Leningrad Does Varietee: Wooding, Shostakovich, Dunayesky and Prokofiev

by Georg Predota , Interlude

Sam Wooding and his Chocolate Kiddies

Just a couple of years after Western Europe fell under the spell of popular American musical styles, it also debuted in the Soviet Union. As a musical language increasingly placed at the service of social commentary, and with its strong connotations for freedom, jazz in the Soviet era led a somewhat tortured existence. Constantly in flux between prohibition, censorship and even state sponsorship, jazz developed into a popular form of music and it became an element of Soviet cultural life. The birth of Soviet jazz is celebrated on 1 October 1922 when Valentin Parnach and his band played their first concert in Moscow.

Chocolate Kiddies poster

Parnach came into contact with jazz at a concert of the American band Louis Mitchel Jazz Kings during his exile in Paris in 1921. He returned to Moscow a year later with a complete set of instruments. But what really got the jazz craze properly started were appearances of bandleader Sam Wooding and his “Chocolate Kiddies.” Essentially a Broadway-styled revue billed as a “negro operetta,” it toured the Soviet Union in 1926 for three months with appearances in Moscow and Leningrad. Joseph Stalin was in the Moscow audience, and criticism focused on the visual aspects of the performance. As a reviewer wrote, “it is not important how blacks play, how they dance, sing and think… What is important is that they are all black.”

Sam Wooding & his Chocolate Kiddies in Leningrad 

Dmitri Shostakovich

When the Chocolate Kiddies Company arrived in Leningrad, a highly interested Dmitri Shostakovich sat in the audience. According to musicologists, this “was, to Shostakovich a musical revelation of America.” Growing up in the young Leninist Soviet Union, Shostakovich had previously only gleaned jazz through selected friends and sparse historical information. The vitality and enthusiasm of the performers made an indelible impression, and jazz remained part of his compositional toolkit. Political circumstances beyond his control made it impossible to overtly practise his appreciation, but in 1934 he was commissioned by a Leningrad dance band to furnish some dancing music. The resulting Suite for Jazz Orchestra is a whimsical take on jazz, reflecting more of the composer’s interest in gypsy music and the music of the Yiddish theatre. As such, we expectedly find a waltz and a polka, but it also features a concluding foxtrot. Conforming to severe Soviet guidelines, this jazz suite leaves no room for improvisation but unfolds in strict time and rhythm.

May Day in Leningrad (1925)

The Soviet Union experienced massive political and economic upheavals in the early 1930s, and jazz was eyed as an undesirable import of Western culture. Joseph Stalin tightly controlled all manner of artistic expression, and he demanded that all forms of art convey the struggles and triumphs of the proletariat and present a realistic reflection of Soviet life and society. Searching for a musical style “in which the ideology of the emerging communist communal society could be expressed most effectively” also meant that jazz had to be politicized.

Isaak Dunayesky

Maxim Gorki, writing during his exile in Sorrento, equated jazz with homosexuality, drugs and eroticism. He describes jazz as “a dry knock of an idiotic hammer penetrates the utter stillness. One, two, three, ten, twenty strikes, and afterwards a wild whistling and squeaking as if a ball of mud was falling into clear water; then follows a rattling, howling and screaming like the clamor of a metal pig, the cry of a donkey or the amorous croaking of a monstrous frog. The offensive chaos of this insanity combines into a pulsing rhythm. Listen to this screaming for only a few minutes, and one involuntarily pictures an orchestra of sexually wound-up madmen, conducted by a Stallion-like creature who is swinging his giant genitals.” The alleged connection between jazz, modern dance and sexuality was officially classified as “sonic idiocy in the bourgeois-capitalist world.” Given such overt hostility, jazz idioms found refuge in motion pictures.

Sergei Prokofiev

With Soviet artists and performers increasingly falling under the microscope of uncompromising state machinery, Sergei Prokofiev—with permission from the government—packed his bags and settled in Paris in October 1923. In a city awash with artistic personalities, Prokofiev quickly became interested in jazz and rubbed shoulders with leading composers, including George Gershwin in 1928. Vernon Duke reports, “George came and played his head off; Prokofiev liked the tunes and the flavoursome embellishments, but thought little of the Concerto in F, which he said later, consisted of “32-bar choruses ineptly bridged together.” Prokofiev thought highly of Gershwin’s gifts, both as a composer and pianist, and he predicted “he’d go far should he leave dollars and dinners alone.” Duke also remembered Prokofiev saying, “Gershwin’s piano playing is full of amusing tricks, but the music is amateurish.” Prokofiev met Gershwin again in 1930 in New York, and noted in his journal afterward, “Gershwin also attempts to compose serious music, and sometimes he even does that with a certain flair, but not always successfully.” For all the criticism and posturing, it is clear that Prokofiev was highly receptive to jazz influences. One might actually describe the slow movement of his Third Piano Concerto, a work that had been started as far back as 1913, as greatly indebted to Gershwin.

Beethoven and Money

 by Georg Predota , Interlude

For much of his career and life, Beethoven was struggling financially. He would on occasion make a shedload of money, which he tended to invest in bank shares. However, the severe depreciation of the Austrian currency as a result of the extended Napoleonic war, slashed his wealth by over fifty percent, and it also significantly reduced the value of the annuity paid to him by Archduke Rudolph, and the Princes Lobkowitz and Kinsky. And even when Beethoven was relieved from any rational grounds for financial worry, he was constantly apprehensive about his financial situation.

Beethoven, 1803

To make a living as a freelance musician is no easy task and during his early days in Vienna Beethoven established a reputation as a piano virtuoso. But what is more, his ability to improvise was legendary. Most of his income during his early years in Vienna was earned by performing in salons. Only later was he able to charge admission to public concerts of his music, and in his 34 years in Vienna Beethoven was paid for performing in only fifteen public concerts. However, Vienna initially had attracted pianists and musicians from all parts of the Continent, and it took a bit of time to work through the intrigues and jealousies of his contemporaries and rivals. Cherubini, for example, described Beethoven’s piano style as “rough,” and the man himself as “an unlicked bear cub.” In the end, Beethoven became all the rage and was capable of commanding large sums for his performances. Sadly, as his hearing diminished, this particular revenue stream would close for good.

Giulietta Guicciardi

To supplement his income, Beethoven would give private lessons, an activity he absolutely hated. He clearly was not temperamentally suited for such pedagogical pursuits, and a colorful anecdote relates that be became so enraged by his student Karl Hirsch that he “bit him on the shoulder.” Apparently he also pinched the unfortunate child, and yelled at him incessantly in great rage. He would, however, accept charming young countesses as students, but in accordance with some outdated tradition and his desire to be viewed as part of the upper classes, often refused to accept money for his services. When the Countess Susanne Guicciardi sent him a gift for instructing her daughter Giulietta, Beethoven wrote, “I think you should know, dearest countess, that you would have received your present back yesterday morning almost on the spot if my brother hadn’t happened to be with me… But now for my warning. I accept this present, but should it ever occur to you to let yourself think up anything even remotely similar, I swear by everything that I hold sacred that you will never see me again in your house. Your greatly upset Beethoven.” Well, today we know all about Beethoven’s feelings for Giulietta, but with his loss of hearing, he was no longer able to provide teaching services as well.

Brief Beethoven an Breitkopf & Härtel, 9. Oktober 1811 (BG 523)

Once Beethoven had turned his attention to composition, he would of course receive payments for commissions. This generally involved some kind of cash advance for the composer, and upon completion, the patron was given exclusive performing right for six months. After that, the patron kept the music but Beethoven could sell it for publication. Recent scholarship has described Beethoven as an unscrupulous businessman, but in some respects he seems to have been simply incompetent, as the commissions for even his greatest works barely sufficed to make a living. Beethoven received the pittance of 500 florins from Count Franz Oppersdorf for his 4th Symphony. Oppersdorf was delighted and offered another 500 florins for an additional symphony. That put Beethoven in a bind, as he had previously promised the 4th Symphony to the publisher Breitkopf. He hastily wrote to Breitkopf explaining “a gentleman of quality has taken it from me.” He then sold the symphony he promised, and for which he had already received a cash advance from Oppersdorf, to Breitkopf. His Fifth Symphony went to Breitkopf for 100 ducats, about 450 florins, and Oppersdorf rightly refused to pay his balance. With dealings like that, it is not surprising that Beethoven was unable to maintain his own apartment, and for a time he had to move in with Countess von Erdödy. 

Anton Schindler

The business of music publishing changed rapidly during Beethoven’s lifetime, and he essentially “lived as a modern composer on earnings from his work in a free market.” Music publishers were opening businesses all across Germany and Austria, but they still lagged behind England, Italy and France. With the concepts of royalties and international copyrights essentially unknown, the composer could expect a one-time fee for the sale of a work. The publisher in turn had some kind of protection within his own country, but it could still be freely copied and pirated abroad. And pirates dominated the publishing business, as they stole music, “altered it, misattributed it, bribed copyists to steal it, and pasted their own name over copies bought from the original publishers.”

Within this seriously messy environment, Beethoven’s principle aim was to obtain the largest sum possible for each composition, and he compared offers from various publishers, and on occasion, played them against each other. Beethoven, in following the example set by Joseph Haydn, was clearly interested in publishing a work simultaneously in more than one country. That way, he would receive two or more fees and was able to make his works more attractive by charging lower fees from each publisher. Publishers predictably protested vigorously, and so did Beethoven. Beethoven was no pioneering businessman, but he did succeed in publishing a fair number of his compositions by two or more firms in different countries at about the same time. It is possible that the early Beethoven biographer Anton Schindler most aptly summarized Beethoven’s money and business dealings in a motto inscription on the autograph manuscript of the Op. 129 “Rondo alla ingharese quasi un capriccio.” He tellingly wrote “Rage over a lost Penny, vented in a Caprice.”