Sonic Voyages – A Russian Night, Eindhoven, Brabandt

To those of us living in North America during the 1950s and 1960s era of the Cold War, Russia was little more than a military threat with a lot of atomic weapons, little impulse control, and a funny little man who pounded his shoe on the table and said, “We will bury you.” My experience of the Cold War and thoughts about the Soviet Empire as a child were rudimentary at best and consisted of unannounced atomic bomb drop drills in school and wondering if there was any place in the house that would be safe from the fall-out and fire blast of a thermonuclear device. My knowledge of physics was obviously delayed in its development in thinking that we could find safety in a wood frame house from an atomic bomb. We moved forward in our knowledge of atomic fission and became paranoid enough to popularize the building of bomb shelters and for a number of years they were the rage.

Twenty years ago Stephen Lawhead wrote an articulate pair of science fiction novels that elegantly describe how paranoia about another society becomes myth, legend, and finally an immutable reality in the minds of those victimized by their own paranoia. In the case of Lawhead’s story, one culture, Fierra, was truly benevolent and allowed all its citizens equal opportunity, yet in the minds of the totalitarian Dome, Fierra was nothing but an atomic monster bent on the destruction of Dome. In a novel it is possible to write enlightenment into the plot and eventually Fierra was able to bring the paranoid Dome to its senses just before Dome had a chance to launch a nuclear holocaust.

In our real world experience, both Americans and Russians, in cabinet offices and on the street, were convinced that the others really were the bad guys. A nuclear arms race ensued that consumed an incredible portion of the public resource of both nations. Today the former Empire is a military and economic shadow of itself, paradoxically reduced to such a state without the firing of a single bullet by the Americans, or anyone else. As in the case of Jericho forty centuries ago, walking around the walls with just candles proved sufficient to bring down the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wall. Once the mystique behind the curtain was removed; we discovered that most Russians were exactly like most Americans, dreamers who wanted to raise their kids in a better world than the one they had been raised in, to sit in a park and have conversation with good friends, to have a sense of personal security.

In a world in which Russia and America still have enough atomic weapons to immolate a hundred planets and a dozen other nations have scurried to develop these fissionable nightmares for themselves, we remain in continual need of reminders of those things that are good in all cultures – music, art, literature, food, and spiritual wisdom. I have the great fortune of being in a position in life of being able to experience these reminders often and it really does pay to know the right people. Last night was no exception. Hans had sorted out a fast-forward expedition into the heart of Russia.

For six hours in the Frits Philips Musiek Centrum we were given an intense sonic excursion into what is so very good about Russian culture. From 6 PM until after midnight some seven hundred of us (mostly Dutch with a few Russians, Germans, Brits, and Americans mixed in) went on a compressed eight-station multi-media pilgrimage into classical Russian culture under the Tsars and post 1917 totalitarianism. Our arrival at the pink granite Centrum found it to have been decorated in the grand colors of Russia – gold foil shrouding the entrance, crimson carpets guiding our way. Intensely colorful displays of Russian Orthodox icons, votives, elaborate candle stands, and carpets provided a visual sensibility of the role Russian orthodoxy played in adding color and dimension to a culture that was nearly extirpated.

Our first discovery on this compressed pilgrimage was that Stroganoff is not a name that Betty Crocker came up with for quick-fix boxed noodle dinners in the 1950s. The Stroganoff name actually belonged to a prominent family in St. Petersburg, Russia and the stroganoff dinner served in the grand reception spaces of the Centrum was clearly not of Betty Crocker origin. My good friend Yne proves to be a walking encyclopedia of history and she was able to fill in a lot of gaps about the Stroganoff name. Being served a meal on linen within the spaces of a concert hall is certainly not done in America or very many other places for that matter. I am finding that the Netherlands is filled with a lot of rather pleasing surprises. None of use expected to receive a full meal in the Centrum.

On six occasions we were invited to enter one of the several magnificent concert or recital halls for a sonic adventure. Certainly the performance of the Polovtsian Dances of Borodin by the Radio Symphony Orchestra of the Netherlands was a powerful reminder of the intense romance to be found in the creative spirit of any culture, especially those cultures under duress. A new friend Margaret, sitting next to me, was wiping away tears during these dances. It was during the nightmare years of the Revolution, Stalin, and Lenin that Sergei Rachmaninov was writing his stellar classics including the infamous ‘Rac 3’ that remains the Mt Everest for pianists. Shostakowich was writing his haunting lieder during the totalitarianism of the 20th century, a mere boy of eleven when the Revolution swept over the land and dying 14 years before the candles in the street brought down the walls. For those with classical inclinations, the heartfelt performance of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony was a total immersion in the vast creativity of a short life that produced musical dance epics such as Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, Sleeping Beauty, and a hundred other musical treasures. It was beyond stunning to watch one of the flutists wiping away her own tears during musical rests in her part. As beautiful as any note played during the evening was the generous gratitude shown to the performers. The Dutch are well known for generosity of applause and ovations in their concert halls and performers relish invitations to play in this country. It was easy to see why.

During one of the six intermissions, Hans and I played chess on a board some fifteen feet on a side with pieces two feet high, moving pieces with our feet while hold wine and programs in our hands. I wondered if Boris Spasski or some other giant of the chess world would show up during the next interval to critique our game.

I could get use to this country very quickly.