krushit ‘faneru,’” Èstrada i tsirk #4 (1992): 6–7. 82 E. Pavlova, “On rodilsia v Bolgarii, a zhivet v Rossii … ” Smena 10–16 February #6 (1992). 83 Furman, “Ia mogla by spet’ Traviatu.” 84 M. Sadchikov, “Peterburg dlia menia prokliatyi gorod,” Smena 10 March #56–7 (1993): 5. 85 A. Petrov, “Byla ryzhei, byla kashtanovoi.” Gazeta dlia zhenshchin #4/2 (1994): 1 and 8. 86 V. Vernik, “Laima otkryvaet klub,” Nedelia May #21 (1994): 5. The diverse characters referred to here are from songs written for Vaikule by Raimonds Pauls. 87 For an explanation of why Kirkorov is not kitsch, see B. Borisov, “Filipp slyshish’, rubit … ” Nedelia April #14 (1994): 8–9. 88 G. Baranov, “Gost’ 13-i stranitsy: Larisa Dolina,” Nedelia #20 (1994): 13. 89 Maliarov, “Prosto Tania.” 90 V. Gatchinskii, “Ia liubliu iskrennost’,” Severnaia stolitsa 14–20 October #13 (1994): 14. 91 Alena Apina in V. Krykov, “Ia bol’she ne bedovaia devchonka,” Sem’ia 7–13 March #10 (1994): 24. 92 T. Sharaia, “Mne vazhno, chtoby menia liubili,” Sem’ia June #23 (1994): 16. 93 M. Sadchikov, “Nanaitsy ne speshat delit’ portfeli v svoem kvartete,” Smena 28 October #251 (1995): 6. 94 “Poluzvezda, no est’ nadezhda … ” Sankt-Peterburgskie vedomosti 6 January (1995) #3: 7, and A Thousand Plateaus, 137. 95 O. Kushanashvili, “Ukhmylka kastelianshi,” Stas #1 (1996): 16–18. See also V. Kuznetsov, “Ia ne poiu, ia rasskazyvaiu,” Sankt-Peterburgskie vedomosti 6 January #3 (1996): 5, and V. Chebotarev, “Ia tuchi razgoniu rukami!” Rossiiskie vesti 16 May #89 (1996): 8. 96 A. Mel’nikov, “Otpusti ikh na voliu,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #8 (1996): 7–8; Èkho planety #32.

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notes to p age s 27–30 97 M. Sadchikov, “So svoimi nedostatkami borius’,” Smena 26 October #242 (1996): 6. 98 Sadchikov, “Kak by ne tak.” 99 T. Cherednichenko, “Èra pustiakov,” Novyi mir October #10 (1992). 100 “Poslednii gastroler,” Muzoboz #6 (1996): 4–6. 101 Nietzsche and Philosophy, xi. Although I did not discuss the work of Anna German in Red Stars, it serves here as an additional, extreme example of this “ideal” meaning through loss. German was of Polish origin and sang beautiful lyrical songs upon the Soviet estrada before she had a terrible car-crash in Italy. The resulting problems made it virtually impossible to resurrect her career and in fact she died in Warsaw in 1982 at the age of forty-seven. Her gentle songs, claimed Soviet critics, helped to show that “physical death is powerless over genuine talent, over moral and spiritual purity, over human dignity.” There is no contradiction between German’s quiet lyrics and the fact that they gained this public significance through “intensive, careful work [or labour: trud],” as she said herself. (A. Zhigarev, Anna German [Moscow: Iskusstvo 1988], 301, and A. German, Vernis’ v Sorrento? [Moscow: Raduga 1985], 123.) 102 Laima Vaikule, “V zabroshennoi taverne” (1995). 103 T. Khlopliankina, “Zhestokie igry,” Literaturnaia gazeta 10 October #41 (1984): 8. 104 G. Zakharov, “Zhizn’ v muzyke,” Kul’tura i zhizn’ #11 (1986): 17. 105 K. Sashko, “K oblozhke,” Sovetskii èkran #5 (1989): 26. See also A. Petrov, “Isprobovat’ sebia vo vsem,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #12 (1990): 21–3. 106 A. Petrov, “Metamorfozy Larisy Dolinoi,” Rossiiskie vesti 24 November #223 (1994): 8. 107 E. Dodolev, “Igor’ Nikolaev,” Smena #14 (1987): 20. 108 A. Perevalova, “Gor’kaia dolia Larisy Doliny,” Nedelia January #3 (1992): 22. 109 E. Iurashin, “Eshche ne vecher,” Muzykal’naia zhizn’ #13 (1987): 23. 110 T. Sekridova, “Schastlivaia zvezda Laimy Vaikule,” Kommunist Tadzhikistana 17 February (1988): back page. See also “Laima Vaikule,” Zhurnal mod #6 (1988), 2 and 22–5. 111 R. Pauls, “Melodii v ritme zhizni,” Molodezhnaia èstrada #1 (1990): 100–13. 112 N. Ostrovskaia, “Ne zaviduiu nikomu,” 24 chasa 29 July #31 (1993): 14. 113 L. Akimova, “Ia malo spliu i mnogo em,” Sem’ia 24–30 May #21 (1993): 24. 114 Kolbovskii, “Prosto Laima.” 115 Sadchikov, “Peterburg dlia menia prokliatyi gorod.”

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notes to pages 30–2 116 A. Efremov, “Moia zhizn’ idet vol(’)noobrazno,” Gazeta dlia zhenshchin #1 (1994): front cover and 2. 117 I. Sikharulidze, “I vse zhe ‘Sovetskaia Madonna,’” Zaria Vostoka 13 May (1990). 118 “Mne dazhe vliubit’sia nekogda.” 119 A. Litvinova and M. Norkina, “Ne terpliu tuposti!” Sovetskaia kul’tura #23 (1991): 9, and Ol’gin, “Rastroenie lichnosti.” 120 The film is announced in V. Terskaia, “Liubliu sobak bez rodoslovnykh,” Delovaia zhenshchina October #17 (1992): 13. 121 See, for example, I. Semin, “Drugogo i ne zhdali,” Kul’tura 30 April #17 (1993): 9; A. Piskunov, “U dobra i zla net natsional’nosti,” Moskovskie novosti 11 April #15 (1993): 16; and V. Mikhailova, “O Dime, Lene i kolli Sting,” Rossiiskaia gazeta 16 December #244 (1994): 12. In 1993 the publication Mir zvezd asked its female readers to write another screenplay for Malikov. N. Vasechkin, “Plius svoboda serdtsa,” Mir zvezd #3–6 (1993): 8–12. 122 “Mne uzhe 23 i chto mozhet byt’ dal’she novogo?” Smena 14 April #90–1 (1993): 7. 123 D. Lovkovskii, “Kachestvennyi uroven’ dolzhen rasti,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #7 (1993): 8 in Èkho planety #40. 124 “Kristina priglashena na bal,” Udacha #2 (1993):12. The film concerns a masseuse who dreams of becoming an actress. 125 B. Minaev, “Obzor,” Ogonek #27–8 (1994): 5. See also “Kristina Orbakaite i Limita,” Sankt-Peterburgskie vedomosti 18 March #92 (1994): 8; and “V Kanne uznaiut o limitchikakh,” Rossiiskaia gazeta 14 May #90 (1994): 8. 126 A. Kolbovskii, “Novye russkie, geroi nashikh dnei,” Vek 11–17 March #10 (1994): 11. 127 O. Shumiatskaia, “Dmitrii Astrakhan na perekrestke zhanrov,” Izvestiia 24 December #247 (1994): 6. The words to several of the songs in the musical by M. Tanich can be found in Pogoda v dome (Moscow: RIK Ruslanova 1998). 128 L. Vasil’ev, “Trinadtsat’ – chislo schastlivoe,” Trud 20 December #235 (1994): 7. 129 “Menia zvali – ‘Limita,’” Molodezhnaia èstrada #4 (1995): 10–11. See also A.K. “Astrakhan + Apina = pop-roman,” Stolitsa January #1 (1995): 89. 130 M. Sadchikov, “Ia stala propadat’ na kukhne,” Chas pik 2 November, #48 (1994): 16 and I. Karasev, “Vladimir Presniakov snimaetsia v kino,” Sankt-Peterburgskie vedomosti 25 December #274 (1993): 5. 131 Iu. Trofimov, “Bulanomaniia? Bulanomaniia!” Muzykal’nyi olimp #7 (1994): 2 in Èkho planety #30.

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notes to pages 32–4 132 N. Fokht, “Kristina Orbakaite sygrala slepoglukhonemuiu, kotoraia umeet govorit,’” Izvestiia 7 June #103 (1995): 7. See also A. Tsimbaliuk, “Kristina – ne tol’ko pop-zvezda,” Smena November #253 (1995): 7; and S. Sosedov, “Nevostrebovannaia sensatsiia s Kristinoi Orbakaite,” Rossiiskie vesti 30 June #30 (1995): 3. 133 “Ia – odnoliub, no ne zagadyvaiu na zavtra,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 8 December (1995): 14–15. 134 N. Iaralova, “My tak malo mozhem poodinochke,” Severnaia stolitsa 17–23 November #40 (1995): 7. 135 A Thousand Plateaus, 153. 136 E. Ul’chenko, “Ran’she vse my chitali zapoem,” Knizhnoe obozrenie 17 January #3 (1995): 20. 137 Iu. Ivanova, “Èstrada – èto miska s varenikami,” Nevskoe vremia 2 March #39 (1995): 6. 138 Alekseeva, “Rossiia vsegda nuzhdalas’ v Pugachevykh.” Despite her doubts, Orbakaite was awarded the Komsomol’skaia pravda prize in 1996 for best debut of a non-professional actor in Miracle after Monday. See “Prizy ‘Komsomol’skoi pravdy’ byli vrucheny,” Ogonek May #21 (1996): 73. For a similar statement by Malikov, see “Ia vzial ot pop-muzyki vse, chto mog,” Rossiiskie vesti 18 February #32 (1995): 6. 139 Evseeva, “Uzelok zaviazhetsia.” 140 “Otygryvaius’ za fortepiannoe detstvo,” Smena 26 October #242 (1996): 6, and “Gotovliu muzhu makarony s ikroi.” 141 M. Smachnaia, “Kogda ty liubish’ i liubim, vse mechty,” Vechernii Peterburg 18 October #199 (1996): 7. He also expresses the desire to make films and then repeats that desire in V. Chebotarev, “Filipp ne khochet byt’ ideal’nym muzhom,” Rossiiskie vesti 30 November #227 (1996): 10. 142 Sadchikov, “Kak by ne tak.” 143 S. Riabukhina, “Sud’ba mne ne balovala,” Zdorov’e #4 (1997): 6–8. Dolina, too, wishes to make films. 144 O. Kolabskaia, “Uchus’ byt’ dramaticheskoi aktrisoi,” Kul’tura 30 December #51 (1997): 17. See also B. Mianev, “Pust’ govoriat!” #4 Ogonek (1998): 52–3. 145 M. Anikeeva, “Spoet li Varum pod skripku Dzhigarkhaniana?” Komsomol’skaia pravda 24 September #175 (1997): 6. 146 “Blits – Laima Vaikule,” Ogonek January #2 (1997): 55; and “Dvoinoe priznanie Laimy.” 147 M. Antonov, “Strakh poleta posle 100 nochei,” Smena 1 February #24 (1997): 6. 148 “Ia chetko znaiu, chto s mamoi luchshe ne ssorit’sia,” Smena 13 February, #33 (1997), 6. 149 Larisa Dolina, “Pevitsa i muzykant” (1999).

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notes to p age s 35–40 150 A Thousand Plateaus, 302. 151 Ibid., 312. 152 Anti-Oedipus, 21. the absence of ideology 1 S. Biriukov, “Diktator. No zabotlivyi.” 2 Anzhelika Varum, “Sostoianie zhizni”(1999). 3 For example, V. Simakin, “Neuzheli èto nashi deti?” Sovetskaia kul’tura 2 October #118 (1984): 5. 4 A good example of Malikov’s fading biases is in “Dmitrii Malikov: Pevets, kompozitor,” Komil’fo #1 (1996): 72. 5 A. Gasparian, “Sensatsiia Larisy Dolinoi,” Moskovskii komsomolets 8 December (1988): 3. 6 I. Kanevskaia, “Byt’ populiarnoi nelegko,” Gudok 18 September (1990): 4. Wages did little to improve the situation, as she notes in “Laima Vaikule – na gastroliakh i doma,” Soiuz March #11 (1990): 21. 7 A. Kucherov, “Peshkom na lunu.” 8 I. Sikharulidze, “Vse zhe Sovetskaia Madonna.” (My emphasis) 9 V. Svetlanin, “Eshche ne vecher, Laima?” Golos 1–7 July #25 (1991): 16. 10 M. Kaspinskaia, “U talanta net opoznavatel’nykh znakov,” Sovetskaia Èstoniia 8 March (1991). 11 M. Sadchikov, “Golos krushit faneru.” He offers a related critique of cash in G. Rezanov and T. Khoroshilova, “Liubimyi passazhir stiuardessy po imeni Zhanna,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 2 February #20 (1993): 4. 12 M. Krainiaia, “Poklonnitsy menia ne razdrazhaiut,” Sobesednik #39–40 (1993): 19. 13 The story appears in many articles, for example, I. Litvinova, “Pochemu vyseliaiut pevitsu Laimu Vaikule, i ne ee odnu,” Izvestiia 16 September #176 (1993): 5; I. Stepanova, “Ia ne liubliu byt’ zamuzhem,” Vechernii Peterburg 23 March #62 (1994): 4; and “U Vaikule dachu otobrali,” Rossiiskaia gazeta 31 March #60 (1994): 8. 14 O. Goriachev, “Ne umeiu byt’ vul’garnoi,” Argumenty i fakty July #28 (1993): 6. 15 O. Svistunova, “Rizhskaia Madonna,” Èkho planety #44 (1995): 27–8. The final phrase is a play upon Pugacheva’s song and video “Zhenshchina, kotoraia poet” (“A Woman Who Sings”). See also A. Zhikarentsev, “Ia uchus’ verit’,” Piatnitsa 8 January #2 (1993): 8. 16 G. Marakanov et al., “Glavnaia pesnia pro Oliu,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 19 April (1995): 12. 17 V. Kuznetsov, “Neskol’ko ‘pestrykh’ voprosov Laime Vaikule,” SanktPeterburgskie vedomosti 9 August #149 (1995): 5.

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notes to pages 40–3 18 V. Chebotarev, “Laima Vaikule ne zametila kontsa Sovetskogo Soiuza,” Rossiiskie vesti 7 June #104 (1995): 4. 19 O. Seev, “Neproshchennaia Laima,” Sobesednik April #16–17 (1996): 24. 20 Iu. Cherniavskii, “Publiku nel’zia obmanut’,” Sankt-Peterburgskie vedomosti 10 September #151 (1996): 5. 21 M. Sadchikov, “Natasha Koroleva zakatila na Kreshchatike pir na 350,000 person,” Kaleidoskop #24 (1998): 47. Those who believe this was bravery born of cash should read M. Sadchikov, “Prilaskai kotenka!” Smena 28 November #273 (1990): 4. 22 N. Rakhlina, “Markiza shliagerov,” Stas #5 (1997): 6–9. 23 K. Litmanov, “Svoiu populiarnost’ ne-na-vi-zhu!” Sobesednik May #21 (1996): 10–11. He complains of the poor songs of the day. Also in V. Dolzhikov, “‘Gran-pri’ ‘Intershliager-90’ u Filippa Kirkorova,” Molodezhnaia èstrada #5 (1990): 58–60. 24 V. Koval’, “Vozmozhno, v proshloi zhizni ia byla ved’moi,” Rabochaia tribuna 28 March (1995). On Dolina and novelty, see also A. Petrov, “Pir muzyki,” Moskovskii komsomolets 4 October (1987). 25 O. Chernenko, “Operatsiia na serdtse nevozmozhna,” Sobesednik November #45 (1996): 26. 26 Alena Apina, “Khit-parad,” from the musical Limita (1995). 27 D. Shavyrin, “Shutki v storonu,” Moskovskii komsomolets 1 January (1987); and T. Sekridova, “Vladimir Presniakov.” 28 “We always grab Western fashion by the tail without considering our own national traditions.” Èdita P’ekha in V. Terskaia, “Èdita, doch’ shakhtera,” Smena #12 (1995): 143. 29 S. Biriukov, “Mne mnogoe dano ot Boga,” Trud 19 September #140–1 (1992): 7. 30 D. Khakhalev, “Za uspekh liubov’iu ne rasplachivaius’,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 30 March #57 (1993): 4; and “Po vashei pros’be: Irina Allegrova,” Krest’ianka #10 (1991): 26. 31 “Moia zhizn’ idet vol(’)noobrazno” and S. Berestov, “Ostrov nevezeniia v ‘Doline liubvi,’” Komsomol’skaia pravda 21 September #169 (1994): 3. 32 N. Barabash, “Ia razvozhus’ i vykhozhu zamuzh tikho,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 12 August (1994): 16; and “Diktator. No zabotlivyi.” On “farcically” meddlesome committees, see F. Pogodin, “Russkii Maikl Dzhekson,” Kommersant Daily 21 May #89 (1998): 5. 33 N. Maliarov, “Prosto Tania.” The nostalgia for Soviet estrada certainly has its limits; Leonid Agutin, for example, happily denies its influence upon his work. M. Sadchikov, “Bosonogii mal’chik v prikide ot ‘Dizelia,’” Smena 29 April #98 (1995): 7. 34 N. Iaralova, “Skazochnaia illiustratsiia,” Severnaia stolitsa 22–8 March #11 (1996): 8.

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notes to p age s 43–50 35 “Samyi romanticheskii geroi Rossiiskoi èstrady,” Natali #17 (1995): 12. 36 G. Oskolkov, “Strana Na-Na … Raz, dva, tri, chetyre, Vladimir Asimov!” From a linked series of articles in Pul’s December #12 (1997): 12; November: 14; October: 14; and September: 14. 37 I. Ignatova, “Iurii Aizenshpis: zvezdnykh del master,” Imperial #4 (1997): 24–9. 38 Irina Allegrova, “Liubovnitsa” (1996). 39 I. Kanevskaia, “Byt’ populiarnoi nelegko.” 40 T. Sekridova, “Ia budu, budu korolevoi,” Sem’ia 27 October – 3 October #39 (1993): 24. Vaikule’s thoughts are repeated yet again the following year: Stepanova, “Ia ne liubliu byt’ zamuzhem.” 41 E. Gribkova, “Menia nazvali ‘tolstoi korovoi.’” 42 A. Mel’nikov, “Liubliu seks … s zhenshchinami,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #11 (1994): 7–8 in Èkho planety #47. 43 N. Katsman, “Vliubchiv i ochen’ revniv,” Èkho planety #7 (1994): 7–8. 44 M. Smachnaia, “Filipp Kirkorov: Ia zhertva,” Vechernii Peterburg #76 (1995): 5. 45 V. Kuznetsov, “Neskol’ko pestrykh voprosov”; and T. Alekseeva, “U Laimy s Paulsom,” Rossiiskaia gazeta 10 February (1995): 6. 46 V. Koval’, “Vozmozhno, v proshloi zhizni ia byla ved’moi.” 47 S. Riabukhina, “Sud’ba mne ne balovala.” 48 T. Zolotova, “Ne liubliu vesti schet svoim grekham,” 24 chasa 19 December #51 (1996): 15. 49 G. Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy, 24–6 and 48. 50 “Kar’era po sluchainosti,” Rossiiskaia gazeta 8 December #238 (1995): 26. 51 Irina Allegrova, “Baby-stervy” (1998). 52 V. Terskaia, “Liubliu vse prekrasnoe i zagadochnoe,” Èstrada i tsirk #10–11 (1992): 6–7. 53 S. Sudakova and S. Rusinov, “Vdol’ po ‘Ulitse liubvi!’ s Alenoi Apinoi,” Piatnitsa 5 February #6 (1993): 7. Her laissez-faire attitude is also evident in D. Korsakov, “Ne u kazhdoi pevitsy est’ svoi Lekha,” Komsomol’skaia pravda #30 (1993): 4. 54 “Malikov ishchet talanta,” Argumenty i fakty November #48 (1994): 12. 55 “Domashnii arrest,” Art fonar’ #1 (1994): 16. 56 M. Sadchikov, “Nam drug druga vpolne khvataet,” Smena 8 April #80 (1995): 6. 57 “Igry i igrushki Anzheliki Varum,” Molodezhnaia èstrada #4 (1995): 18–19. 58 V. Chebotarev, “Svoego zmeia Anzhelika Varum kormit liagushkami,” Rossiiskie vesti 18 March #50 (1995): 6. 59 For Vaikule on originality, see E. Iurdashin, “Eshche ne vecher,” Muzykal’naia zhizn’ #13 (1987): 23; T. Martynova and T. Sekridova, “Est’ li prava u ‘zvezd’?” Sovetskaia kul’tura 17 February #7 (1990): 14; and I. Reznik, Pevtsy sovetskoi èstrady (ed. 3 [Moscow 1992]), 231–44.

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notes to pages 50–4 60 O. Kushanashvili, “Pevitsa masskul’ta,” Muzoboz #2–3 (1996): 8–9. 61 Koroleva appeared in Playboy December (1997), 62–74. Her reaction to the furor is recorded in M. Sadchikov, “Natashu Korolevu chut’ ne sgubila riumka vodki,” Kaleidoskop #22 (1998): 48. Litsei was featured in May of the same year, 24–34, followed by one member’s repeat performance three years later. An ex-member of Mirazh, Irina Saltykova, was also given a few pages in November (36–43) and again in 2000. Saltykova’s appearance did no damage to her image as a familyoriented performer; the same was true for the others. See, for example, an interview with her daughter: S. Ivanova, “S pevitsei Irinoi Saltykovoi my prosto odnofamilitsy!” Litsa #7–8 (1999): 50–4. 62 R. Ramazanov, “Devochka-udacha” Smena #2 February (1998): 274–6. 63 Natasha Koroleva, “Malen’kaia strana” (1995). 64 A. Amlinskii, “Ia ustal ot breika!” Komsomol’skaia pravda July 31 (1987). 65 I. Abel’, “Presniakov glazami Presniakova” and A. Gasparian, “Umeite liubit’ drug druga!” 66 A. Evdokimov, “Sluga dvukh gospod?” Sovetskaia èstrada #12 (1989): 12. 67 “Kaliforniiskii aktsent,” Smena 6 May #105 (1989): 4. 68 M. Sadchikov, “Prints Vladimir Mladshii,” Antrakt May #7 (1990): 7–8. 69 M. Sadchikov, “Dozhdat’sia svoei minuty.” 70 “Liubimchik Ally Borisovnoi,” Antrakt June #11 (1990): 7–8. 71 T. Sekridova, “Est’ li prava u ‘zvezd’?” See also “Laima Vaikule – na gastroliakh i doma”; and I. Kanevskaia, “Glavnoe – byt’ iskrennei,” Vodnyi transport 24 May (1990). 72 On the situation within opera, see G. Osipov, “Pri svete ‘zvezd’ ischezaiushchikh,” Delovye liudi November (1990): 82–3. 73 Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #8 (1991): 4–5. 74 I. Kabak, “Pesne ty ne skazhesh’ ‘do svidaniia.’” Argumenty i fakty December #50 (1991): 6. 75 N. Soldatenkov, “V. Presniakov: Zhizn’ i pesnia,” Argumenty i fakty #14 (1991): 6–7. 76 A. Perevalova, “Laima na poliane schast’ia,” Nedelia #18 (1992): 12. See also A. Balebanova, “Laima Vaikule zavoevyvaet mir,” Pravda 23 April #60 (1992): 4. 77 I. Ozerskaia, “Zvezdnyi dozhd’ v ‘Oktiabr’skom,” Nevskoe vremia 29 October #211 (1992): 6. 78 M. Sadchikov, “Ia za sebia molius’, ia za sebia boius’,” Èstrada i tsirk #3 (1992): 6–9; and “Amerikantsy s Laimoi ne toropiatsia,” Smena 12 August #185–6 (1992): 6. 79 M. Sadchikov, “Strannik nemnozhko ustal?” Smena 15 July #161–2 (1992): 6. 80 V. Terskaia, “Proshchai, ‘potselui’!” My #7 (1993): 163–7. 81 D. Khakhalev, “Za uspekh liubov’iu ne rasplachivaius.’”

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notes to pages 54–7 82 E. Faktorovich, “Laima Vaikule,” Sobesednik August #32 (1993): 12. See also the negative connotations of being termed the Soviet Madonna while in America: S. Zaichik, “Russkaia Madonna,” Piat’ uglov 28 October #42 (1993): 7. 83 “Tishe, Sashen’ka, ne plach’!” Smena 21 April, #98 (1993): 7. 84 “Russkii talant i v Izraile talant!” Pravda 1 July #124 (1993): 4. 85 M. Martovskaia and A. Smirnova, “Gruppa Na-Na utolila dukhovnuiu zhazhdu sviatoi vodoi,” Piat’ uglov 7 October #39 (1993): 3. 86 “Kachestvennyi uroven’ dolzhen rasti”; and A. Kucherov, “Litsei litsom k litsu,” Smena #8 (1994): 276–9. 87 V. Martynov and A. Pomeshchikov, “Obyknovennyi ‘na-nizm,’” Argumenty i fakty October #40 (1994): 7. These roles, however, were not seen as a threat to the singers’ actual identities: “Mal’chishnik Bari Alibasova,” Smena 8 April #81–2 (1992): 7. 88 M. Sadchikov, “Na-Na: Nas sravnivali s Bitlz!” Sobesednik #30 (1994): 12. 89 M. Sadchikov, “Na-Na: Chistaia liubov’ na … ginekologicheskom kresle,” Smena #50 (1994): 6. 90 M. Sadchikov, “Nanaitsy ne speshat delit’ portfeli v svoem kvartete.” 91 “Volodia Presniakov nashel spasenie dushi v ‘Zamke iz dozhdia,’” Smena 25 February #45 (1995): 5. 92 V. Artiunova, “Leonida Agutina dogovorilis’ sdelat’ izvestnym,” Kommersant-Daily 20 December #219 (1996): 8. 93 I. Bzhakhova, “Tania Ovsienko poliubila afrikantsa. Kak syna,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 3 April #161 (1996): 6. 94 “I v vozdukh chepchiki brosali,” Muzoboz #5 (1996): 38–9 95 “Piatiseriinaia shou-opera nanaitsev,” Smena 20 January #15 (1996): 6. 96 “V sng ne uspeesh’ zhenit’sia, a v Tailande zheny ne naidesh’,” Smena 27 January #21 (1996): 6. 97 N. Rzhevskaia, “Na-Na mechtaet uiti v monastyr’,” Sobesednik #45 (1996): 16. 98 V. Chebotarev, “Filipp ne khochet byt’ ideal’nym muzhem.” 99 A. Baranov and O. Karmaza, “Zaika moia, ia v N’iu-Iorke!” Komsomol’skaia pravda 8 April (1997): 1–2. See also L. Pal’tseva and V. Bel’chenko, “My vse popali v istoriiu,” Alla #10–11 (1997): 34–9. 100 “Fridrikhshtadtpalas pal posle desiatiletnei osady,” Chas pik 2 July #96 (1997): 16. 101 M. Sadchikov, “Amerikanskaia mechta Del’fina i Rusalki,” Smena 15 March #58 (1997): 6. 102 A. Alekseev, “Presniakovu-ml. bylo ne do Pesni goda,” Sobesednik #1 (1997): 7. 103 A. Nizamutdinov, “Nanaitsy idut na Frantsiiu,” Kul’tura 29 April– 13 May #16 (1998): 14; and “Na-Na v Evrope – s Linn Stambuli, v Rossii – s Bari Alibasovym,” Kul’tura 27 May #18 (1998): 14.

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notes to p age s 57–60 104 M. Antonov, “Igor’ Nikolaev i Alla Pugacheva ne ozhidali ot Natashki takoi pryti,” Smena 31 January #22 (1998): 4. 105 Litsei, “Stat’ samim soboi” (1992). 106 I take the term “face” from M. Sobe-Panek, “Poet Laima Vaikule,” Kommunist Tadzhikistana 8 July (1987), back page. 107 R. Kalnin’sh, “Astronomy nazvali by ee nova,” Televidenie i radioveshchanie #10 (1987): 40–1. There are perhaps two exceptions. The first is the performance today of Soviet songs at retrospective concerts; younger artists freely rework their predecessors’ classics. The second exception has arisen with the significance of disc jockeys, who through the radical remixing of others’ work themselves become performers. 108 A. Pogol’skaia, “Ia takaia zhe, kak vsegda,” Vechernii Leningrad 7 March #56 (1990): 3. 109 I. Kanevskaia, “Glavnoe – byt’ iskrennei.” 110 M. Krainiaia, “Poklonnitsy menia ne razdrazhaiut.” 111 A. Pigarev, “Menia ty skoro pozabudesh’,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #6 (1994): 5 in Èkho planety #24. 112 V. Vernik, “V piatom klasse ia perestala uchit’sia i nachala pet’,” Nedelia June #25 (1994): 10. 113 “Smekh i slezy Tani Bulanovoi,” Nedelia December #52 (1994): 11. See also “Ia vse delaiu sama,” Televik 20–6 November #47 (1995): 26. 114 T. Moskvina, “Devochka-razluka,” Chas pik 30 March (1994): 15. 115 L. Druzhinina, “O chem, deva, plachesh’?” Sobesednik #50 (1994): 6. 116 “Plachu ne tol’ko ia, no i moia publika” Smena 7 October #233 (1995): 6. See also S. L’vov, “Strannaia vstrecha Tani Bulanovoi,” Damskii ugodnik March-April #5 (1995): 8. 117 T. Sharaia, “Mne vazhno, chtoby menia liubili.” 118 V. Krykov, “Ia bol’she ne bedovaia devchonka.” 119 M. Sadchikov, “Nam drug druga vpolne khvataet.” Bari Alibasov has proposed an interesting theory that contradicts Apina, Bulanova, and Varum. He maintains that the stronger a country, the more heroes it has. Since Russia is weak, it lacks the bold, staged lichnosti of years gone by that would rise above quotidian reality. Only one superstar has remained – Pugacheva. The entire situation today doesn’t bode well. You see, the more powerful a state, the more stars it has or – as people used to say – idols. This was true for the ancient Romans and it’s true for the United States today. In the communist Soviet Union you must agree there were an enormous number of idols: movie stars, stars of theater, politics, sport and so on, who for the most part defined the face of the nation and state. Now all those stars have been trampled into the ground … and not without the help of journalists, who mix it all in with some crap, into a swamp …

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notes to pages 60–6

120

121

122 123 124 125 126 127

It is very difficult to agree with this assessment. The creation and promotion of a “star” by a state in no way correspond automatically to popularity. The creation of state-sponsored idols speaks, if anything, of gross insecurity within that state’s semiotic system. Alibasov is also stressing the civic side of lichnost’, which has become increasingly irrelevant since the eighties. As already mentioned, if estrada hopes to be socially useful in any way, it is through the cultivation of sentimentally positive relations between two people: the performer and his or her addressee in the hall. “Moe tsyganskoe detstvo”; Biriukov, “Diktator. No zabotlivyi”; and “V SNG ne uspeesh’ zhenit’sia.” The magazine Cosmopolitan in Russia has also treated two male performers in the same fashion: Malikov and Agutin. See September (1997), 164 and 166–7. N. Kozhevnikova, “Novyi imidzh Filippa Kirkorova,” Nevskoe vremia 15 February #27 (1997): 5. On the related issue of changes of stage, compare Iu. Maslenikova, “Taburetku v ruki – i vpered!” Nedelia June #27 (1992): 14; and I. Ozerskaia, “Ia kazhdyi raz boius’ provalit’sia,” Nevskoe vremia 27 October #209 (1992): 6. See also V. Terskaia, “Slava – tiazhelaia nosha,” My #1 (1993): 130–7. “Filipp Kirkorov: 30 + 30,” Chas pik 5 November #164 (1997): 16. Laima Vaikule, “Pugalo” (1985). “Tat’iana Ovsienko: vsegda ènergichna i privlekatel’na,” Hair’s Now #10 (1997). A. Vul’f, “Kapriznaia dama s dzhazovym proshlym,” Stas #1 (1997): 12–14. G. Deleuze, Coldness and Cruelty (London: Zone 1991), 22. G. Deleuze, Essays Critical and Clinical (London and New York: Verso 1998), 111. Quoting the Russian writers Belyi, Mandel’shtam, and Khlebnikov as examples, Deleuze advocates a deliberate “stuttering” in one’s own language. “[These writers] invent a minor use of the major language within which they advocate themselves entirely; they minorize this language. This means that a great writer is always like a foreigner in the language in which he expresses himself, even if this is his native tongue. At the limit he draws his strength from a mute and unknown minority that belongs only to him. He is a foreigner is his own language … When a language is so strained that it starts to stutter, or to murmur or stammer … then language in its entirety reaches the limit that makes it fall silent [author’s italics].” “He Stuttered” in G. Deleuze, Essays Critical and Clinical, 109–10 and 113. performers’ untutored upbringing

1 Alena Apina, “Sensatsiia” (1998). 2 Laima Vaikule and Valerii Leont’ev, “Delovaia zhenshchina” (1986).

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notes to p age s 66–70 3 T. Mikhailova, “Moi talisman,” Moskovskaia pravda 27 June (1987). 4 T. Sekridova, “Laima Vaikule tantsuet rok-n-roll,” Sovetskii sport 6 December (1987): 4. 5 O. Meshkov, “Ee schastlivoe chislo,” Pravda 17 January #17 (1988): 6. 6 “Legko li byt’ zvezdoi.” 7 I. Abel’, “So storony vidnee,” Televidenie i radioveshchanie #2 (1989): 60–1. 8 I. Anufrieva, “Glavnoe – terpenie,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #7 (1990): 42–3. See also Svetlanin, “Eshche ne vecher, Laima?” 9 Pogol’skaia, “Ia takaia, kak vsegda.” 10 V. Riazanova, “Gotovlius’ k konkursu pianistov,” Kuranty 3 April (1991): 8. By the time Malikov was able to combine both “light” and “serious” music, the workload had not lessened. See “Trudoliubivyi Malikov,” Chas pik 30 August #134 (1995): 13. 11 M. Sadchikov, “Da, ia takoi-siakoi!” 12 A. Levit, “Nebo i zemlia – priamo s korablia,” Èstrada i tsirk #5–6 (1992): 30. 13 N. Tatarenko and M. Egorova, “Muzh Aleny Apinoi pochemu-to okazalsia ne Igorem,” Piat’ uglov #45 (1993): 6. 14 I. Kokhanovskii, “Ia za svoi Mercedes vkalyvala ne khuzhe shakhtera,” 24 chasa 19 October #42 (1995): 15. 15 “Menia osobenno liubiat voennye i podrostki,” Sem’ia #34 (1995): 24. 16 M. Biderman, “Natasha Koroleva: Zolushka ili Tsarevna-liagushka?” Nevskoe vremia 16 March #50 (1996): 9. 17 A. Vul’f, “Presniakov bez zamka i bez dozhdia.” 18 G. Oskolkov, “Strana Na-Na: raz, dva, tri, chetyre, Vladimir Levkin!” 19 V. Bel’chenko, “Dvoinoe priznanie Laimy.” 20 Litsei, “Den’gi” (1995). 21 A. Salbiev, “Kak stat’ ‘zvezdoi,’” Sovetskaia kul’tura 20 August #100 (1988): 8. In a 1993 article Irina Allegrova claimed that her Soviet wage when she started performing was seventy kopecks per concert! M. Martovskaia and S. Smirnova, “Pochemu Irina Allegrova ne stala kupat’sia v Ozere Nadezhdy?” Piat’ uglov 11 November #44 (1993): 6. 22 “Zvezdnyi chas Dmitriia Malikova.” 23 M. Sadchikov, “Prints Vladimir-mladshii.” 24 E. Goncharenko, “Talanty i okhranniki,” Sovetskaia kul’tura 30 June #26 (1990): 6. 25 M. Sadchikov, “Mne dazhe vliubit’sia nekogda,” Sovetskii patriot 9– 15 April #15 (1990): 8–9. 26 I. Kanevskaia, “Laima Vaikule – na gastroliakh i doma.” 27 D. Shavyrin, “Pered prem’eroi,” Moskovskii komsomolets 18 November (1990). 28 M. Sadchikov, “Kirkorov, Opel’ i Madonna,” Lesnaia gazeta 11 May (1991).

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notes to pages 71–4 29 S. Rybakov, “Mirazhi i slukhi,” Nedelia 13–19 May #20 (1991): 11. 30 M. Sadchikov, “Tishe, Tanechka, ne plach’!” Antrakt December #9/32 (1991): 7–8. 31 “Vladimir Presniakov: Zhizn’ i pesnia”; and “Poliubite pianista, razliubite pop-zvezdu?” Smena 6 March #53–4 (1991): 7. 32 “Zhenikh i nevesta iz ‘Letnego sada,’” Smena 12 June #133–4 (1991): 7; and Iu. Shigareva, “Iubochka iz pliusha s brilliantami,” Kul’tura 6 June #16 (1992): 5. 33 M. Sadchikov, “Ia za sebia molius’, ia za sebia boius’.” 34 S. Biriukov, “Mne mnogoe dano ot Boga,” For a similar denial of the importance of money for Na-Na, see A. Ivanushkin, “Poluchaiu kaif ot svoego dela,” Trud 11 December #195–6 (1992): 7. 35 A. Alekseev, “Polnochi s Alenoi Apinoi,” TV-reviu 1–7 February #5 (1993): 2–3. 36 “Mozaika,” My January 1 (1993): 126–7. 37 V. Terskaia, “Proshchai, potselui!” 38 A. Zaikin, “Krome muzyki, liubliu muzyku,” Smena #9 (1993): 238–41; and “Prosto Laima.” 39 Vladimir Presniakov in N. Efremov, “Novoe seichas delat’ tiazhelo,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #1 (1993): 7–8 in Èkho planety #12. For Alena Apina’s theory of the natural laws at work, see “Nam drug druga vpolne khvataet.” 40 “Zamok iz dozhdia na fundamente iz dollarov,” Smena 16 June #134 (1993): 6. Pugacheva’s undying influence is also felt elsewhere, for example, in an interview with Kristina Orbakaite in which the latter admits that looking for sponsors is impossible. Only her mother has the influence to do so for her. M. Margolis, “Ia zaviduiu ei, a ona mne,” 24 chasa 20 January #3 (1994): 10. 41 M. Sadchikov, “Peterburg dlia menia prokliatyi gorod.” 42 A. Petrov, “Byla ryzhei, byla kashtanovoi” and A. Baranov, “Gost’ 13-i stranitsy: Larisa Dolina.” 43 Amega, including Elena Perova, an ex-member of Litsei, “Nogi” (1999). 44 L. Druzhinina, “O chem, deva, plachesh’?” and “Shou-biznes ne grekhoven, esli nesesh’ dobro,” Smena 25 November #267 (1994): 4. 45 A. Zueva, “Uspekh zavisit ot Boga,” Sobesednik #25 (1994): 11. 46 V. Krykov, “Ia bol’she ne bedovaia devchonka.” 47 T. Sharaia, “Mne vazhno, chtoby menia liubili.” A similar situation arose in 1997, when Leonid Agutin told of having a Lexus 400 stolen and of being at once smitten by the thought, “You should have lent the money to friends!” È. Tuzmukhamedov, “Bossanovyi mal’chik” Medved’ #5/20 (1997): 26–9. 48 I. Goriunova, “Filipp Kirkorov: Zvezda, muzh zvezdy”; N. Shcherbina, “Za luchshie mesta u Kirkorova nado vylozhit’ polmilliona,” Rossiiskie

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notes to pages 74–7

49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

59

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

70

vesti #223 (1995): 8; and N. Popova, “Doch’ Ally Pugachevoi liubit redisku,” Rossiiskie vesti 16 November #217 (1994): 4. T. Petrenko, “Pesnia prostaia i neglupaia,” Kul’tura 14 January #1 (1995): 12. A. Glashneva, “Nemnogo o sebe, nemnogo o druz’iakh,” Nevskoe vremia 3 February #21 (1995): 4. V. Kolesnik, “Ne prosto Filia”; and M. Smachnaia, “Filipp Kirkorov: Ia zhertva.” L. Belaga et al., “Latyshkii kharakter,” Speed-Info #7 (1995): 31–2. I. Litvinova, “Million dollarov na krasotu,” Izvestiia 22 January #13 (1994): 12. A. Moskusenko, “Shampun’ ot Laimy Vaikule,” Rossiiskie vesti 13 April #68 (1995): 8. M. Zile, “Laima – kapitalistka” Ogonek #39 (1996): 52. M. Sadchikov, “Mne li zavidovat’ komu-to?!” Smena 10 August, #179 (1996): 6. K. Litmanov, “Svoiu populiarnost’ ne-na-vi-zhu!” Iu. Cherniavskii, “Publiku nel’zia obmanut’” and A. Zhigailov, “Filipp Kirkorov vstretitsia s fininspektorom,” Kommersant-Daily 17 September #156 (1997): 10. See also O. Saprykina, “Kirkorov stanet poslushnym pervogo aprelia,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 17 September #170 (1997): 6. For information on sponsors at this time, see V. Ladnyi, “V Rostove Filippu i Alle podarili krovat’,” Komsomol’skaia pravda 26 March #55 (1997) and V. Kolesnik, “Luchshee, liubimee i tol’ko dlia vas!” Komsomol’skaia pravda 7–14 March #43 (1997): 3. A. Mel’man, “Tol’ko raz byvaet v zhizni 30 let,” Trud 15 November #142 (1997): 4. Bulanova’s version of events can be found in “Kak by ne tak.” Alena Apina, “Sopernitsa” (1996). I. Abel’, “Ne khochu nachinat’ snachala.” I. Abel’, “Dva Vladimira,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #5 (1990): 22–4. È. Zvonitskii, “Ia – neispravimyi romantik,” Sovetskaia torgovlia 5 June (1990). E. Goncharenko, “Talanty i okhranniki.” M. Sadchikov, “Mne dazhe vliuibit’sia nekogda.” “Planety po imeni Laima,” Sobesednik #1–2 (1994): 22. Minor difficulties such as being booed off the stage in the early nineties were not discussed in print for several years by their victims, as if the received image of a happy estrada was too precious to spoil at the first possible opportunity: N. Malysheva, “Molodaia mama iz Letnego sada.” Nastia Makarevich of Litsei in A. Mel’nikov, “Otpusti ikh na voliu.”

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notes to p age s 78–84 71 72 73 74

75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

83 84 85

86 87 88

A. Baranov, “Gost’ 13-i stranitsy: Larisa Dolina.” V. Kuznetsov, “Neskol’ko pestrykh voprosov Laime Vaikule.” G. Oskolkov, “Strana Na-Na: Raz, dva, tri, chetyre, Vladimir Asimov!” Given the moot semantic power of an artist to (at least) begin a series of significances, Freud certainly deserves a brief mention here, since our artists refer to him on occasion. Malikov’s film Uvidet’ Parizh i umeret’ is an investigation of anti-Semitism, as noted. In it are found “psychoanalytic episodes, as if illustrating the theories of Freud … a Russian degenerate suffocates a sparrow in a gas oven. In the same communal kitchen a Jewish girl tries desperately and unsuccessfully to save the bird. She has just tried on her muslin wedding dress. Her future mother-in-law commits suicide by letting gas out of the same oven. She has no strength left to remain alive. Trying to help her son, a talented pianist, she is obliged to hide her origins, to constantly denigrate herself and when her patience has reached its limit, she makes herself a gas chamber” (“U dobra i zla net natsional’nosti”). On a more trivial level, Anzhelika Varum was asked what men mean in her life. She replied: “Could I read some Freud and answer a little later?” E. Semenova and V. Polupanov, “Sem’ia – èto tak skuchno!” Argumenty i fakty May #20 (1994): 9 and “Menia k muzhchinam tianet!” Damskii ugodnik March-April #5 (1995): 9. For Na-Na on Freud and eroticism, see “Na-Na: Gost’ 13-i stranitsy.” Tat’iana Bulanova, “Spi, moi mal’chik (Kolybel’naia)” (1994). L. Vinnik and A. Pomeshchikov, “Ètot ston u nikh pesnei zovetsia,” Argumenty i fakty #33 (1994): 5. A. Zueva, “Uspekh zavisit ot Boga.” V. Krykov, “Ia bol’she ne bedovaia devchonka.” “Otygryvaius’ za fortepiannoe detstvo.” A. Evdokimov, “Samyi molodoi iz populiarnykh.” È. Zvonitskii, “My vstrechaemsia ne sluchaino,” Gudok 22 June (1988). For a fine example from Dolina’s life, see “Larisa Dolina: U Moskvy imia sil’noe,” Mir zhenshchiny #8 (1997): 77. The same sentiment is clearer still in her beautiful, lilting song of 1997, “Moskvichka.” “Liubimchik Ally Borisovnoi.” M. Sadchikov, “Prilaskai kotenka!” Another aspect of these biographies overlaps with a subject addressed in a previous chapter: following in the footsteps of musical parents. See Presniakov in I. Abel’, “Poliubite muzykanta,” Molodezhnaia èstrada #4 (1991): 71–3 and Anzhelika Varum in “Ia tol’ko nachinaiu.” V. Vernik, “Ia nikogda ne poluchal udovol’stviia ot shampanskogo.” V. Kotykhov, “Shou odnogo supermana,” Teleradio-Èfir #2 (1992): 58–9. E. Stepanov, “Ia byla obychnym kostiumerom,” Stolitsa #9 (1992): 41. See also V. Sokolov, “Virazhi Mirazha,” Smena 20 May #118 (1988): 4.

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notes to p age s 84–90 89 L. Klement’eva, “Tat’iana Ovsienko svoim golosom,” Èstrada i tsirk #4 (1992): 10. 90 N. Zhuraleva, “Alfavit Aleny Apinoi,” Argumenty i fakty October #37 (1992): 7. 91 “Ran’she zhdala chaek, teper’ – Chaiku” Smena 13 October #232 (1993): 6. 92 M. Zakharychev, “Moi pervyi brak – oshibka, no ia v nei ne raskaivaius’,” Sem’ia #12 (1993): 24. 93 “Kak Tania edva ne stala Miss Italiia,” Molodezhnaia èstrada #4 (1995): 14–15. 94 “Pesnia prostaia i neglupaia” and “Bosonogii mal’chik Leonid Agutin, kompozitor … v zakone,” Nedelia September #37 (1994): 13. 95 A. Larchenko, “Budu delat’ to, chto delaiu,” Severnaia stolitsa 11–17 August #26 (1995): 7. 96 M. Sadchikov, “Natasha Koroleva, povzroslev, razocharovalas’ v èrotike i vpala v detstvo,” Chas pik 26 July #133 (1995): 16. 97 For example, “Povelitel’nitsa zmei,” Speed-Info January #1 (1995): 32 on Varum; L. Belaga, “Latyshkii kharakter” on Vaikule. For a domestic or familial setting as the impetus for creative work, see V. Chebotarev, “Sekret ‘Litseistok,’” Rossiiskie vesti 31 October #207 (1996): 4. 98 G. Karabasov, “Dima Malikov v ogne ne gorit,” Sobesednik February #7 (1996): 8–9. See also Iu. Naum, “Dima Malikov pomnit svoiu pervuiu liubov’,” Nevskoe vremia 2 March #42 (1996): 4. 99 O. Kushanashvili, “Chuchelo, kotoraia poet” and N. Dumova, “A mozhet, vliubit’sia?” Severnaia stolitsa 8–14 March #9 (1996): 8. 100 N. Dumova, “Ia ne boius’ sentimental’nosti,” Severnaia stolitsa 9–15 February (1996): 7. 101 Tat’iana Bulanova, “Sterpitsia-sliubitsia” (1997). 102 L. Agutina, Moi syn Leonid Agutin (Moscow: Zakharov 1998). For related materials see, for example, M. Kondrat’eva, “Mama Leonida Agutina napisala knigu o syne,” Kommersant-Daily 14 February #25 (1998): 13 and “Kogda byl Lenia malen’kii,” Nezavisimaia gazeta 21 May #89 (1998): 15. 103 A. Naryshkin, “Kirkorov sryvaet ovatsii i uchenikov s urokov,” Kul’tura 26 February #7 (1998): 14. directorial work on the stage and on the road 1 Kristina Orbakaite, “Muzykant” (1998). 2 Na-Na, “Belyi parokhod” (1993). 3 A. Petrov on Presniakov in “Papa, ty sam byl takim!” Narodnoe tvorchestvo #11 (1989): 15.

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notes to pages 91–5 4 M. Sigalov, “Igor’ Nikolaev: Gusar na balu udachi,” Udacha #3 (1992): 16–18. 5 M. Sadchikov, “Shou Filippa: Start v Peterburge – finish v Parizhe,” Smena 14 October #237–8 (1992): 6. 6 “Iubka – ne iz pliusha!” Argumenty i fakty May #16–17 (1992): 4. 7 My #6 (1991): 183. 8 “Zamok iz dozhdia na fundamente iz dollarov.” 9 “‘Zaika’ i ‘verbliuzhonok.’ Dva dnia i dva goda liubvi,” Smena 11 November #262 (1995): 6. 10 S. Biriukov, “Na-Nastal’giia’ poluchilas’ na-nastoiashchei,” Trud 18 May #87 (1995): 6. 11 L. Kudriavtseva, “Glazhka i stirka – moi razvlecheniia,” Rossiia 14– 20 June #17 (1995): 9. 12 N. Kupskaia, “Novoe shou papinoi dochki,” Razgulai December #12 (1996): 53. 13 A. Rakhlina, “Ia – egoist,” Stas #1 (1996): 22–5. 14 O. Shumiatskaia and A. Kolbovskii, “Portret,” Stas #4 (1996): 24–9. 15 “Poslednii gastroler.” 16 N. Iaralova, “Mne nekogda smotret’ po storonam,” Televik 13–19 May #20 (1996): 36. 17 I. Mishina, “Raz v god Moskvu nado pokoriat’,” Rossiiskie vesti 22 November #221 (1996): 3. 18 O. Saprykina, “Tysiacha vol’t udovol’stviia!” Komsomol’skaia pravda #49 (1997): 2. 19 M. Sadchikov, “Russkii pop-gigant. Gastroli,” Chas pik 23 April #59 (1997): 16. 20 “O.T,” “Luchshee, liubimoe, tol’ko dlia vas,” Nevskoe vremia 28 February #37 (1998): 4. 21 A. Mel’man, “Tol’ko raz byvaet v zhizni 30 let,” Trud 15 November #142 (1997): 4. 22 Vladimir Presniakov, “Obmani menia” (1996). 23 D. Lovkovskii, “Optimisty iz Na-Na,” Sovetskaia èstrada i tsirk #11 (1990): 48. 24 I. Kanevskaia, “Glavnoe – byt’ iskrenee.” 25 It is interesting in this context to note an article on Mirazh from 1990. The band so terribly bound up in the misuse of fanera is discussed as one “whose songs are never forgotten by innocent [neiskushennye] teenagers.” The journalist praises the ensemble for their lack of politics [beskonfliktnost’], which is something of a blessing after the heavy-handed sanctimony of eighties’ estrada (G. Alekseev, “Tot samyi Mirazh,” Sovetskaia kul’tura 20 January, #3 [1990]: 9). In this brief praise of ethically vacuous popsa we sense a pause in late- or

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notes to pages 95–9

26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33

34 35 36 37 38 39

40 41 42

post-Soviet estrada before it realizes the quality of its own tradition, then turns back to mine it deeply and successfully. G. Belkin, “Filipp, otkroi sekret!” Kul’tura 28 September #31 (1991): 9. V. Terskaia, “Slava – tiazhelaia nosha.” Iu. Shigareva, “Iubochka iz pliusha s brilliantami.” M. Sadchikov, “Golos krushit faneru.” S. Biriukov, “Mne mnogoe dano ot Boga.” Tat’iana Ovsienko has also cited poor equipment as a reason for resorting to fanera, so that the audience does not sit through two hours of electrical “hissing and wheezing.” See a similar argument by Irina Allegrova in “Ia ne poiu, ia rasskazyvaiu.” In 2001, a film clip showing Kirkorov performing on national television made its way onto the Internet. It contained the soundtrack of an audible whisper as he mouthed lyrics into his microphone during a fanera show. Although there is nothing unusual or surprising in the practice, to actually hear somebody huff and puff as he danced to a lip-synched number was upsetting for many Russians, and the clip garnered much attention in the press. A. Pigarev, “Menia ty skoro pozabudesh’,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #6 (1994): 5 in Èkho planety #24. L. Druzhinina, “O chem, deva, plachesh’?” T. Petrenko, “Pesnia prostaia i neglupaia.” Agutin, like Dolina, makes an exception for concerts at which several performances take place in quick succession. See G. Marakanov, “Glavnaia pesnia pro Oliu” and A. Mal’kevich, “Novoe prochtenie Dekamerona,” Piatnitsa 21 April #16 (1995): 16. N. Lantsova, “Glava sem’i – liubov’,” Vechernii Peterburg 2 February #21 (1995): 1. M. Sadchikov, “Gotovliu muzhu makarony s ikroi.” T. Grigor’iants, “Filipp Kirkorov liubit sebia, zhenu i ne tol’ko,” #9 Pul’s (1997): 12–13. O. Vorob’eva, “Kak Bari Alibasov akademikom stal,” Izvestiia 14 February #29 (1997): 8. Kristina Orbakaite, “Kino” (1997). D. Shavyrin, “Shutki v storonu”; A. Petrov, “Pir muzyki”; A. Amlinskii, “Ia ustal ot breika!”; and “Eshche ne vecher.” On Vaikule, see also V. Terskaia, “Laima – znachit schast’e,” Kul’tura i zhizn’ #11 (1987): 17–18 and I. Vasil’eva, “Teatr Laimy Vaikule,” Leningradskaia pravda 18 May (1988). Compare Nikolaev’s comment with the early article by M. Sigalov, “Prizvanie – èstrada,” Kul’tura i zhizn’ #11 (1985): 34. A. Kucherov, “Peshkom na lunu.” A. Alekseev, “Polnochi s Alenoi Apinoi.” D. Korsakov, “Ne u kazhdoi pevitsy est’ svoi Lekha.”

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notes to p age s 100–8 43 M. Sadchikov, “Peterburg dlia menia prokliatyi gorod” and S. Berestov, “Ostrov nevezeniia v Doline liubvi.” 44 M. Sadchikov, “Na-Na: Chistaia liubov’ na … ginekologicheskom kresle.” 45 For further tales surrounding Shufutinskii, see his well-illustrated autobiography: I vot stoiu ia u cherty (Moscow: Trièn 1997). 46 “Dmitrii Iur’evich Malikov iz Monte-Karlo prosledoval v Koniushennyi dvor,” Smena 2 September #203 (1995): 6. 47 E. Shumkova, “Samyi vysokii v ‘Pokolenii’ – Zaika,” Alla #10–11 (1997): 20–3. 48 L. Pal’tseva, “Begushchii po volnam,” Alla #8 (1996): 6–9. 49 On the occasionally mundane reasons for this viewpoint (such as piracy), see S. Chernow, “Record Company Wages Fight against Pirates, Economic Crisis,” St. Petersburg Times 6 August (1999): 12. 50 A. Pigarev, “Poka l’iutsia slezy,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #4 (1994): 5–6 in Èkho planety #16. See also S. Sudakova, “Letnii sad – vchera, segodnia, zavtra,” Piatnitsa 12 March #11 (1993): 8, in which Bulanova blames the “Moscow barrier” that makes it so hard for Petersburg musicians to be nationally successful, given the centralized nature of television. 51 Irina Allegrova, “Medovyi mesiats” (1996). 52 M. Gorshman, “Na-Na? Nu-nu,” Èstrada i tsirk #4 (1992): 21. 53 A. Ivanushkin, “Poluchaiu kaif ot svoego dela.” 54 “Mal’chishnik Bari Alibasova.” 55 “Ne sprashivaite Del’fina i Rusalku o lichnoi zhizni.” Koroleva turned nineteen two months prior to the interview. 56 A. Snezhinskaia, “Gost’ 13-i stranitsy: Na-Na.” 57 M. Sadchikov, “Natasha Koroleva, povzroslev, razocharovalas’ v èrotike i vpala v detstvo.” 58 “Veselye sosedy,” Speed-Info March #3 (1995): 35–6. 59 Even more restrained was the appearance in Playboy by Irina Saltykova, erstwhile member of Mirazh, as mentioned above. She remained so well clothed that some people wondered why she even bothered posing. 60 N. Protorskaia, “Skandaly obkhozhu storonoi,” Gazeta dlia zhenshchin #7 (1997): 3. 61 Tat’iana Bulanova, “Kupi-prodai” (1996). 62 N. Katsman, “Vliubchiv i ochen’ revniv.” 63 D. Lovkovskii, “Tania Bulanova: Strannaia vstrecha,” Muzykal’nyi olimp #2 (1994): 15 in Èkho planety #7. 64 A. Petrov, “Byla ryzhei, byla kashtanovoi … tol’ko briunetkoi ne byla i ne budu.” 65 A. Petrov, “My. Bari i ego nanaitsy,” Gazeta dlia zhenshchin April #7 (1994): 10–11.

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notes to pages 108–19 66 N. Iaralova, “Zvezdy o televidenii,” Televik 2–8 December (1996): 6. 67 V. Kuznetsov, “Ia ne poiu, ia rasskazyvaiu.” 68 V. Polupanov, “Pochemu mtv pobedilo MuzTV?” Argumenty i fakty #25 (1999): 12 and A. Kushnir, “Russkie idut,” Medved’ June #38 (1999): 8–15. See also S. Igoreva, “mtv: Rossiiskii razmakh i nepodkupnost’,” Kul’tura 1–7 October (1998): 9. 69 Recordings were placed on line by Mummi Troll’, with their album Tochno rtut’ aloè (Real: 2000); “anonymous” web-mixes were conducted by Valeriia, with her Pervyi internet-al’bom (Familiia: 2000). Prior to this the female dance trio Blestiashchie (now a quartet) had already concluded an album with a selection of brief samples for djs to refashion on the dance floors of the nation (Tam, tol’ko tam: Remixes [Zeko: 1997]). 70 Larisa Dolina, “Spokoinoi nochi, gospoda” (1993). 71 Twice in the last few years ort has staged lengthy concerts in Moscow at which pirated copies of ort videos and movies are ostentatiously crushed before a crowd and then exchanged for free, licensed recordings. 72 “Presniakov ne obmanet – on zhe ne fanernyi geroi,” Chas pik 23 April #59 (1997): back page. 73 Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, 246; A Thousand Plateaus, 261–2 and 276. 74 L. Chernikova, Solnechnyi gorod (NIL: 1999). 75 Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy, 190. audio 1 Anzhelika Varum in M. Sadchikov, “Nu chto zhe ty, Lenia?!” Zhenskii ugodnik #6/47 (1998): back cover. 2 F. Kirkorov, Takoi-siakoi (1992) General Records. 3 Na-Na, Na-Nastal’giia (1995) PolyGram Russia. 4 As a light-hearted example of how the word “metamorphosis” is applied throughout an article on Larisa Dolina, see F. Kholodova, “Larisa Dolina: Nash otvet Amerike,” Litsa December (1998): 10–14. Changes in the singer’s waistline, stage persona, and fame are all described using the same noun. 5 D. Malikov, Strakh poleta (1997) Rec Records. 6 I. Nikolaev, “Korolevstvo krivykh zerkal” (1995) Zeko Records. Words by P. Zhagun, music by I. Nikolaev. There is a play here on the Russian folk saying: “Don’t promise me a crane in the sky. Put a blue tit in my hands.” 7 N. Koroleva, “Zheltye tiul’pany” (1995) Zeko Records. Words and music by I. Nikolaev.

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notes to p age s 120–7 8 For brief discussions of Orbakaite’s natural shifting between roles, see Iu. Shigareva, “Ia ne mamina doch’,” Argumenty i fakty #2 (1999): 3 and I. Kretova, “Rabotnik servisa dushi,” Medved’ #11 (1997): 56–9. In the second article the artiste makes the interesting observation that two central elements of her speech today are the slang phrases “kinda” (kak by) and “super”: simultaneous tendencies towards unfinalized, open-ended meaning and maximalism! 9 Litsei, “Osen’” (1997) Soiuz. Words and music by A. Makarevich. For a good collection of words and music performed by the ensemble, see Litsei: 30 pesen (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo lean 1997). 10 Litsei, “Nebo” (1999) Extraphone. Words and music by A. Makarevich. 11 L. Dolina, “Dólina v dolíne strastei (ili Noch’ liubvi)” (1995) SBA Records. Music by I. and A. Pavlenko, words by K. Krastoshevskii and A. Pavlenko. 12 Dolina’s limited-edition recording of 2001, Èpigraf, does include a rare opera recording from 8 July 1985: Schnittke’s Story of Doctor Faust. It also marks a rare and wonderful return by the artiste to her jazz roots, at least for an hour. 13 L. Dolina, “Proshchai … Net. Do svidaniia.” (1996) Z Records. Words and music by S. Sulimov. 14 L. Agutin, “Letnii dozhd’” (1998) Soiuz. Words and music by Leonid Agutin. 15 T. Bulanova, “Sterpitsia-sliubitsia” (1997) Soiuz. Words and music by V. Kim. Bulanova’s 1996 album My Russian Heart contains a similar text, entitled “Iasnyi moi svet” (“My Bright Light”), in which her absent lover is asked to make contact in a non-human form: as a raindrop on a window or beam of light upon a wall, both of which inscribe their presence as if sending a missive. Moe russkoe serdtse (1996) Soiuz. Words by A. Slavorosov, music by O. Molchanov. 16 Litsei, “Novogodniaia” from Parovozik-oblachko (1997) Soiuz. Music by A. Makarevich, words by A. Morsin. 17 D. Malikov, “Posle bala” from Zvezda moia dalekaia (1998) Dzhem. Words and music of unknown origin. 18 A. Smirnova, “Imperatritsa liubvi,” Zhenskie sekrety May (1998): 6–8. 19 I. Allegrova, “Ia tuchi razvedu rukami” (1996). Music by Igor’ Krutoi, words by A. Arkanov. Although Allegrova is having a little fun here, there is a growing tendency in estrada for stars to talk in some detail of their travels. See, for example, I. Zhukova and V. Kariukov, “Dolina nakonets-to osushchestvovala svoiu mechtu,” Voiazh August (1999). In the course of five pages reference is made to Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Puerto Rico, San Francisco, Seattle, Philadelphia, Boston, Kazakhstan, Cannes, and Austria, together with discussions of French, Chinese, and Japanese cuisine.

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notes to pages 128–32 20 I. Nikolaev, “Vyp’em za liubov’!” (1995) Zeko Records. Words and music by I. Nikolaev. 21 For a recent article on the importance of family, see R. Ramazanov and S. Okuneva, “Serdechnye tainy Dimy Malikova,” Krest’ianka #8 (1998): 92–3. On a female performer, Orbakaite, see V. Nyrko, “Alla oshibaetsia redko,” Argumenty i fakty #5 (1998): 15 and M. Orlinkova, “Kristina: Nastoiashchaia zhenshchina v stile Cosmo,” Cosmopolitan August (1999): 52–5. See A. Silunas in Muzoboz #3 (1998): 16–21 for Kirkorov’s thoughts on the use of family sentiment in his career, together with mention of his grandmother, herself a member of an important circus family. The interweaving forms of sentiment with the multigeneric, inclusive traditions of the circus forms a pleasing pair. 22 F. Kirkorov, “Mne mama tikho govorila” from Skazhi solntsu DA ! (1995). Words by I. Reznik, music by Kh. Moshe. 23 Kirkorov’s decision to express affirmation as a Christian endeavour is not extensively investigated in this book, though it certainly could be. In another chapter, I make reference to an article from the national magazine Ogonek published a few days after the market crash of August 1998. In the two-page article, a certain Father Georgii Chistiakov suggests that the population should not place its hope in either capitalism or communism, since both are bound to interpretations of an entirely material existence. Wiser would be the Christian affirmation of all the world as a gift from God. As the title of the article says: “It’s Frightening to Live. But Joyful!” G. Chiastikov, “Zhit’ strashno. No radostno!” Ogonek #36 (1998): 22–3. 24 F. Kirkorov, “Bud’, chto budet” from Skazhi solntsu: DA ! (1995). 25 In its November 1997 issue, the well-respected music journal OM asked the question, “Which of today’s performers will be both relevant and popular in 2000?” In first place was the Vladivostok ensemble Mumii Troll’. I have not included the band in this study except in the footnotes, since its novelty and significance come as a response to the rock, not the estrada, tradition, even though the group participated in the Eurovision Contest of 2001. In second place was Alla Pugacheva, by this time almost fifty years of age. As an indication of how Russian estrada continues to rework itself and its customs, the journal remarked that the fact that she was in second place was not surprising; indeed, any surprise should be reserved for the fact that Pugacheva was not in first place! On Pugacheva’s status raised to an even higher level, see S. Nikolaevich, “Santa Alla,” Domovoi #1–2 (1999). video 1 Oksana Pushkina on Larisa Dolina in her series of interviews entitled Novye zhenskie istorii (New Women’s Tales) (Moscow: Tsentrpoligraf

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notes to p age s 132–7

2

3

4 5

6 7

8

9 10

11

12

1999), 250. These interviews, conducted on television, then published, are extremely popular in Russia and play an important role in the visual (sentimental) presentation of biography. Almost all the epigraphs in this chapter are taken from Pushkina’s most recent collection of visual narratives and from Zhenskie istorii (Women’s Tales) (Moscow: Tsentrpoligraf 1998). D. Haraway, “The Persistence of Vision,” in Simians, Cyborgs and Women (London and New York: Routledge 1991), 188–96. On the excess of information within a frame, see J. Fiske, “Videotech” in Media Matters: Race and Gender in US Politics (Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press 1996), 208–17. For a suggestion of how tiny texts are read, see my article “Where to Find the Russian Language: The Poetry of Mikhail Yeryomin,” World Literature Today Winter (1998): 27–33. As the reader will note, I am indebted to Lev Loseff for some of the ideas therein. G. Deleuze, Cinema 1: The Movement Image (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1986), 23. Ibid., 116. For the way in which Jean-Luc Godard uses both sound and image to suggest a broader, natural process of change beyond the screen, see G. Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1989), 234–5. Oksana Pushkina’s own words in Novye zhenskie istorii, 312. Den’ polnoluniia (1998) Mosfil’m. If this were a study of estrada and rock, this film would undoubtedly be joined by Sergei Solov’ev’s 1988 film Assa. The latter’s equally complicated structure won little public approval. A. Horton and M. Brashinsky, The Zero Hour (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1992), 80–1. Siutkin was once a vocalist with the ensemble Bravo, which would best be examined in the context of a rock-oriented study, despite his heavy reliance on the jazz-influenced trends of the Thaw. For his post-Bravo work, see Valerii Siutkin (1995) Bekar/ Soiuz; 7,000 nad zemlei (1995) Jeff Records; Radio nochnykh dorog (1996) Soiuz; Daleko ne vse (1998) Soiuz; and 004 (2000) Soiuz. All were produced for ort and appeared on 1 January of each year. Èdita P’ekha, who enjoys great success even today, has already seen several of her songs included in Old Songs About What Matters. See Novye zhenskie istorii, 296. Her dignity through past troubles allows her to champion “what matters,” even after many years. Shcherbakov’s charm as a well-loved actor of bygones times has been used before, by the singer Liubov’ Uspenskaia in her video for the song “Propadaiu ia” (“I’m Falling”). See Luchshie pesni (1998) Soiuz for a recent release. Films referred to (directly or otherwise) in Old Songs #2 include Vysota (1957), Kar’era Dimy Gorina (1961), Put’ k prichalu (1962), Tishina

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13 14

15 16

17

18

19

20

21 22

23

(1963), Kavkazskaia plennitsa (1966), Dozhivem do ponedel’nika (1968), and Brilliantovaia ruka (1968). Ivan Vasil’evich meniaet professiiu, directed by Leonid Gaidai (1973). Beloe solntse pustyni (1969), Semnadtsat’ mgnovenii vesny (1973), Ironiia sud’by (1975), Mimino (1977), D’Artan’ian i tri mushketera (1978), Mesto vstrechi izmenit’ nel’zia (1979), to name but six. Dolina’s producer (and ex-husband) Viktor Mitiazov in Novye zhenskie istorii, 251. Some of the better known regularly broadcast shows were Do 16 i star’she (Sixteen and Up), Muzykal’nyi èkzamen (Music Exam), Muzykal’nyi kiosk (Music Booth), Muzykal’nyi ring (Music [Boxing] Ring), Shire krug (Widen the Circle), Zvukovaia dorozhka (Sound Track), and Utrenniaia pochta (Morning Post). More than half of these are alive and well today. See “Eshche ne vecher” (“Not Yet Evening”) of 1984 in the Pesni 80-kh godov video collection. The cabaret atmosphere is evident in Vaikule’s shows even when she plays huge auditoria such as Moscow’s Rossiia hall. See Laima v stile tango and Ia vyshla na Pikadilli concert footage in the bibliography. Even as recently as Larisa Dolina’s twenty-fifth anniversary concert, the neon strips lived on, enlivening an otherwise unexciting stage. Today they are a tribute to the provincial, poorly funded tours of the early nineties. There is possibly room here to discuss a semiotic leveling of Russian culture. Hilary Pilkington has taken steps in this direction in her reference to the new “horizontal links” that youth culture in Russia forges today (especially through electronic media), which are as far as possible from prior vertical hierarchies. See “The Future Is Ours: Youth Culture in Russia, 1953 to the Present,” in C. Kelly and D. Shepherd, Russian Cultural Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1998), 385. There is an extreme tendency towards curvature and smallness in some videos, when they lovingly reproduce the angular perspective and primary colors of the diminutive television sets of the sixties. See Ovsienko’s “Zhenskoe schast’e” (“A Woman’s Joy”) and Litsei’s “Tvoe pravo” (“It’s Your Right”), both of 1995. See Igor’ Nikolaev i Natasha Koroleva in the list of audio-visual sources. The Nikolaev / Koroleva set is used in later work, such as a video for the song “Venice” in which live footage is spliced with segments from Koroleva’s trip to Italy. A similarly two-dimensional set can be seen in recent videos, such as Apina’s “Razluka” (“Farewell”) of 1995. Concert footage (as fanera) shows her performing on an unbroken plane, despite the inclusion of some rounded, extended steps. See footage in the “Nezakonchennyi roman” (“Unfinished Romance”) video, based wholly on compositions by Igor’ Krutoi. Perhaps just as

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24

25

26 27

28 29 30

31

32

impressive was the set for Allegrova’s “Ia tuchi razvedu rukami” (“I’ll Part the Clouds with My Hands”). The broad, flat backdrop is literally split with a lighting-like rip, and parts to reveal a blue sky beyond. One extreme of this imposing glossiness might be the 1996 television broadcast showcasing Tat’iana Bulanova’s career, Parad paradov (Parade of Parades). The tiled floor is on two levels, with a recess cut deep into the upper one providing less of a C than an angular [. Three perfectly stacked glass pyramids mark centre, left, and right stage. Lights from the back of the stage flare upwards and outwards. The hard lines and reflective surfaces are very much out of place, even if they are just as serious. A similar stage was used when Kirkorov was the broadcast’s guest star. See Parad paradov, TV6 (Moscow) 1996. Arches were also used to great effect for Na-Na’s 1997 tour, Prikin’ – Da? Three rows of arches (parallel to the back wall) descended towards the audience, supporting a series of huge pipes poised like cannons, as if ready to spray the hall. From the open pipes shone lasers. Light and singers were sent out into the crowd. At one point during the show, the wall started to move back towards its previous erect position, but soon declined again to forty-five degrees. Ptiuch, #6 (1994), as quoted in A. Yurchak, “Gagarin and the Rave Kids,” in A.M. Barker (ed.), Consuming Russia (Durham: Duke University Press 1999), 100. With regard to Kirkorov’s grand Las Vegas show, it is interesting that he was unable to use anything like the same resources when he played Madison Square Garden; the stage was disappointingly flat and modest. See the film documentary Liubov’ i stsena (ort), 1999. Laima Vaikule in Novye zhenskie istorii, 108. See also Zhenskie istorii (first edition), 35–53. J. Graffy, “Cinema” in C. Kelly and D. Shepherd, Russian Cultural Studies, 187. E. Mickiewicz, Changing Channels: Television and the Struggle for Power in Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1997), 93. This is not necessarily true today, given the success of stations that play only Russianlanguage material, such as Russkoe radio and Radio Baltika or Russkii shanson. Moiseev’s career is one that deserves to be documented in considerable detail, since his work as both choreographer and openly gay performer is a testament to estrada’s brave yet troubled existence under the Soviets. Although he works with vigour and success today, Moiseev often remarks how sad he is to be able to express himself fully only at this late stage. G. Deleuze, Cinema 1, 92. The reference here is actually to Eisenstein and his ability to use lyrical close-ups in radically edited series, with

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notes to p age s 144–9

33 34 35 36

37 38

39

40 41 42 43

the result that the crudity of binary worldviews was overcome and the individual merged harmoniously and productively with his or her surroundings. D. Youngblood, The Magic Mirror: Moviemaking in Russia, 1908–1918 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press 1999), 43–4. See the reference section for all video materials discussed in the following pages. A comment made in some documentary footage at the end of the Sterpitsia-sliubitsia collection. See the list of audio-visual sources. For example, G. Slobin, “A Forgotten Flute and Remembered Popular Tradition” in A. Horton (ed.), Inside Soviet Satire: Laughter with a Lash (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1993), 119–20; and A. Lawton, Kinoglasnost: Soviet Cinema in Our Time (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1992), 13–16. In a similar subjugation of privacy to politics and other impersonal processes, the sentiment that drives that comedy is dismissed as kitsch. T. Sabonis-Chafee, “Communism as Kitsch: Soviet Symbols in Post-Soviet Society” in Consuming Russia, especially 365 and 373. It seems much healthier and happier to respect the source(s) of that sentiment and side instead with Mikhail Èpshtein. In his recent study of postmodernism in Russia, he frees emotion from its gray status in political spheres and maintains, “We have a new epoch when emotions should regain their place in the philosophy of differences, because emotions are the lifeblood of difference.” M. Èpshtein, After the Future: The Paradoxes of Postmodernism and Contemporary Russian Culture (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press 1995), 302. N. Ries, Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1997), 53–6. The circus is included in such works as “Èlektrichka” by Apina, and “Nalivaite, bratsy,” “Zagliani v moi glaza,” and “Net tebia prekrasnei” by Kirkorov. For mock melodrama in the name of comedy, see Apina’s “Semechek stakan” and “Liubi ego,” Ovsienko’s “Morozov,” Koroleva’s “Muzhichok s garmoshkoi” and Agutin’s “Paren’ chernokozhii.” For the work of Bauer, see the Early Russian Cinema series of 1992 (New York: Milestone), especially cassettes 7 and 10. Kristina Orbakaite in Novye zhenskie istorii, 71. Interviews with Kirkorov and Vaikule were broadcast on rtr in 1996. Comment by the lyricist Konstantin Arsenev in the documentary Za rozovym morem (1997) Soiuz. Petr Podgorodetskii of the ensemble Mashina vremeni in Liubov’ i tsena (1999) ort. The film covers Kirkorov’s work from March 1997

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notes to pages 149–52

44

45

46 47 48

49 50

51 52

to the end of 1998 and his stunning feat of selling out St. Petersburg’s October hall every evening for over a month. Comment by Lada Dèns, who performed in Kirkorov’s show in a number taken from The Phantom of the Opera. For similar parallels between youthful inspiration and adult projects, see his video documentary Nemnogo o liubvi (1996) Moroz / Soiuz. See Allegrova in Ia tuchi razvedu rukami (1996) and Nezakonchennyi roman (1998). For two examples with Kirkorov, see Ia ne Rafaèl’ (1994) and the television concert Parad paradov (TV6, 1995). Aleksei Makarevich in Na samom dele (1997) Soiuz. See the collection Konfetti in the reference section (tenth track). Part of the closing lines from the 1998 comedy by A. Èiramdzhan, Primadonna Mèri (Prima Donna Mary). The title here refers to Alla Pugacheva, who has recorded songs incorporating both words of the title. The film takes place in Florida, but begins in Russia. A woman performing Pugacheva’s acoustic song “Mèri” on a talent show is seen by a wealthy benefactor, who decides to make her dream – a trip to Miami – come true. He wants her to believe in “good fortune.” The young woman soon finds herself husband-hunting in America, a situation complicated by the benefactor’s strange request that she travel to Florida dressed as Pugacheva. An émigré admirer, fooled by the disguise, admits his “nothingness” in the prima donna’s presence but the film gradually reveals the private woman beneath the public myth, resulting in the final admission and romantic rejoinder quoted here. Vivat, Gardemariny! and Gardemariny 3, both directed by S. Druzhinina. Midshipmen, Onwards! and its first sequel starred the actor and singer Mikhail Boiarskii, who although still a successful performer today is best remembered for these films and his equally romantic role in the Soviet version of The Three Musketeers. To hear Boiarskii termed the “Soviet D’Artagnan” is not uncommon even now. That romance is captured in the films’ hunting sequences, whose snow, steaming punch, and packs of borzois had just as much sentimental resonance in the hit comedy of 1995 Osobennosti natsional’noi okhoty (Peculiarities of the National Hunt), directed by Aleksandr Vasil’ev. Directed by M. Zakharov (1978). In Nezakonchennyi roman, Irina Allegrova says that she changed her attitude towards making videos in America, because working there might actually be “interesting.” She therefore echoes Ovsienko’s noted admission from Za rozovym morem of how grateful she has been for her own “amazingly interesting life” in estrada. In Liubov’ i stsena (ort, 1999), Kirkorov also expresses a hope that his songs make life more “interesting.” Even later, in An Ordinary Miracle, the magician decides not to

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notes to pages 152–62

53 54

55 56 57 58 59

60 61

62

63

help the bear any more after it refuses to kiss the princess (and scare her): “I don’t find you interesting.” These and many other quotes surely suggest another possible – non-material – realm of inquiry into estrada’s raison d’être. Directed by A. Proshkin (1992). Some of the songs heard are “Moskovskie okna” by Leonid Utesov, “Chernyi kot” by Tamara Miansarova, and “Nichego ne vizhu” by Èdita P’ekha. The words to “Chernyi kot” were penned by the poet of Alena Apina’s “Limita,” Mikhail Tanich. Directed by D. Evstigneev (1994). Directed by A. Prosianov and A. Boiko (1991). Directed by V. Volkov (1985). Directed by È. Sevela. The theme of isolation is stressed by several songs playing in the background, much as in See Paris and Die: “Love Me Tender,” “The Green, Green Grass of Home,” and “Hello Dolly,” songs of sentiment, nostalgia, and homecoming. A letter to Larisa Dolina from an admiring mother in Voronezh. See Novye zhenskie istorii, 255. This and the other songs from the Midshipmen films can also be found on a new series of Soviet soundtracks published in Moscow. See Antologiia sovetskogo kinoshliagera: Gardemariny, vpered! Vincent Records. The song can be found separately from the film on another compilation in the Kinoshliager series: Obyknovennoe chudo. Some of Dolina’s other off-screen movie songs, with both Andrei Mironov and Mikhail Boiarskii, are available on Chelovek s bul’vara Kaputsinov, again published in Moscow by Vincent Records. On the second of these collections, Dolina’s “Admonition to Daughters” from the musical comedy Vakansiia (1981) mocks the institutions of romance and marriage in such a loving way as to underline their timeless importance. E. Shvarts, P’esy (Leningrad: Sovetskii pisatel’ 1982), 417–18. why am i singing

NOW?

1 V. Pelevin, Omon Ra (Moscow: Vagrius 1999), 29. 2 S. Gur’ev, “Zagadka krutizny Igoria Krutogo,” Argumenty i Fakty #18 (1999): 21. 3 A different version of this joke was published in Lev Rubinshtein’s wonderful and witty book on the modern Russian language, Sluchai iz iazyka (St. Petersburg: Izdatel’stvo Ivana Limbakha 1998). 4 D. Khitarov, “Pu … – nashe vse!” Itogi 20 April (1999): 8. An article by Aleksei Munipov entitled “45 i 5” appeared in Izvestiia (#67); it also compared Pushkin’s anniversary and Pugacheva’s fiftieth birthday as

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notes to p age s 162–6

5

6

7 8

9 10 11 12

13 14

events of equal cultural import. Another pointed out the fact that the artiste shares her birthday with Catherine the Great. O. Svistunova, “Alla Pugacheva: Noveishaia istoriia,” Kul’tura 15–21 April (1999): 1. There has, for example, been much excitement over the rediscovery and canonization of rare recordings from the early Soviet Union, lost to either exile or political repression. Two such examples – the work of Aleksandr Vertinskii and Vadim Kozin – are discussed in recent overviews of early estrada. See B. Savchenko, Èstrada retro (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1996), 135–6; and ibid., Kumiry zabytoi èstrady (Moscow: Znanie 1992), 7–8. Even the earliest works on Soviet estrada stress the role played by the dialog of performer and audience, if only of one performer and another. See, for example, S. Dolinskii, Èstrada v klube (Moscow and Leningrad: Doloi negrammatnost’ 1926), 61. One could even argue that the sheer size and distribution of the Soviet audience makes it more important than the artists. In 1971, for example, it was noted: “Nowadays it’s impossible to find even the tiniest backwater village where there isn’t an estrada song playing.” Iu. Dmitriev, Èstrada glazami vliublennogo (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1971), 124. V. Pelevin, “Khrustal’nyi mir” in Zheltaia strela (Moscow: Vagrius 1999), 148. Red Stars pays much attention to the relationship between small sung narratives that last three minutes and their big political equivalents. They continue to work together in the early part of the period under investigation here. As late as 1983, for example, the most famous singer in the Soviet Union was quietly incorporating phrases from Chernenko’s speeches into her interviews. She did so at a time when songs were no longer bolstering the political agenda, but it still served to make it seem as if they were. B. Sadchikov, Randevu so zvezdami (Leningrad: Chelovek 1992), 19. J.-F. Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1984), 17. Ibid., 32. Ibid., 37. Even within the timeframe of Soviet history, songs survived for an extraordinarily long time because of the respect they commanded among performers decades later. Quality was held in higher regard than fashion. For an example of pre-war songs celebrated even during perestroika, see “Zhdi i pomni menia,” in Teatral’naia zhizn’ December #24 (1986): 24–5. J.-F. Lyotard, “The Survivor” in Toward the Postmodern (New Jersey and London: Humanities Press 1993), 144. Ibid., 148.

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notes to pages 166–74 15 Ibid., 156. 16 V. Pelevin, Generation ‘P’ (Moscow: Vagrius 1999), 130–1. 17 D. MacFadyen, Joseph Brodsky and the Baroque (Montreal: McGillQueen’s University Press 1999). 18 A. Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity (Stanford: Stanford University Press 1991), 202. 19 R. Stones, Sociological Reasoning: Towards a Past-Modern Sociology (Houndmills: MacMillan 1996), 192. 20 Ibid., 38 and 234. 21 In 1989 claims were still occasionally being made that there was simply no qualitative change noticeable within estrada (V. Avdeev and T. Tsaregradskaia, Na “Muzykal’nyi ring” vyzyvaiutsia [Moscow: Znanie 1989], 61). Nevertheless, it is fairer to say that complaints about estrada’s time-honoured ideological non-commitment had been increasingly audible since at least the start of the decade and were justified by reference to the work of certain performers. I have in mind Alla Pugacheva, highlighted in Red Stars as the prime iconoclast and likened by one journalist to the Futurist poet Maiakovskii, throwing all tradition overboard from the “ship of modernity.” See I. Sharoev, Mnogolikaia èstrada (Moscow: Vagrius 1995), 343. 22 For a direct invocation of Khrushchev’s speeches from the Twenty-first Party Congress as a guide to difficult songwriting, see E. Gershuni, Zametki o muzykal’noi èstrade (Leningrad: Sovetskii kompozitor 1963), 57–8. 23 M. Èpshtein, “Blud truda” in Bog detalei: Èsseistika 1977–1988 (Moscow: Izdanie R. Èlinina 1998), 90. 24 V. Pelevin, Zheltaia strela, 49. 25 L.M. Timofeev, “Institutsional’naia korruptsia sotsialisticheskoi sistemy” in Iu. Afanas’ev, Sovetskoe obshchestvo: Vozniknovenie, razvitie, istoricheskii final (Moscow: Rossiiskii gosudartsvennyi gumanitarnyi universitet 1997), 508–45. 26 V. Pelevin, Zheltaia strela, 54. 27 For a recent celebration of Il’enkov’s contribution to post-Stalinist philosophy, see V. Malakhov, “Vozmozhna filosofiia po-russki? O filosofii i ètnografii,” Logos #8 (1996): 117–31 and ibid., “Germenevtika i traditsiia,” Logos #1 (1999): 3–11. 28 E.V. Ilyenkov, Dialectical Logic: Essays on Its History and Theory (Moscow: Progress 1977), 260–1. 29 P. Vail’ and A. Genis, 60-e: Mir sovetskogo cheloveka (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 1996), 223. 30 V. Pelevin, Generation ‘P,’ 32. 31 M. Geller, “Gorbachev. Pobeda glasnosti i porazhenie perestroiki,” in Iu. Afanas’ev, Sovetskoe obshchestvo, 545–75.

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notes to p age s 174–7 32 J.D.H. Downing, Internationalizing Media Theory: Transition, Power and Culture. Reflections on Media in Russia, Poland and Hungary 1980–1995 (London: Sage 1996), 81 and 92. 33 D. Gubin, “Èto ne krizis zhizni, a krizis vzgliada na zhizn’,” Ogonek #36 (1998). A recent Russian television commercial for Golden Barrel beer (Zolotaia bochka) hinges upon the slogan “We Should Get Together More Often,” which reflects similar sentiment. It is very wrong to interpret the rosy-spectacled advertising of products as Soviet nostalgia. A silly article in the New York Times saw the recent promotion of a Soviet brand of tea in this light, but it is actually a marketing technique based on family memories and the private effort required in hard times. It has nothing whatsoever to do with socialism. See “Nostalgia Feeds New Taste for Soviet-Era Artwork,” reprinted in Saint Petersburg Times 23 July (1999): 16. The most extreme misinterpretation of this type is the Western tendency to carp at Russian stereotypes of female domesticity, without realizing that the ability to run a normal household amidst political horrors was itself a feat – at times, one of considerable subversion. 34 T. Cherednichenko, Tipologiia sovetskoi massovoi kul’tury: Mezhdu Brezhnevym i Pugachevoi (Moscow: Kul’tura 1994), 82. 35 A.N. Anastas’ev, “Èstradnoe iskusstvo i ego spetsifika” in E.D. Uvarova (ed.), Russkaia sovetskaia èstrada 1946–1977 (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1981), 6. For an interesting parallel between estrada and the archetypes of ancient theatre and circus, see S. Klitin, Èstrada: problemy teorii, istorii i metodiki (Leningrad: Iskusstvo 1987), 124. 36 For an example involving Èdita P’ekha – with whom Red Stars begins – see N. Pesochinskaia, “Mosty druzhby,” Teatral’naia zhizn’ #12 (1973): 4–5. 37 For a discussion of a stadium’s size and its relevance to late Soviet estrada, see I. Sharoev, Rezhissura èstrady i massovykh predstavlennii (Moscow: gitis 1992), 176 and 429. 38 T. Cushman, Notes from Underground: Rock Music and Counterculture in Russia (Albany: State University of New York Press 1995), xxxvii, 99, and 172. For accounts of the awkward interaction of rock and the state, see A. Troitskii, Rok muzyka v SSSR (Moskva: Kniga 1990); A. Zhitinskii, Puteshestvie rok-diletanta (Leningrad: Lenizdat 1990); and Iu. Morozov, Podzemnyi bliuz (St. Petersburg: Zero 1994). There is room for a bridge between rock and estrada; they need not remain mutually exclusive. For example, Alla Pugacheva, the biggest estrada star of all, has been called – albeit with moot accuracy – “the empress of rock” (N. Dobriukha, Rok iz pervykh ruk [Moscow: Molodaia gvardiia 1992]). The core metaphor of fraternity held so dear by the rock community can also be credited to milder, more innocuous roots in

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notes to p age s 177–9

39

40 41

42

43

44 45 46 47

the estrada phenomenon of vocal-instrumental ensembles (VIA ), as concisely noted by L. Tikhvinskaia, “Kuda ischezla ‘nastoiashchaia èstrada’?” in Èstrada bez parada (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1990), 394–5. One could even trace it back to early Soviet jazz, to the “brotherly” atmosphere of, say, L. Utesov’s big band (G. Skorokhodov, Zvezdy sovetskoi èstrady [Moscow: Sovetskii kompozitor 1982], 20–1). The significance of theatricality in estrada cannot be overestimated. Its Soviet roots in the theatrical jazz or tea-dzhaz of Leonid Utesov’s extravaganzas were touched upon in Red Stars. To give the reader some sense of Utesov’s distance from self-importance or pomp, here is one contemporary’s reminiscence: “What happened after he played? Applause? Standing ovations? Joy – that’s what there was after he played. And a lifetime of memories.” S. Aleshin, “Portrety,” Teatr June #6 (1993): 106–22. Even during perestroika, the Soviets hoped that teatralizatsiia could be a key part of estrada’s efforts to “educate a new type of person” (V.K. Iashin, Teatral’nost’ i teatralizatsiia v iskusstve sovetskoi èstrady [Moscow 1986], 4 and 20). As a result, when such pressures were removed, the attractiveness of wilfully apolitical estrada after 1991 was easy to understand. See, for example, “Ni na kogo ne byt’ pokhozhim” from the newspaper Znamia iunosti in A. Razin, Zima v strane “Laskovogo maia” (Moscow: Grafis 1990), 155. A. Razin, Zima v strane …, 132. R.A. Rothstein, “Homeland, Home Town, and Battlefield” in R. Stites, Culture and Entertainment in Wartime Russia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press 1995), 77–108. With regard to the need for Utesov and Shul’zhenko to be fine actors and create a convincing non-political persona, see A. Beilin, Voobrazhaemyi kontsert (Leningrad and Moscow: Iskusstvo 1971), 105 and 113. R. Stites, “Frontline Entertainment” in Culture and Entertainment, 126– 141. See also Utesov’s own wartime diary: “Jokes, lyrical songs and satirical couplets rang out from the frontline estrada.” I.N. Sakharova, Iskusstvo v boevom stroiu (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1985), 67 and 70. For representative examples of the wartime work of these two performers, see two recent sound recordings: K. Shul’zhenko, Pesni rozhdennye voinoi (1995) rcd, and L. Utesov, Doroga na Berlin (1995) Russkii disk. V. Pelevin, “Proiskhozhdenie vidov” in Zheltaia strela, 233. G. Deleuze, “Letter to a Harsh Critic” in Negotiations (New York: Columbia University Press 1995), 6–7. Ibid., “On Philosophy” in Negotiations, 137. Ibid., “Life As a Work of Art” in Negotiations, 98–9. See also G. Deleuze and F. Guattari, Chto takoe filosofiia? (Moscow and St. Petersburg: Institut èksperimental’noi sotsiologii / Aleteiia 1998), 208.

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notes to pages 179–85 48 On the loss of “traditional” subjectivity, see G. Deleuze, “To Have Done With Judgment” in Essays Critical and Clinical (London and New York: Verso 1998), 131. 49 G. Deleuze, The Fold: Leibniz and the Baroque (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1999), 68 and 3. 50 Ibid., 8. “Involution” is a neologism designed to indicate change that is neither evolutionary nor devolutionary, both of which suggest movement along a single line or at best an arboreal structure. conclusion 1 Bari Alibasov in documentary materials accompanying the concert footage of Na-Na 1995. 2 Filipp Kirkorov in 1995, between numbers recorded for Parad paradov. 3 For example: “Èdita P’ekha is always seeking tirelessly, restlessly for new songs. These are timeless creative searches, which the composers and poets who work with her know so well. Her songs are always about the kind of things that concern a lot of people, but they always pass through the singer’s heart, and that’s what has given them true, nationwide popularity.” A. Petrov, Vremia. Muzyka. Muzykanty (Leningrad: Sovetskii kompozitor 1987), 111. 4 Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy, 24–6 and 48. 5 For an interesting critique of Deleuze’s use of the Nietzschean dicethrow, see D.W. Conway, “Tumbling Dice. Gilles Deleuze and the Economy of Répétition” in K.A. Pearson, Deleuze and Philosophy: The Difference Engineer (London and New York: Routledge 1997), 73–93. The reader who wishes to investigate further the consequences of this idea for Russian culture should note the recent publication of two volumes by Deleuze in Russia itself: Razlichie i povtorenie (St. Petersburg: Petropolis 1998); and Logika smysla (Moskva / Ekaterinburg: Raritet / Delovaia kniga 1998). 6 Vladimir Politov of Na-Na in Prikin’ – Da? A documentary by TV6, Moscow (1997). 7 Even the stars of Brezhnev’s zastoi, such as Valerii Leont’ev, followed this trend. “At his concerts the sound system sometimes attains an extreme volume, at other times quietness and it vanishes altogether. The stage either sinks into darkness or seems awash in a strange light from twelve floodlights. The lights fly off either towards the stage floor or towards the audience.” V. Vul’f, Idoly. Zvezdy. Liudi (Moscow: Iskusstvo 1995), 235. 8 Kirkorov in Parad paradov. 9 One might argue that it becomes political when it is excessively emotional. Hilary Pilkington’s impressive work on Russian youth

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notes to p age s 185–6

10 11 12 13

culture investigates rock music alone, yet even within this very different and openly subversive genre emotion is primary. Pilkington records the threat to masculine, official rationality caused by extreme sentiment, which the state viewed as fanaticism. H. Pilkington, Russia’s Youth and Its Culture: A Nation’s Constructors and Constructed (London and New York: Routledge 1994), 240–3; ibid., Gender, Generations and Identity in Contemporary Russia. (London and New York: Routledge 1996), 196–8. G. Krasnikov, “Moi mir neprikosnovenen,” Smena 1 January (1999): 124–30. The ever-wonderful Èdita P’ekha in L. Markhasev, V legkom zhanre (Leningrad: Sovetskii kompozitor 1986), 277. G. Deleuze, What is Philosophy? (New York: Columbia University Press 1994), 76–8. G. Deleuze, “On A Thousand Plateaus” in Negotiations, 25.

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INDEX

Abba, 129 Aguilera, Christina, 52 Agutin, Leonid, and acoustic emphases, 25; and biography, 85–6, 189–90, 201; and capital, 74; and fanera, 96; and politics, 40; and religion, 45–6; and texts, 124; and video, 146–7; and the West, 55 Aizenshpis, Iurii, 107 Alibasov, Bari, 37, 48, 55, 72, 92–3, 97, 103–4, 107–8, 186, 196–7, 226–7 Allegrova, Irina, and biography, 84–5, 149, 190– 1; and capital, 71; and family, 17; and gender, 50; and payola, 108; and personae, 26; and staging, 141, 240–1; and texts, 119, 126–7, 237; and video, 136–7, 243; and the West, 53; and work, 67–8 Alsu, 42 Anka, Paul, 142 Apina, Alena, and acting, 31–3; and biography, 80, 84, 191–2; and capital, 71, 73; and chance, 60–1; and directorial work, 91;

and fanera, 96–7; and gender, 49; and melodrama, 64; and personae, 25; and video, 99, 144–5, 157, 240; and work, 67 Backstreet Boys, 25 Bangles, 26 Bauer, Evgenii, 147 Beatles, 54–5, 92, 123 Belousov, Evgenii, 4, 211 Berstein, Sid, 54 Blestiashchie, 236 Boiarskii, Mikhail, 243 Boldysheva, Katia, 84, 92 Boney M, 129 Bowie, David, 14 Brezhnev, Leonid, 7, 9, 20, 157, 169, 174, 249 Brodsky, Joseph, 179 Bulanova, Tat’iana, and biography, 79–80, 192; and capital, 71, 73, 75– 6; and chance, 59–61; and change, 33; and fame, 42; and fanera, 96; and nationalism, 41; and payola, 106; and personae, 24–5, 27; and texts, 124–5, 237; and tradition, 15–16; and video, 101, 135, 146, 241; and the West, 54; and work, 44

Bulgakov, Mikhail, 137–8 Charles, Ray, 11 Chernikova, Larisa, 112 Clark, Petula, 18 Deleuze, Gilles, 35, 62, 112, 125, 163, 178–9, 186, 227 Dietrich, Marlene, 15 Dolina, Larisa, and acting, 29; and audience behaviour, 76–8; and biography, 192–3; and capital, 71–3, 75; and change, 33–4, 61; and eroticism, 104–5; and fanera, 96; and feature films, 151–2, 244; and jazz, 11–12, 14, 23–4, 183, 237; and payola, 106; and personae, 26; and politics, 39, 41; and religion, 45–7; and staging, 240; and texts, 122–3, 237; and tradition, 18–20; and var’ete, 29–30; and video, 98– 100, 132, 138, 156 Dostoevskii, Fedor, 59 Dubovitskii, Vladimir, 190, 198 Eagles, 123 Eisenstein, Sergei, 138

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index Èpshtein, Mikhail, 168–9, 242 Estefan, Gloria, 50 Fel’tsman, Oskar, 190 Fitzgerald, Ella, 11 Frenkel’, Ian, 81 Gabriel, Peter, 33, 116 Gagarin, Iurii, 169, 173 Gaynor, Gloria, 123 Gazmanov, Oleg, 4, 211, 216 Genesis, 116 German, Anna, 61, 94, 218 Giddens, Anthony, 163, 167, 172 Gill, Vince, 124 Go-Gos, 26 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 11, 53, 119, 143, 158, 173– 4 Grable, Betty, 23 Grebenshchikov, Boris, 4 Guattari, Felix, 35, 112, 186 Gul’kina, Natal’ia, 8 Gurtskaia, Diana, 52, 119 Herman’s Hermits, 17 Houston, Whitney, 123 Iakovlev, Iurii, 137–8 Iakushenko, Igor’, 81 Il’enkov, Èvald, 172 Iudashkin, Valentin, 75, 91 Iur’eva, Izabella, 61 Jackson, Michael, 51–2, 90 John, Elton, 54 Jones, Quincy, 52 Jones, Tom, 123 Khrushchev, Nikita, 4, 169, 172–3, 246 Kirkorov, Bedros, 12, 17 Kirkorov, Filipp, and advertising, 115; and

affirmation, 112, 238; and biography, 81–3, 87, 148–9, 193–4; and capital, 70, 72, 74; and change, 33, 60–1; and directorial work, 91, 94, 241; and family, 17, 34, 238; and fanera, 95–7, 234; and frivolity, 22–3; and payola, 106, 108; and personae, 27–8; and politics, 40–1; and religion, 46; and staging, 142, 157, 182, 185; and texts, 129–31; and tradition, 9–10, 14–15; and video, 100–1, 147, 157, 243; and the West, 52–3, 56–7; and work, 67 Knopfler, Mark, 51 Kobzon, Iosif, 13, 69, 75 Koroleva, Natasha, and biography, 82, 149–50, 194–5; and directorial work, 93; and eroticism, 103–4; and gender, 48, 50; and nationalism, 21, 40; and pornography, 50–1, 61–2, 110, 184, 224; and staging, 141; and texts, 119–20; and video, 145–7, 157, 240; and the West, 57; and work, 68–9 Kozin, Vadim, 245 Kristalinskaia, Maiia, 61, 94 Kroll, Anatolii, 11 Krutoi, Igor’, 191 Kuravlev, Leonid, 137 Kuz’min, Vladimir, 51, 102 Laskovyi mai, 7, 20, 26, 31, 54 Lee, Peggy, 18 Lenin, Vladimir, 185 Leont’ev, Valerii, 14, 201, 249

252

Leshchenko, Lev, 121 Linda, 42 Lisovskii, Sergei, 94, 191 Litiagin, Andrei, 83–4 Litsei, and biography, 149, 195–6; and personae, 26; and pornography, 50, 61, 184, 224; and texts, 118, 120–2, 126; and video, 146, 240 Liubè, 216 Lundstrem, Oleg, 93 Lyotard, Jean-Francois, 163–7, 179, 181 Madonna, 30, 51 Makarevich, Aleksei, 26, 149–50, 195 Malikov, Dmitrii, and acting, 31, 152, 196; and audience behaviour, 77; and capital, 69–71; and chance, 59; and family, 16, 183; and feature films, 152, 231; and gender, 49; and nationalism, 20–1; and politics, 39; and texts, 116– 18, 126–7; and tradition, 20, 30–1, 33, 35, 183; and video, 100, 146; and the West, 51, 54; and work, 67 Malikov, Iurii, 16–17, 196 Mandel’shtam, Osip, 168– 9 Meladze, Valerii, 101 Midler, Bette, 13 Mikhalkov, Nikita, 139 Minelli, Liza, 15, 142 Minogue, Kylie, 25 Mirazh, 8, 198–9, 233 Moiseev, Boris, 143, 241 Mummi Troll’, 236, 238 Murray, Anne, 142 Na-Na, and advertising, 74, 115–16; and audience behaviour, 78; and biography, 196–7; and

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index directorial work, 92, 241; and eroticism, 103–4; and ethics, 43– 4; and nationalism, 18, 42; and payola, 107–8; and personae, 25, 216; and the West, 54, 56–7; and work, 69 Nicks, Stevie, 15, 192 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 47 Nikolaev, Igor’, and biography, 80–2, 194–5; and capital, 75, 105; and ethics, 41; and fame, 43; and fashion, 21; and politics, 39, 185; and staging, 141; and texts, 118, 125, 127–8, 191; and tradition, 12, 14; and video, 98, 101, 146, 240; and the West, 52, 57; and work, 44 Nikulin, Iurii, 28 Novikova, Klara, 122 Orbakaite, Kristina, and acting, 28, 31–4, 38, 220; and biography, 86, 197–9; and capital, 74; and family, 16–17, 34, 213; and feature films, 150–1, 153, 155–6; and personae, 27; and religion, 47–8; and video, 144 Ovsienko, Tat’iana, and biography, 83–6, 148–9, 198–9; and capital, 71– 2; and conservatism, 32; and directorial work, 91–2; and fanera, 96; and Mirazh, 8, 96; and religion, 45; and video, 139, 145–6, 157, 240, 243; and the West, 55–6; and work, 68 Paradis, Vanessa, 25 Pauls, Raimonds, 15–16, 19, 29, 66, 86, 107, 139, 200

Pavarotti, Luciano, 97 P’ekha, Èdita, 13, 18, 23, 35, 61, 94, 136, 216, 249 Peter, Paul and Mary, 17 Piaf, Edith, 125 Pochinok, Aleksandr, 75 Ponarovskaia, Irina, 143 Presniakov, Vladimir, and acting, 32; and audience behaviour, 76–7; and biography, 197– 200; and capital, 70, 72; and directorial work, 93; and ethics, 41–2; and family, 17, 183, 199; and fanera, 96, 111; and politics, 39; and tradition, 12, 19–20, 34; and video, 98; and the West, 51–3, 55, 57, 200 Prince, 52 Pugacheva, Alla, and affirmation, 112; and biography, 79–82, 84, 193– 4, 243; and capital, 75; and chance, 60–1; and enduring significance, 13–15, 18–19, 35, 43, 67, 162, 183, 193–4, 201, 226, 238, 244–5; and family, 16, 34, 38, 197–8, 229; and frivolity, 23; and the ispoved’, 27; and payola, 106–7; and politics, 42; and rock music, 247; and texts, 118; and video, 98, 101–2, 137, 143–4; and the West, 51 Pushkin, Aleksandr, 33, 134, 161–2, 198 Razin, Andrei, 7–8, 143, 212 Reznik, Il’ia, 15–16, 49, 107, 131 Riazanov, Èl’dar, 137–8 Rolling Stones, 55, 123 Rotaru, Sofiia, 13–14, 35, 61, 67, 84, 190

253

Rozenbaum, Aleksandr, 4 Saltykov, Viktor, 190 Shcherbakov, Boris, 136– 7, 239 Shakhnazarov, Karen, 133 Shevchuk, Iurii, 4 Shufutinskii, Mikhail, 100 Shul’zhenko, Klavdiia, 23, 61, 94, 125, 177, 184, 213 Siutkin, Valerii, 135, 239 Spears, Britney, 52 Spice Girls, 26 Springsteen, Bruce, 51 Stalin, Joseph, 136, 161– 2, 164–5, 169 Stones, Rob, 163, 167 Strelki, 26 Tagrin, Nikolai, 192 Tukhmanov, David, 190 Ukupnik, Arkadii, 72, 122 Utesov, Leonid, 11–12, 72, 177, 213, 248 Vaikule, Laima, and acting, 33; and audience behaviour, 77–8; and biography, 148–9, 198– 200; and capital, 70–2, 74–5; and chance, 58; and directorial work, 94; and fanera, 95; and feature films, 153–5; and gender, 48, 50; and politics, 39–42; and religion, 45–6, 69; and teatralizatsiia, 24; and tradition, 15–16, 19–20; and var’ete, 29–30, 35, 183, 201; and video, 98, 139; and the West, 52–4, 62; and work, 66–7 Vangelis, 33 Varum, Anzhelika, and acting, 33; and biography, 200–1; and capital, 73–4; and chance,

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index 59–61; and directorial work, 93; and fanera, 96; and gender, 48–50; and nationalism, 40; and personae, 25; and sampling, 116; and video, 146

Vertinskii, Aleksandr, 184, 245 Vetlitskaia, Natal’ia, 83, 196, 198–9 Vysotskii, Vladimir, 12 Washington, Dinah, 11

254

Wonder, Stevie, 116 Yeltsin, Boris, 94 Zaitsev, Slava, 91 Zelenaia, Rina, 213