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The Flute as Post-Soviet Sacred Leader

The fact that one instrument—the flute—could be chosen to lead both the shamanic and Russian Orthodox episodes of …The Deceitful Face of Hope and of Despair is in one sense unremarkable: it is the solo instrument within this concerto. But if one looks first at the narrative suggested by the musical topics and, second, at the work’s genre, it becomes a powerful statement of political—and even spiritual—unity. In this section, we will see the impact of Gubaidulina’s portrayal of the flutist as the chanter in both sacred musical topics.

The solo flutist registers in the eye of the concertgoer and the ear of the listener as separate from the orchestra. The concertgoer is able to see the soloist at the front of the stage, entering with the conductor, marked as far more visible than their orchestral colleagues. The listener hears that the soloist is set apart because they have long unaccompanied or sparsely-accompanied sections, their material often contrasts with the material of the orchestra, and the composer typically goes out of their way to highlight the soloist for the majority of the time that they are playing. For instance, the entrance of the solo flutist near the beginning of …The Deceitful Face of Hope and of Despair (4’20”) contrasts the ascending melody of the flute with menacing dyads in the low winds and piano.

Likewise, longstanding societal associations of the concerto form as a metaphor impact how we hear the role of the soloist. Gubaidulina herself echoes these associations, passed down through generations of composers, when she speaks of the soloist and orchestra in concertos prior to the twentieth century as representing “such dramatic oppositions as a hero and a crowd, a hero and an army, an orator and an audience” (Lukomsky and Gubaidulina 1998b: 29). When Gubaidulina says, as can be found in the more extensive quote above, that these particular metaphors are no longer relevant in light of the events of the twentieth century, she refers specifically to the heroism narrative they evoke, not to the notion of the individual and the collective which they still clearly represent. In other words, the concerto form can still (and perhaps should) be political, but the political or social leadership role of the soloist within the concerto metaphor has changed from a political or social leadership to one that is more mystical.

The flute’s role in this concerto—the role of a spiritual leader in both sacred-music-inspired episodes—is crucial. It allows the listener to hear these musical topics within the concerto not just as juxtaposed idioms but as rituals that share a common purpose. This purpose is communion with the divine. The setting that this symbolic representation takes is different: in the shamanic episode, other instruments within the orchestra provide the percussive foundation over which Siberian shamans, here portrayed by the solo flute, sing. In the Russian Orthodox episode, on the other hand, we begin with only the bass flute with a sparse ultra-low orchestral accompaniment, and the rhythmic and melodic focus is on the bass flute’s chant-like material rather than any other instruments. Nevertheless, in both cases, the flute references a real Russian art form—sacred chant—in two of its manifestations. Both manifestations were driven underground, as we have seen, and outlived Soviet policies to block them.

The flute, then, takes the role of a political rebel: a spiritual practitioner who continues to advocate for the divine and the transcendent despite political circumstances. As Gubaidulina said, the twentieth century caused her to feel that the traditional concerto associations of leader and group were outdated (Lukomsky and Gubaidulina 1998b: 29). In these episodes, she instead represents a spiritual leader and the community gathered for their sacred ritual. Taking Gubaidulina at her word that “all [her] works are religious” and that she is “searching” for relevance for the concerto form in the post-Soviet era, this evocation of post-Soviet sacred sound makes good sense. Due to Soviet policies, the post-Soviet concept of spirituality is inherently political. Gubaidulina’s soloist in this concerto may not be an orator or a hero, but they are certainly not devoid of worldly concerns; they are instead a representation of those who made and preserved music while being targeted by the government.

To juxtapose these powerful depictions of the flute as shaman and cantor is also to make a universalist statement. As we have seen, the musical arc of Siberian shamanic music is ascending, from the first strokes of the drum until the moment in which the shaman mystically pierces through to the transcendent and experiences spiritual ecstasy. In the Siberian shamanic worldview (of which there are many, but they are united in this), that moment of intercession and ecstasy is what brings into effect the change sought, whether it is favorable weather, healing, or some other need in the community or the world.

The practice of chanting within the Russian Orthodox Christian tradition developed out of musical settings for the Divine Liturgy, the Eastern Church’s commemoration of Jesus Christ’s commandment to remember his death. When a cantor chants intercessions, the things prayed for are not understood by the Christian faithful to happen—if indeed they do—solely because of the act of praying. Instead, the prayers are understood to be answered through the mediation of Jesus Christ’s death. Therefore, the moment of ecstatic breakthrough is not in the moment of the sacred sounds themselves, as it is with Siberian shamanism. Rather, Russian Orthodox worship listens back 2,000 years to the death of Christ for this moment, when the division between the divine and humanity was forever redeemed.

What Gubaidulina does in …The Deceitful Face of Hope and of Despair is radical because of her identity as a Russian Orthodox Christian. By placing the climax of transcendent breakthrough at the end of the shamanic episode—as it should be, mirroring actual practices—she creates an expectation that what will come next will logically follow as a continuation of that state of ecstasy, as we have entered another plane of transcendence. Indeed, what does follow is music in the idiom of her own faith’s sacrament, a practice which she refers to as “most holy, most necessary in [her] life” (Lukomsky 1998b: 32). Gubaidulina has not only brought into the concert hall sounds which were suppressed during the Soviet regime, but she has tied them together in a universalist statement that the transcendent reality which both faiths seek is, indeed, one and the same.

What of the faiths themselves and their practice in the thirty years since the dissolution of the USSR? In the 1990s, as the longstanding cultural divisions and minority suppressions of the Soviet era began to dissipate, the preserved chants of the Russian Orthodox Church and the preserved cultural traditions of remote Siberian shamanic cultures began to be acknowledged as part of a modern Russia’s cultural identity as a pluralistic state. The International Society for Shamanistic Research (ISSR) was founded in 1988 and is now known as the International Society for Academic Research on Shamanism. Mihály Hoppál (its founder), along with János Šipoš, undertook an ethnomusicological study of the Yakut, Buryat, and several other ethnic groups that practice shamanism in Siberia, culminating in a 2010 document notating the chants of shamans from around the world (Shaman Songs, published by the ISSR). With the advent of the Internet and in response to demand from the Russian Orthodox diaspora, digitized collections of preserved Znamenny chants have been published by the Znamenny Chants Foundation since 2003, which aims to “create a publicly accessible database of Znamenny chants and software tools for working with them for the sake of reviving, within the Russian Orthodox Church, Znamenny chant: canonical liturgical singing” (Nechiporenko, translation by the author).

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