Shostakovich and Stalin [Paperback]

'A revealing portrait of the great composer Dimitri Shostakovich (1906-75), who managed to keep skin and soul intact during the worst years of the Soviet terror. Art rarely flourishes under oppression; Joseph Stalin knew this, even if some cultural historians seem not to. On surprise in Volkov's richly detailed study is just how much political licence artists such as Shostakovich, Mikhail Bulgakov and Boris Pasternak enjoyed, as did other members of the intelligentsia. (Others, of course, were not so fortunate, for Stalin thrived on keeping his subjects off balance.) A case in point: in 1936, when Shostakovich came under attack in the pages of Pravda for 'formalism', many intellectuals publicly rose to his defence. 'We are accustomed to thinking of the second half of the 1930s in the Soviet Union as a time of total fear, complete unanimity, and absolute subordination to the dictates of Party and state,' writes Volkov; yet the dissidents 'denied the right of the Party and Stalin to dictate cultural opinions to them.' Volkov offers a masterful account of the fine art of accommodation: Stalin loosening the reins now and again as long as the artists kept producing, artists such as Shostakovich - especially - Shostakovich - playing the yurodivy, or 'holy fool', to speak 'dangerous but necessary truths to the face of the tsar'. (Yet not always to his face; Shostakovich also traded in subtleties, such as insinuating Jewish motifs into his music in order to protest against official anti-Semitism.) Stalin was mercurial, of course - an actor who fluffed his lines in the leader's presence went on to win the Stalin Prize, but the relevant cultural officials were purged - and the pace of oppression actually quickened after WWII, when Soviet intellectuals dared to hope more or less openly that the West, having dispatched one despot, would take Stalin on. An eye-opening look at the intersection of art and political power.' Kirkus Review, 1 January 2004

'Music illuminates a person and provides him with his last hope; even Stalin, a butcher, knew that...' So said the Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich, who spent his life battling for the right to create his works under the Soviet Union's totalitarian regime. This proved dangerous under the autocratic Stalin, who perceived himself to be an erudite critic of modern culture. So when he stormed out of the performance of Shostakovich's opera 'Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk' in 1936, the composer feared he would be arrested and killed. Instead, the 'supreme leader' played a game of cat and mouse. He would attack Shostakovich in Pravda and ban his music from the airwaves. Then he would honour him with prestigious awards. Stalin's goal was to remain unpredictable, and thus afford Shostakovich no sense of personal security, although he continued to compose stirring symphonies that drew him millions of fans. This is a fascinating and important story told by one of the greatest authorities on Russian culture in the Soviet years.

Solomon Volkov worked with Shostakovich on his memoirs and collected letters and is an acknowledged expert on the composer.