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The genius of Shostakovich @shinynewbooks @BehemothMusic @NottingHillEds

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I’ve been lucky enough not only to review some wonderful volumes for Shiny New Books, but also to read some real treats from Notting Hill Editions. Those two strands coincided in this really outstanding book which I was ridiculously excited about reading and reviewing!

I have a bit of an obsession with Shostakovich anyway, so I was probably the ideal reader for this one… An absorbing, moving and thought-provoking mixture of memoir, musicology and history, I found it unputdownable. You can read my review over on Shiny here!

I should add here as a coda to my review that I learned after its publication that author Stephen Johnson has put a page of audio reference clips on his website, which would be a useful aid for anyone reading the book, particularly if they aren’t literate in musical notation (like me!)

The clips can be found here:

https://www.stephen-johnson.co.uk/shostakovitch-clips/

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“Art is the whisper of history, heard above the noise of time.”

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The Noise of Time by Julian Barnes

You might be sensing something of a theme here on the Ramblings….

… because I do seem to be reading rather a lot of books set in or about Soviet Russia! I guess that’s kind of inevitable in the anniversary year of the 1917 Revolution, and I’m not complaining as it’s fairly obvious to even the most casual reader that I do have an interest in that country and its literature. However, I’ve been circling “The Noise of Time” for a little while now, slightly apprehensive and unsure if I should read it, mostly because of my well-known discomfort with fictionalised real lives, and also because it’s about Shostakovich, whose work I absolutely love (despite knowing very little about music in a technical way).

Dmitri Shostakovich is probably one of the most well-known Russian composers of the 20th century and he does tend to attract a little controversy, being either regarded as a puppet of the regime or a man who survived by saying one thing and meaning another. Barnes obviously subscribes to the latter view, and his portrait of the composer is nuanced and compelling.

But one of life’s many disappointments was that it was never a novel, not by Maupassant or anyone else. Well, perhaps a short satirical tale by Gogol.

“Noise” focuses on three pivotal points in Shostakovich’s life where he reaches a critical point – times when survival could well be in doubt. Each of these years – 1936, 1948, 1960 – is twelve years apart and a leap year, and the superstitious composer is very aware of this. In the first section of the book we find him waiting outside the lift in his building, a small suitcase in his hand; for Shostakovich is convinced he is about to be arrested, taken in the night as so many of his friends and colleagues have been, and he wishes to be prepared and orderly rather than grabbed in his pyjamas. As he waits, he reminiscences and ponders on his past; his relationship with his family, previous loves, and the fact that the failure of his opera, “Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk” has led to him being denounced and vilified.

He did not want to make himself into a dramatic character. But sometimes, as his mind skittered in the small hours, he thought: so this is what history has come to. All that striving and idealism and hope and progress and science and art and conscience, and it all ends like this, with a man standing by a lift, at his feet a small case containing cigarettes, underwear and tooth powder; standing there and waiting to be taken away.

Through a quirk of fate Shostakovich survives 1936 and when we next encounter him he’s returning from a politically motivated propaganda visit to America. This has been stressful, as he’s been made to spout speeches and soundbites written for him by the authorities, as well as encountering hostile émigré Russians. By now, the composer knows that to speak out would mean trouble for both him and his family, and instead irony is the best defence against tyranny – particularly useful when dealing with a functionary sent to give him a little political education.

The final section focuses on an older Shostakovich, dealing with declining health and a final indignity. Living through the thaw that followed Stalin’s death, everyday life has become slightly easier; however, this brings its own problems and the composer is faced with having to make a choice which will completely compromise him morally and is one of the hardest things he ever has to do.

The Composer

Barnes draws on two major works for his portrait of the composer: “Shostakovich: A Life Remembered” by Elizabeth Wilson, and “Testimony”, Shostakovich’s memoirs as related to Solomon Volkov. Both of these books are on Mount TBR and I’m well aware that the latter has also been controversial, with differing claims about its authenticity. Nevertheless, the voice that Barnes gives to Shostakovich here is one I found entirely convincing and the book is a compelling, fascinating and very moving read. Barnes captures brilliantly in his narrative the effects of living a life in constant fear; the daily horrors, the wish to escape and just be left alone to create your work. Despite his dismissal of himself as a “worm”, Shostakovich’s narrative is wryly witty in places, a dark humour that was probably a necessary response to years of living under the iron heel of tyranny.

In the old days, a child might pay for the sins of its father, or indeed mother. Nowadays, in the most advanced society on earth, the parents might pay for the sins of the child, along with uncles, aunts, cousins, in-laws, colleagues, friends, and even the man who unthinkingly smiled at you as he came out of the lift at three in the morning. The system of retribution had been greatly improved, and was so much more inclusive than it used to be.

The title of this book is also that of a collection of memoirs by the Russian poet Osip Mandelstam, and it’s also a thread that runs through the narrative. On the surface you couldn’t find two more different Soviet artists than the poet and the composer. Mandelstam spoke his mind about Stalin during the height of the purges, was betrayed and paid the ultimate price of madness and death; Shostakovich, by contrast, considered himself a coward and often failed to speak out, instead trying to negotiate a path through the stormy waters of the Soviet regime. It was a life endured with constant ups and downs, one day in favour, the next day out, and I would argue it took a certain moral resilience to live that way. How he actually managed to cope with constant fear and uncertainty while producing stunning works is a bit of a miracle; and actually living with the daily stress of not knowing if you’ll be denounced or arrested or tortured or killed takes its own kind of courage. And despite the portrait given here, Shostakovich *did* speak out in support of other artists and also produced work attacking anti-Semitism; so he was not without courage.

What could be put up against the noise of time? Only that music which is inside ourselves – the music of our being – which is transformed by some into real music. Which, over the decades, if it is strong and true and pure enough to drown out the noise of time, is transformed into the whisper of history. This was what he held to.

Four Russian Geniuses

There’s a wonderful photograph, which I’m reproducing here, which basically shows four Russian geniuses in 1929. Clockwise from the top left you have Mayakovsky, Rodchenko, Meyerhold, and Shostakovich. Mayakovsky would commit suicide a year later; artist Rodchenko managed to survive until 1956; the great man of the theatre Meyerhold was tortured and executed in 1940; but somehow Shostakovich made it through until my lifetime, dying in 1975 – a link to that Soviet past that lasted into the modern world.

A Very Brilliant Author

So “The Noise of Time” turned out to be one of the best reads of the year so far, and a book that I’m so glad I picked up. It deserves all the plaudits it received: not only does Julian Barnes paint a sympathetic and suggestive portrait of a great composer who survived a terrible regime against all the odds, he also provides a frighteningly vivid depiction of what happens to art under totalitarian rule. That’s becoming a running theme on the Ramblings, one which is particularly relevant to our world today; and I can’t recommend this book highly enough, especially if you need to be reminded of what we have to avoid.

In which I become somewhat irked…

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…despite some wonderful book bargains in town!

I suppose I should start with the positive which is the *big* book bargain; I have had my eye on this title for a while because it combines several things that interest me (Russia! Shostakovich! Leningrad! Modern History!) But it’s a big chunky hardback and not cheap so I was considering putting it on my Christmas list until I just happened to stumble into The Works at the weekend…

And there it was! “Leningrad: Siege and Symphony” by Brian Moynahan for £5.99 instead of £25. Well, would you have resisted?? I didn’t….

I didn’t go into many of the charity shops yesterday, and those I did also irked me, for reasons I’ll get to! But “Crack On!” (yes, the shop really *is* called that) had a basket of 10p and 20p books outside, including this rather fragile old classic version of “Le Grand Meulnes”.

This happens to be a book I read a while back, but I think I didn’t really get – having disposed of my Penguin version a while ago, I decided that this 20p bargain would do for a revisit to see if I get more out of it second time round! And the cover, despite the damage, is very pretty.

Other arrivals have a German theme, which ties in well with the fact that November is German Literature Month – I may even be able to participate! The first was from an online swap site:

I’ve read quite a lot about Herta Muller, particularly on Stu’s site, so I’m looking forward to reading her work. And lastly, a library book:

I’ve had this on reserve for months, so it’s arrived at an opportune time! I’m not sure how comfortable I feel with reading it – but I think that might be the point…

As for what irked me – well, “The Forsyte Saga”, to be blunt – or lack of it. I’ve been circling this for a long time, thinking I should read it, and there was a copy of the first volume in the house owing to Elder or Middle Child studying it at university. Alas, in the Summer Purge it went to one of the charity shops and it shouldn’t have because I now really want to read it. I trotted round the charity shops that might have a copy and none of them did (grrrrr.) I even went into Waterstones, thinking I might splurge out on a new book (as I’ve had issues with online sellers recently and have received some real tatty stinkers with bad foxing).

And thereby hangs another irksome tale. My local Waterstones has moved its adult fiction section to upstairs and slimmed it down dramatically. Quite how do they expect to compete with online sellers if they don’t stock a wide range of books and they’re tucked away upstairs?? Yes, they could order it for me, but that doesn’t let me browse through it, compare editions, see which typeface suits me best…. I’m obviously in need of a visit to Foyles!

I had a moan about this to OH, who sensibly pointed out that I could get a penny copy online. I don’t have to be encouraged much, do I? So penny copies of all three Forsyte volumes are on their way to me now…! 🙂 Grump over!

A Song about Shostakovich

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One of my favourite Banshee-songs, of which Siouxsie said in NME in 1988: “The song is deliberately rich. It’s about Shostakovitch, a really sad man, who was victimised, ridiculed and then broken by the Stalin regime. I love his music, really powerful. The song’s about wishing you could be a consolation to him”

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