The Sound of Utopia:
Musicians in the Time of Stalin
by Michel Krielaars
Translated by Jonathan Reeder
In the mania for granular regulation that characterized the Soviet Union, the arts became a political battleground that was subject to particular scrutiny by the regime. The musical world was no exception and, particularly under Stalin, musicians had to navigate a minefield of political considerations in order to exercise their art. In particular, the Union of Soviet Composers, under the powerful and feared union secretary Tikhon Khrennikov, ostensibly worked for the promotion of Soviet music, but was more often than not the organ through which the regime’s condemnations were delivered and musical expression was policed. Stalin’s own musical pretensions and tastes, and his occasional personal judgments on musical works, only served to render musicians’ lives more dangerous.
As its subtitle promises, The Sound of Utopia explores, in largely self-contained chapters, the personal histories of several composers and musicians active in Stalinist Soviet Union, and the fraught relationship they had with the regime. Some of the featured figures – such as Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Richter and Rostropovich – are very well-known, and particularly in the case of the composers, much has been written about their hounding by the state on accusations of “formalism”, a term used to condemn music seen as placing excessive emphasis on formal experimentation and complexity at the expense of the ideologically approved principles of Socialist Realism. This is particularly true of Shostakovich, with regard to whom there is a long-standing academic debate as to whether his more “regime-friendly” works should be taken at face value, or interpreted as coded acts of protest. In this book, however, Michel Krielaars casts his net wider, and, apart from the more obvious choices, also covers lesser-known composers (such as Weinberg and Mosolov) as well as popular performers who were much-loved in the Soviet Union but less known internationally.
Krielaars admits in an afterword that he is no musicologist. In fact, there are no attempts to analyse or describe the music of the composers he discussed. Krielaars considers himself a historian rather than a musicologist but, despite the copious bibliography, I also would not consider this a “history book” in any academic sense. Krielaars adopts more of a journalistic approach, combining factual narrative with his own personal views, reminiscences and experiences, and with comments from musicians he interviewed for the purposes of this book. This style may well disappoint some readers, but I found it flowing and engaging, and appreciated the wealth of information which went well beyond the well-trodden path. In particular, I appreciated the manner in which Krielaars expresses the Kafkaesque and quasi-surreal nature of Soviet musical policies, and their inherent arbitrariness, where a work or composer may be lauded one day and demolished just a couple of weeks later. Subject to notable and laudable exceptions, this led many musicians to play a cat-and-mouse game of compromise and to inhabit a moral grey area which makes it difficult to judge their actions either way. In this regard, the chapter on the notorious Khrennikov was particularly thought-provoking.
This is a worthwhile read for any readers interested in Soviet and/or twentieth-century musical history. Jonathan Reeder’s translation maintains the original author’s direct and engaging style.
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