Shostakovich & Prokofiev 6
PROGRAMME NOTES
written by AURÉLIE WALSCHAERT
Mikhail Glinka Ruslan & Lyudmila: Overture (1842)
Dmitri Shostakovich Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 77 (1947–1948; rev. 1955)
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Sergei Prokofiev Symphony No. 6 in E-flat minor, Op. 111 (1947)
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03.10.2026 FLAGEY BRUSSELS
Shostakovich & Prokofiev 6
Long before the Soviet state silenced its composers, Mikhail Glinka (1804–1857) laid the foundations of a distinctly Russian musical tradition. The overture to his opera Ruslan and Lyudmila (1842), based on Alexander Pushkin's romantic narrative poem of the same name, brims with energy and patriotic pride. Drawing on folk-inspired melodies and richly coloured oriental sonorities, Glinka paved the way for composers such as Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky. Ironically, this very musical tradition was later appropriated by the Soviet regime as an instrument of propaganda: the 'true' Russian sound had to be recognisable, accessible and uplifting. What had been an expression of artistic freedom for Glinka became a straitjacket under Stalin. No one would experience this more acutely than Sergei Prokofiev (1891–1953) and Dmitri Shostakovich (1906–1975).
Between Terror and Creativity
Shortly after the Russian Civil War, Prokofiev tried his luck in the United States and Paris, where he had to compete with the groundbreaking music of composers such as Stravinsky. The lack of recognition he encountered abroad, his growing homesickness and the attractive promises made by the Soviet authorities combined to bring him back to Moscow in 1936. At first he was welcomed as a national hero, but before long his passport was confiscated, effectively ending his chances of an international career. His personal and artistic freedom was curtailed as well. Even so, Prokofiev remained convinced that one day his music would be heard differently – freed from its political overtones, once Stalinism had passed into history. The year of Prokofiev's return also marked a decisive turning point in Shostakovich's career. Yet he regarded his colleague's homecoming with little enthusiasm.
Prokofiev was an inveterate gambler who believed he had calculated everything perfectly. […] He decided it would be more advantageous to settle in the Soviet Union. Such a move would enhance his standing in the West, because everything 'Soviet' was fashionable; and in the Soviet Union he would no longer be treated as a foreigner, so he thought he would come out ahead on every front. But he came back empty-handed. Prokofiev came to Moscow to teach them a lesson, yet it was they who taught him one.
Photos 1 & 2: Sergei Prokofiev
Photos 3 & 4: Dmitri Shostakovich
Shostakovich knew exactly what he was talking about. For almost his entire life, he worked under the yoke of the Soviet regime, which, following the October Revolution of 1917, brought all artistic and cultural expression under state control. During the 1920s there was still some room for experimentation, and music from the West continued to be performed in Russian concert halls. Before long, however, it became clear that the new state would support only art that served the interests of the Communist Party. Despite these constraints, Shostakovich established himself as one of the country's most admired and respected composers, enjoying recognition even from the official cultural authorities.
Life became even more difficult when Stalin came to power in 1928 and demanded the complete submission of artists. Shostakovich found himself alternately showered with the highest honours and subjected to public humiliation. In 1936, for instance, the infamous Pravda article Muddle Instead of Music launched a devastating attack on his opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District. The composer was warned that his work amounted to a 'pointless game' that 'could end very badly'. Anyone who dared defend him simply disappeared. Yet Shostakovich chose not to flee his homeland. Instead, he searched for ways to navigate the demands of the Communist regime without entirely surrendering his artistic integrity.
Behind a Mask
In 1937, Shostakovich made a public concession to the regime by presenting his Symphony No. 5 as 'a Soviet artist's practical creative response to just criticism'. Its outwardly triumphant façade satisfied the Party's ideological and aesthetic demands, restoring him to official favour. Yet anyone willing to look – and listen – more closely can discern beneath its polished surface a dissonant, satirical countervoice.
The years that followed were comparatively calm, for Prokofiev as well. During this period he composed a great deal of film music, the opera War and Peace, his String Quartet No. 2, his Symphony No. 5, and the first sketches for his Symphony No. 6. He completed the latter only in 1947, during another period of intense political tension. Prokofiev dedicated the work to the victims of the Second World War: "Today we rejoice in our great victory, but each of us bears wounds that can never heal. One has lost loved ones; another has lost their health. These are things we must never forget."
The symphony was warmly received at its première in Leningrad in November 1947. Yet scarcely a month later, at its Moscow première, the atmosphere had changed dramatically. The work – especially its final movement – was condemned as excessively sombre and denounced as anti-Soviet art. A new campaign of denunciation followed, this time led by Party Secretary Andrei Zhdanov, who had been charged with bringing artists and intellectuals into line. In a resolution that came into force on 10 February 1948, he accused composers such as Prokofiev, Shostakovich and Khachaturian of 'formalist distortions and anti-democratic tendencies alien to the Soviet people and their artistic taste'. Shostakovich, too, came under attack, not least because he had failed to produce a triumphalist symphony celebrating victory over Nazi Germany. Shortly after the notorious resolution, he completed his Violin Concerto No. 1, written for his close friend, the violinist David Oistrakh. Fearing further reprisals, however, he kept the work hidden until after Stalin's death.
Fortunately, he did. The concerto's emotional palette is so emotionally charged that it would have stood in direct opposition to the prescriptions of Soviet cultural doctrine. Its four-movement structure is also highly unusual for a concerto and, as Shostakovich himself observed, more closely resembles that of a symphony for violin and orchestra. The individual movements – Nocturne, Scherzo, Passacaglia and Burlesque – evoke both the dances of the Baroque suite and the character pieces of the Romantic tradition. The orchestration is equally striking: Shostakovich dispenses with trumpets and trombones altogether, while enriching the lower register with tuba, bass clarinet and contrabassoon. Following its world première in Leningrad, the Russian press remained conspicuously silent. Only after its warmly received Carnegie Hall première did the concerto's musical and political significance begin to be fully recognised. At last, Shostakovich was able to present his Violin Concerto to the wider world. Prokofiev's Symphony No. 6 likewise regained its rightful place not long after the composer's death, finally freed from the ideological criticism that had long coloured perceptions of the work.
