Open Writing

Dmitri SHOSTAKOVICH (1906 – 1975)

Symphony No. 13 “Babi Yar" op. 113 (1962)

The Twelfth seemed to find favour with (that is, “fool”) the Soviet authorities, because they proceeded to take advantage of Shostakovich’s reputation abroad. Shostakovich however must have been all too aware of the derision with which the symphony was met in the West. He must have been in a turmoil, for apparently nothing of his “secret message” had got through (to be fair, the West had no inkling of what was really going on at the time behind that Iron Curtain), and the work had thus if anything damaged the international reputation that he needed as “insurance”. He had to do something quickly to repair the damage, bringing him onto yet another knife-edge. Now, in addition to satisfying his own artistic imperatives, he had to “appease” two different masters: both the tyrannical regime at home and (if anything the greater challenge) the fickle cultural establishment of the West. He had to find something that would have international appeal.

The one silver lining amongst all these clouds was the Fourth Symphony, which had finally been resurrected in 1961. At the second time of asking, and under an admittedly less deadly regime than Uncle Joe’s, it had gone straight to No. 1, so to speak (what’s the Russian for “I told you so”?). More importantly, it had also been well received abroad. Nevertheless, this silver lining had its cloud, because the West pointed to the Fourth, then to the Twelfth, and observed (probably not unreasonably, given the extent of its understanding of the circumstances), “Of course, that was twenty five years ago, but this shows Shostakovich has gone right down the pan since then”.

Shostakovich turned to the young poet Evgeni Yevtushenko, whose fairly critical works had (odd though it might seem) been allowed by the relatively liberal regime to penetrate to the outside, where they had met with considerable acclaim. Shostakovich, with impeccable logic, concluded that he could boldly go where Yevtushenko had gone before. In deciding to set Yevtushenko’s words, he moved on several fronts at once. Firstly, he was moving from the shady world of subversive coded messages into the bright light of explicit texts. Secondly, these were not the propagandist texts he had previously set in the Second and Third Symphonies, but something much more personal. Thirdly, he was free to cherry-pick the poems with which he found particular empathy. Fourthly, being deeply expressive of real personal feelings and moreover critical of those things Shostakovich himself despised, the poetry was anyway right up his street. Fifthly (and finally!), the import and atmosphere of the words fitted right in with the direction he wanted to take in his music.

In view of his enforced change of direction following the Fourth, I don’t think I’d be far wide of the mark to suggest that the relationship of the Thirteenth Symphony to the Fourth feels like that of the mature child to the delinquent father! Both are vast, dark-shrouded musical worlds encompassing extremes of comic and cataclysmic, reaching out and connecting across the span of the intervening symphonies. In the Thirteenth, it is as if the Fifth to the Twelfth had been squeezed like oranges, their dessicated rinds binned, and only their essential juices distilled and sprinkled onto the bones of the Fourth. Then, with eye of toad and wing of bat and diabolical incantations courtesy of Yevtushenko, Shostakovich worked his unique magic to produce music ranging from stark to sarky, and from monumental to intimate. For the first time since the Fourth, he was speaking without let or hindrance, and seized the long-awaited opportunity to express what amounted to a “credo”, slamming a royal flush of hearts onto the table for all to see and wonder at.

The work gets its title, and to a large degree its overall tenor, from the poem Shostakovich sets in the first movement. Yevtushenko’s Babi-Yar is a “protest song” of blood-curdling intensity, condemning the Nazi mass-murder of a sizeable proportion of Kiev’s Jewish population, railing mightily against anti-semitism and, pointedly, against the nasty anti-semitic underbelly of the Soviet, which mirrors the tyrannical regime itself – all, I’m sure, very embarrassing to the Soviet leadership. Small wonder, then, that as soon as the work had seen the light of day, that noble leadership tried to suppress it, even though it should have perhaps been obvious even to them that such things were getting less easy to do.

If you listen to Haitink’s magisterial recording with the Concertgebouw, the recording that I myself have, you can’t fail to be impressed by the colossal, leaden weight of Shostakovich’s musical vision. Yet Barshai, with his “provincial” forces, finds something that Haitink misses in the cosy surroundings of the Grote Zal – something that I can best describe as Shostakovich’s equivalent to that “Russian primitivism” that Stravinsky immortalised in Le Sacre du Printemps. Maybe this is no more than an accidental by-product of the WDRSO playing, more rough-hewn and bristling with appropriately nasty splinters than the likes of the Concertgebouw. It doesn’t matter – what matters is that it sounds just right. That much is apparent right from the bell – literally so, for the first sound we hear is a “funeral” bell, whose tolling stalks through the whole symphony. The WDRSO make this sound no louder than the Concertgebouw, but instead of a rounded, sonically integrated “bong” we get a real, spine-chilling “clang”. The woodwind and brass of the orchestral exposition, underlaid by the bleak buzz of the bass clarinet, possess an acrid stench that you can almost smell. The strings, entering with the men’s choir to the words “There is no memorial above Babi Yar”, are dismally grey and shrouded (in passing, I might mention that a memorial was finally erected, in 1974). This sets the tone of the entire movement, of almost unimaginable bleakness that persists right through until the final stanza, where Yevtushenko delivers a passionate promise that Shostakovich reinforces through an emergent nobility forcing its way up through, but not quite freeing itself of, the glutinous mire of tragedy. This bleakness is projected with awesome power by Barshai: the quieter music bristles with tension, and the heaving climaxes at the heart and the end have colossal impact (try after the words “No! It’s the ice breaking!”). Incidentally, I must especially commend the WDRSO tamtam for its incredible expressive range! Barshai and the WDRSO also score in the contrasting faster passage, pungent with acid woodwind, brutal percussion and burping brass – music of the most vicious humour.

But it’s not just down to the instrumental textures; there’s the small matter of the vocal forces to consider. Where Haitink has the “Gentlemen from the Choir of the Concertgebouw Orchestra” (and that’s exactly what it says on the CD!), Barshai simply has the “Choral Academy Moscow”, and these are no “gentle” men. The Russian male singing voice is one of Nature’s miracles – this lot sound as though their voices are rising from the very bowels of the Earth, and and by ‘eck it really does sound like there’s a lot of them! That’s not a trivial comment; far too often these days we hear pitifully small choral forces struggling manfully (and womanfully) to sound BIG. Maybe the companies will get away with it when the engineers have the technology, but right now if you tweak your mics. and mixers to favour a small choir doing a large choir’s job, it ends up sounding exactly as if you’d tweaked (etc.), and it simply sounds cheapskate. You only have to listen to Berlioz to know the difference between a real large choir and a pretend one! So, three cheers – no such problems here, the Choral Academy Moscow project a satisfying weight and uniformity of tone, without the slightest hint of the “accidental soloist syndrome”.

Standing at the front is the real soloist, Sergei Aleksashkin, another pukka Russian whose voice I think would have reduced Mussorgsky to tears of joy! With effortless authority he covers the entire spectrum demanded by Shostakovich (who clearly was writing with a Russian, as opposed to Western, bass in mind), taking in the whole gamut from pitch-black declamation through to tremulous near-whispering (“I feel that I am Anne Frank, as tender as a shoot in April”). Not only does he know just how to use his voice, acting the part without undue exaggeration, but also (joy of all joys) there’s precious little evidence of any wobble!

At first glance, Shostakovich’s choice of a poem entitled “Humour” as the text of his second movement might seem like simply an attempt, and a hugely successful one, at Mahlerian mega-contrast. However, as the opening lines – “. . . rulers of all the world have commanded parades, but couldn’t command humour” – immediately betray, these far from still waters run much deeper than that. As I suggested earlier, Shostakovich’s wicked sense of humour must have helped him hold on to his sanity through the bitter years. I would now suggest that his choice of this poem, celebrating the victory of Humour over Tyranny, proves the point! Yevtushenko’s “Humour” comes straight from the belly, bursting with red-cheeked “ho, ho, ho!” Shostakovich marks it allegretto, and scores it with plenty of well-fed oomph, suggesting the sort of grandiloquent guffawing that would belch happily from a slightly inebriate, cossack-booted Santa Claus. Aleksashkin takes the point, with relish (dare I say?), and the chorus steer dangerously, deliciously close to the rugby club or students’ union of a Saturday night. The orchestra revel in their many “solo” bits, starting with a portentous opening that seems to mock the corresponding moment of the Tenth, then veering cheerfully from tipsy to rumbustious (and back again). At the centre of all the mayhem is Barshai, paradoxically ensuring that everything is in its proper place, everything is heard to its proper effect, including the enigmatic quote from the second movement of the Eighth Quartet that launches the brief coda (“Three cheers for Humour!”). As the movement crunches to its conclusion, on a music-hall cadence, I’m left thinking, “That’s the wackiest ‘victory hymn’ I’ve ever heard!”

The third and fourth movements together can be regarded as a “slow movement”. Entitled “In the Store”, the third is an utterly heart-rending combination of words and music concerned with the self-effacing stoicism of the ordinary Russian housewife. From the simple scene of women quietly queuing in the shop, the poet draws a touching image: “I’m shivering as I queue . . . but . . . from the breath of so many women a warmth spreads round the store”. In describing what they endure, how they endure it, and for whom, Yevtushenko seems to sanctify them, justifying his feeling of outrage in the words, “. . . They have been granted such strength! It is shameful to short-change them! It is sinful to short-weight them!”

Shostakovich sets this poem with overwhelming empathy, the basic continual creeping motion of his music echoing the slow shuffling of the queue, the occasional “tock-tocking” of a castanet seeming to underline the almost mechanical progress of the queue. Starting with the darkest string-sounds (those fabulous WDRSO basses!), soon joined by violas caressing the line with the utmost poignancy, he gradually, almost imperceptibly lightens the texture until sanctification is achieved in violins and harp. Barshai controls it all exquisitely, coaxing from the orchestra playing of infinite tenderness. My hackles rose as Aleksashkin solemnly intoned “They have endured everything”: about here comes a weird thrilling of slurring strings which is done to spine-tingling perfection. The outraged climax, by contrast, is colossal in its impact, ending on hard, stamped-out chords (not the only pointer in this symphony to the forthcoming Execution of Stepan Razin). Aleksashkin and the chorus are equally as impressive when it comes to expressing tenderness and remorse for the living as they were when venting their spleen over the murdered masses.

While the third movement relates to continuing hardship, the fourth is sort of complementary, dealing as it does with “Fears are dying out in Russia”. Nevertheless, the poem’s vivid recollection of those Fears “that slithered everywhere” – of speaking, of remaining silent, of being alone, of mixing with others – must have struck white-hot sparks inside Shostakovich’s head. It’s no wonder, when Yevtushenko seemed to be “getting away” with such incandescent candour, that Shostakovich felt free to join him on the bandwagon: this was what he had been fighting against for most of his life. Yet the poem is in two parts: after a rallying-call proclaiming victory over these Fears, the poet goes on to list new Fears, fears that are “good” to have, like fear of being disloyal, or of humiliating others, or “of not writing with all my strength”.

Shostakovich was quite literally inspired. His music for the first part dripped and drooled, reeking of evil. The suffocating sump-oil of bass drum and tamtam coupled with murky strings and a grisly solo tuba, realised with blood-curdling realism by the WDRSO, in an earlier time and place would have evoked the bloated figure of a somnolent, self-satisfied, and imminently doomed dragon – and, come to think of it, that image is still fairly germane! Aleksashkin, for that matter, delivers his remembrances of “Fears” like some latter-day Wotan. He could have burdened his declamatory lines with all kinds of vocal expression, but instead made them the more chilling through reserve (though I’d stop short of saying “dead pan delivery”) and leaving the orchestra to provide the colouring in. I’ve noted appreciations of “doleful horns”, “glowering basses”, and especially the graduated approach of fanfares in trumpets, flutes, trombones, bassoons and bass clarinet – but particularly impressive are the appearance of whirring strings (as per the Sixth Symphony) plus tympani and that bell in response to “the secret fear of a knock at the door”, and the col legno rhythm that subsequently ushers in the “victory march”, a really nifty bit of footwork from the chorus. At the end of this section, the violas pointedly recall the ostinato from the third movement of the Eighth. In the closing section concerning the “new Fears”, Aleksashkin allows just the right degree of agitation to creep in, corresponding to the appearance of glittering glockenspiel and woodwind. Tremendous stuff.

In setting Yevtushenko’s “A Career” for his finale, Shostakovich finishes the job in something of a confessional manner. The gist of the poem is that throughout history men like Galileo have been pilloried for their beliefs or discoveries, yet it is these who become “great men” while the mud-slingers end up forgotten, buried in the mucky silt of the past. The nub of the argument is that it is the suffering strivers who are the real careerists. Sung with real warmth by the soloist, Yevtushenko’s closing words – “I believe in their sacred belief, and their belief gives me courage. I’ll follow my career in such a way that I’m not following it!” – could have been written specifically for Shostakovich. In setting these words here, at the very end of this “Outspoken Oratorio”, he as good as tells the world exactly what he’s been up to all these years.

But does he say so in music quivering with outrageous indignation? Not on your Nelly! The music attains such a lustre of sheer relief that I can’t help but think that this finale could well be the Eighth’s abortive “dancing in the streets” come to fruition. Perhaps, although the music and the jaunty, “twinkle in their eyes” way that Aleksashkin and the chorus perform it suggest a slightly different scenario: a cosy late-night gathering in some hospitable hostelry, at which a merry raconteur is holding court. A dizzy, lazy woodwind waltz sets the scene, then a bibulous bassoon launches a jolly recounting of Galileo’s case. The sociable singers are aptly supported by the musicians, chuntering and chortling cheerfully around, with the trumpets providing some admirably acrid “motor-horn” squawks at the words “[He] was no more stupid than Galileo”. We even get “Now that’s what I understand by a ‘careerist’” as a pub-style punchline, punched home pub-style by the assembled company.

The opening waltz, delightfully pecked by pizzicato strings, returns whilst the comrades ponder the inner meaning of the tale. Glasses recharged, the assembly roars approval of such “careers” then, bolstered by some looming trombone glissandi, turns to railing at the mud-slingers. The matter is settled (in the time-honoured tradition of such discussions!) with a robust and decisive fugue, ruggedly dispatched by the orchestra. The waltz, on intimately whispering solo strings, now becomes a blissful, vaguely alcoholic haze. The bassoon theme is taken by the celeste, an angel that nevertheless dithers and gropes without success for a resolution (there’s always one who doesn’t get it!). Help is at hand, and from an unexpected quarter: that bell, which doesn’t seem to have budged a semitone right through the symphony, just happens to be sitting on the necessary note! Thus, it seems to me, in this first wholly untroubled conclusion to a Shostakovich symphony, are all the threads of the past drawn together and tied off in the present, leaving us all feeling rather more optimistic about the future.

It strikes me that Barshai is fully the equal of Haitink when it comes to management of the long-term architecture of this long work, but surpasses Haitink and is fully the equal of the likes of Mravinsky when it comes to juggling the hot coals at the heart of the music. The playing of the WDRSO is astonishingly idiomatic, like a real Russian orchestra without the wibbly-wobbly brass tone, and can rear up from confidentiality to cataclysm with nerve-shattering impact. It’s a credit to the engineers that they seem to have captured this with a full, detailed and, most significantly, wide-ranging recording – which makes it all the more a pity that they couldn’t do the same for the Eleventh! My one cavil is that there seems to be a bit of a phase mismatch between the microphones covering the choral battalions, though only hardened headphone freaks like me are likely to notice the slight “corkscrewing” effect this produces. But the the singing of Aleksashkin and the legions of lads from Moscow, who can (though hardly surprisingly!) wrap their gobs round the funny phonemes of the Russian tongue with effortless ease, is unreservedly superb, and in spite of my marginal cavils I can only conclude that this is a seriously desirable CD.