Boris Getselev. “Lev Sivukhin”

The memoir genre is very conducive to exaggeration of all kinds. And yet, fully aware of this, I am prepared to assert with absolute conviction that the years 1960–2000 in Nizhny Novgorod can safely be called the era of Lev Sivukhin. These were the years of his unconditional leadership in the choral sphere. But it did not end there. His influence on the cultural life of the city in general grew constantly, and in geometric progression. Not only concerts and festivals but conferences of all kinds, symposia, forums, exhibition openings, project presentations, city and regional celebrations were simply unthinkable without Sivukhin and his charges. And this was explained not at all by the inertia of the organisers’ thinking or by a peculiar “fashion for the Chapel” but by the highest level of performance that the Sivukhin boys demonstrated, and which, as it were, set the bar and determined the rank of an event, the scale and degree of its content.

Right away, for the sake of objectivity, I will note that, of course, Sivukhin’s choral collectives were not always in ideal form: children have a habit of growing, and the constant, natural change of membership cannot be completely painless. And so problems sometimes arose with the balance of the choral parts, purity of intonation, quality of sound production and so on and so forth. But the very regime of Sivukhin’s activity and his team’s, the polish of every link in this system and its focus on results, quickly set things right.

And the results were impressive, and the Sivukhin choirs constantly confirmed and reinforced their status as leaders with victories and laureate titles at prestigious international competitions and festivals. Among other things, participation in these competitions united the collectives and stimulated their qualitative growth. It also helped to make contacts and increased Sivukhin’s fame not only in the city but throughout the country and abroad. When I happened to appear in new company, the first reaction to the introduction and the mention of my place of residence was invariably my interlocutors’ mention of two musical collectives and two names: the symphony orchestra of the philharmonic and the boys’ chapel, respectively I. B. Gusman and L. K. Sivukhin (and later the name of A. D. Sakharov was added). These people were in fact the calling card of the city.

Sivukhin’s repertoire was truly enormous. Of course, in recent years a preponderance of Russian music was felt: the liberation from ideological dictate and the opportunity to master previously inaccessible layers of sacred art had an entirely beneficial effect. And the performing peaks in this field are obvious: Grechaninov’s “Passion Week”, Rachmaninoff’s “All-Night Vigil”. But if one surveys in one’s mind the whole field “sung” by his collectives, it turns out to be almost boundless. There are cultivated plots of the music of the Renaissance, baroque, Viennese classics and romantics: Orlando di Lasso, Bach, Pergolesi, Vivaldi, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Verdi and so on. It is impossible to mention the outstanding performances here, there are too many of them.

A large area is occupied by 20th-century composers: Britten, Stravinsky, Poulenc, Schoenberg, Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Sviridov, Shebalin, A. Nikolaev, N. Sidelnikov, Schnittke, Kancheli, Pärt, Gavrilin, Kalistratov… I will single out the Shchedrin choruses that were in the constant repertoire: “The Execution of Pugachev”, “Onegin Strophes”, the cycle to poems by A. Voznesensky, “The Sealed Angel”, the little cantata from the opera “Not Love Alone”. I remember very well the vivid performances of children’s operas with the participation of the chapel boys: Hindemith’s “Let’s Build a Town” and Britten’s “The Water Play”.

And, finally, under Sivukhin’s vigilant supervision was the work of Nizhny Novgorod authors. From the moment of the Chapel’s birth an active friendship began with our elder, A. A. Kasyanov, a little later with A. A. Nesterov and B. B. Blagovidov, and then with the next generation: G. N. Komrakov, S. P. Strazov… It did not matter whether the authors were members of the Union of Composers or not, and so songs by A. S. Burdov and I. M. Rosenstein entered the repertoire, and quite deservedly.

A clarification must definitely be made here. Fully aware of the need to achieve an individual face for the collective (including by forming “its own” repertoire), Lyova was by no means omnivorous but, on the contrary, particularly fastidious on becoming acquainted with a new work. A local residence permit by no means guaranteed a “green light” in the selection. I must confess that I had to persuade Sivukhin more than once to perform this or that work by a student composer, a celebrated member of the Union or a foreign author. And these persuasions were far from always crowned with success. Being a professional of the highest class, he made an absolutely accurate diagnosis, instantly discovering real flaws in the score (in intonation and register, voice-leading, texture, structure and presentation and so on). And he was often implacable.

I happened to be among those whom Sivukhin “recognised”. And he “recognised” me in 1961, when I first came to him as a first-year student of the conservatory. And from that distant time everything I wrote for choir went to Sivukhin. Moreover, had it not been for Sivukhin and the joy of satisfaction at hearing what you had composed that he always gave, there would not be such a substantial choral component in my creative portfolio: 24 opuses, including 6 cantatas, extended cycles, poems, scenes and so on, not to mention choral songs. Still, I will not conceal that two or three times I had “choral affairs on the side” (on commission from other collectives). But these “infidelities” ended with a return to Lyovushka, who in the end performed what I had written, as always, brilliantly.

I could hardly write anything coherent about Sivukhin’s rehearsals. Surely this would be done better by those who were either their participants or his choirmasters, who constantly observed the working process. My own impressions are quite fragmentary and local. And yet.

He was always collected, concentrated, and demanded the same of the choristers, whether children or adults. And when something did not work and the boys’ patience ran out, bursting out in natural mischief, naughtiness or even a hooligan prank, he could explode, bark and call the overreaching to conscience. As a rule, after such a shake-up the boys at once became docile and quickly achieved the result that had eluded them. The range of exhortations was fairly wide: a simple shout, a promise of reprisals (for instance in the form of depriving them of football), and the heartfelt: “Guys, why are you shaming me in front of the author?” At the same time he was a real teacher and, after a conflict, never forgot, after a while, to praise the boys, finding a suitable occasion for it. He truly loved his lads and often told me after a rehearsal various stories from their “outside-the-Chapel” life, far from always happy and joyful.

The form of the author’s participation in rehearsals changed, at least for me. Sometimes he asked me to come in and tell the choir about the work as a whole. So it was, for example, with the songs from the fantasy play “Multicoloured Pages, or We Play Marshak”. Actually, what was needed was not so much a talk as a demonstration of all the rest, the non-choral, music and brief remarks on its “work” in the play. I think Lyova simply foresaw that this would be interesting to the children. Another case, already for the “adult” (conservatory) choir, was “The River of Time” to poems by Russian poets. Then, at Lev’s request, I really did tell the choristers about the concept of this rather unusual (for its poetic basis) triptych, about the peculiarities of rhythm, structure and semantics of such different verse texts, their musical treatment and the reasons for precisely this arrangement: Lermontov, Derzhavin, Tyutchev.

But the further on, the less my participation in the rehearsal process was needed. At any rate, both Oster cantatas (“Harmful Advice” and “New Commandments”) and the Pushkin “Cart of Life” were shown to the author already at the stage of “putting on the gloss”. Of course, as before, preliminary telephone clarifications of tempos, nuances and so on could arise, but the actual meeting was set for two or three days before the concert, and then the final touches were really applied and the “fair copy” of the performing version was approved.

More on the quality of this “fair copy” a little later, and now one more small but very important remark.

During a long composing life I have met a fairly large number of performers and performing collectives: orchestras, choirs, instrumentalists, vocalists, conductors. The range of their mastery was different, as were the concrete results of our meetings, from brilliant success to almost complete fiasco. And I am immeasurably grateful to them all, because any contact with a performer enriches an author: it gives an opportunity to look at the work from a new angle, emphasises what was previously unnoticed, highlights the pluses and minuses of the opus in relief, and accordingly makes one think about something. God knows I am always attentive to performers’ recommendations of all kinds and often support their initiatives. But analysing the results of my contacts, I came long ago to a simple conclusion: the higher the rank of the performer (not ranks, titles, laureateships and so on, but the level of thinking, artistic temperament, the ability to penetrate deep into the composer’s intention), the fewer pieces of advice and proposals for “editing” the author’s text I heard.

Perhaps there are authors who offer performers a sort of sketch, outline or “draft” of an opus, which takes its final form (including in the sense of fixed notation) only after “grinding in” and rehearsal “adjustments”. Perhaps. I do not condemn them in the least; there are different ways of composing. But I do not remember a single case when Lyova suggested that I change anything in my text. And this speaks, of course, not of the impeccability of that text but of the respect with which Sivukhin treated the source material he took on. And, without changing a single note, he nevertheless entered into genuine co-creation, was a real co-author. That is why the amplitude of his readings was boundless: absolute command of the dynamic, articulatory, agogic and all other parameters of choral sound allowed him to build his personal, Sivukhin composition, which you could not mistake for any other.

This is the right moment to speak also of Sivukhin’s own work as a composer. It is clear that it is always connected with the choral sphere (it could not be otherwise); it is clear that it demonstrates the most thorough knowledge of all the specifics of this sphere and virtuoso command of all choral colours. But at the same time it is worth drawing attention to the astonishing organic quality of his music, its fullness, sincerity and impeccable accuracy in realising the idea, whether the brilliant arrangements of Russian folk songs (the effectively “spinning up” “Zakhar Plowed the Vegetable Garden” is worth a good deal), the sparkling “Russian Dance”, the softly lyrical Concertino for choir with instrumental ensemble, or the smiling “Little Bear” from the cycle to poems by A. Lyukin.

But let us return to the question of the quality of Sivukhin’s performing “fair copy”, that is, the final result of his arduous working process. I will not mention purity and synchrony of intonation, the ability to hold pitch (without “sliding” up or down), chain breathing, register balance of the parts. All this was there, but all this is the ABC of choral art, indispensable conditions for creativity. And then began… the magic of influence on the listener, which was impossible to resist, and you had nothing left but to follow the conductor’s will meekly and to listen. It is hard to break down the perception and analyse it, especially when you experience the mighty energy field of Sivukhin’s radiation. But I will try nevertheless to single out several points.

First, naturalness, the organic quality of the stream of sound, the clarity and articulation of its direction. Second, the capacity of content of what is sung, when beauty of sound was invariably linked with the textual, verbal basis. Hence the emotional multi-polarity: deep spirituality and dramatic intensity, strict restraint and recklessness, gallant elegance and the childlike spirit of play. All this, and much else hard to convey in words, determines the clearly legible style of the music, which Sivukhin sensed precisely and embodied in great relief. In general he was extremely attentive to stylistic subtleties (stylistic “inclusions”, stylistic allusions) and in performance liked to underline them unobtrusively but noticeably. For example, in my little piece “About Little Dimity”, to words by W. J. Smith, he prepared the ending wonderfully, in performance, when a mini-quotation from Tchaikovsky’s “My Little Lizochek” sounded. He superbly reproduced the English quasi-stiffness in the “Very Polite Conversation” to words by V. Levin at the start of the scene, and the gradual deformation of the icy coldness of the quarrel into a hot brawl, with a perceptible stylistic shift. Less often he used, but actively supported, a light theatricalisation of choral action, for example in “The Last Evening” to a text by M. Marash (when the choristers suddenly held out in front of them picture-illustrations of the feverish student mind on the night before an exam) or in the artless little song “About the Captain” to words by Yu. Nemtsov, when (in the television version) one of the boys suddenly appeared in a naval officer’s cap, and the rest, at once obeying him (the smallest in height), “sailed”, swaying on their corvette…

No less important a side is the astonishing sense of form that Lyova possessed superbly. This sense of form, of a firmly knit whole and a masterfully organised movement of sound, showed in large cyclic monuments, in miniature scenes, in unpretentious song verses and in the most carefully considered construction of the programme of any concert. Build-ups and declines, culminations and culminating zones, holdings back and accelerations, the tense “raggedness” of the approach and the desired stability of the final chord, prolonged by a fermata: all this created the sense of absolute command of artistic time, that is, of ideal form.

The pull towards the absolute was always there in Sivukhin. In the middle of the distant seventies, after a difficult radio recording, Lyova and I went into the café “Nizhegorodskoye” (on Gorky Square) and rested and relaxed, slowly sipping dry wine. And among the many topics discussed then, one in particular stuck in my memory. Reasoning about certain features of our work, we both came to the thought of the need for an original kindness, which must be imprinted in the musical text (not specially, of course, but of itself, as a reflection of the author’s natural kindness) and shine in the performance. If it is not there, it is all over!

Lev had this inner kindness, and with it conscientiousness and a pull towards justice. And it determined much, everything, in his life: the keen sense of duty (when, for instance, in difficult times for the Conservatory he nevertheless agreed to be its rector and did a lot of good in those years), and this same inner kindness undoubtedly drove him in his endless building of choral life in Nizhny, and it too was the foundation of his brilliant performing achievements.

At the end of the eighties Lyova, Eduard Fertelmeister and I were in Saratov on choral business and wandered into the art museum. I remember how Sivukhin stopped by a simple landscape of the typical central Russian belt (a high river bank, a copse, a small house a little way off). There was in this landscape some astonishingly calm intonation, a sense of natural plasticity and harmony that are so hard to achieve now. Lyova looked at the picture for a long time, and then said: “It would be good to live in such a place, just to live quietly.” I, of course, at once did not fail to bring him back to harsh reality: “Come on, you would run away from there in a week anyway.” He sighed ruefully: “But can’t one dream?”

Harmony always attracts. It attracted Lyova too. And he was uncommonly harmonious: with all the complexity and prickliness of his character, with his desperate, to the point of exhaustion, dedication to work, in the eternal whirl of affairs, cares, events and ideas. At the same time a sense of grandeur and depth (in life and in artistic results) was combined in him in an astonishingly harmonious way with the deceptive, Mozartian, lightness of being, the lightness of reaching peaks. Thank you for ever, Lyovushka, for everything!

Published in the collection “Lev Sivukhin. Facets of a Personality”. N. Novgorod, 2004. \nBoris Getselev. Articles, Portraits, Translations, Journalism, Materials. Nizhny Novgorod, 2005. Pp. 190–197.