Sergey Kuryokhin
Keyboard Magazine, July 1987
It took 24 hours to fly from San Francisco to Moscow, with a plane change in New York that had me sprinting to make the final boarding, and another one in London, where I sat for hours with a bunch of other travelers who had technically exited U.K. and were thus confined to a grim, stateless lounge. By the time I’d finally arrived and checked into the National Hotel on Red Square, I was overdue for a shower, though the bathroom had no towels, leaving me only flimsy single-ply tissue to dab myself dry before falling into bed.
The next day I was at the Novosti Press office, where my hosts invited me to discuss what they could do to facilitate my interviews for what would become a cover story on “Keyboard Music in the Soviet Union.” I’d prepared a list of state-approved artists, which the officials reviewed, nodding their heads. Jazz virtuoso Leonid Chizhik? Electronic composer Eduard Artemiev? Leonid Makarevich of the stadium-filling rock superstar band Autograph? Renowned composer Rodion Shchedrin? “No problem! We’ll take care of it.”
Then I mentioned Sergei Kuryokhin. Unlike those I’d just named, Kuryokhin was not an approved artist. Yet he was probably Russia’s edgiest, most wildly innovative performer. An astonishing technician at the piano, he had until recently been a member of the Leningrad-based underground band Aquarium; he had left just months before when its leader, Boris Grebenshchikov, signed an agreement to accept state approval in exchange for toeing the ideological line. (A week or so later, I had the opportunity to ask Boris what this decision actually meant. The man often described as the Soviet Dylan sighed and answered softly, “It means that I am dead as an artist.”)
Kurkyokhin refused to compromise his integrity. Instead, he led secret performances of Pop-Mekhanika (Popular Mechanics), a recurring event that combined circus spectacle, avant-garde theater and uninhibited musical performances. The cast changed unpredictably; it could and did include everything from members of the Red Army Chorus to a flock of chickens. One show legendarily ended when Kuryokhin sawed a grand piano in half.
Among certain Western circles, he was known through recordings smuggled to England and released there on the Leo Records imprint, which specialized in music by underground acts in Russia. Still, the Novosti Press executives seemed puzzled. “We don’t know this person,” they shrugged. “Never heard of him. Can’t help you there.”
But Leo Feigin, head of Leo Records, had already set me up with contacts for two translators, one in Moscow and the other in Leningrad, who helped connect foreign journalists with nonpersons like Kuryokin. And so, eventually, Alex Kan, who lives now in London and works for the BBC, led me to a cafe off the Nevsky Prospekt, Leningrad’s main boulevard, and introduced me to Kuryokhin, during some of the free time I’d kept in my schedule for such encounters.
Kuryokhin was wiry, with an expressive face, a shock of medium-long hair, dark deep-set eyes and a smile that suggested a fondness for troublemaking. He seemed to radiate nervous energy; at times as we spoke over the next hour he would gesture dramatically, laugh, even jump from his chair. Of all the people I interviewed during this and a second trip to the USSR a few years later, he was probably the most intriguing, in part because his government strenuously denied his existence. Something about him had them scared, in those last years before walls tumbled down and the old order gave way to a world of billionaire oligarchs and corruption that rivaled the worst abuses institutionalized under Communism. The first cracks had already appeared, and in my time with Kuryokhin I sensed that he somehow played a role in that process.
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When did you realize that you would be playing in, let’s say, more adventurous forms of music?
I started playing rock just as it was beginning to be heard, at school in the mid Sixties. I realized that this was my favorite kind of music and decided that it was all I was going to play. But then I heard jazz—to be specific, contemporary jazz, mainly McCoy Tyner with John Coltrane. I realized then what real piano skill was.
Did you ever consider a career as a classical performer?
The curriculum in our schools is based on classical music exclusively, so I had to play classical repertoire. But I never really wanted to do that extensively. Now, however, after hearing [Russian-born virtuoso Vladimir] Horowitz here last year, I’ve started to think again about the importance of classical music. I used to believe that it was too preconceived and therefore a little bit false. In those days I made a very sharp distinction between creativity and interpretation, and I always wanted to create or compose my own music.
Did you do this through improvisation, or did you actually notate your ideas on paper?
It was mostly improvising.
How did you learn to improvise?
I’m not sure … mainly from listening to a lot of music, mainly British and American music. I tried to play the way the musicians I listened to were playing. That doesn’t mean I was trying to imitate; I was trying to understand, or get into the essence, of what they were playing.
Did the classical avant-garde influence you as well?
Yes, obviously, but not in piano. I listened to a lot of Stockhausen and Cage. Piano music didn’t impress me very much. I was more interested in orchestral experiments in form.
What did you learn from John Cage’s work?
It wasn’t his compositional technique so much as his attitude toward the material he used. He could pick up any material and still his personality could be discerned through how he used that material. More than many musicians, he has somehow absorbed lots of different kinds of thoughts, especially Zen and other Oriental philosophies. For me, Cage represents the philosophy of Zen implemented through sound. I never wondered about how musically interesting Cage’s works were, but I always wondered about why he did whatever he did in those works.
Did you ever perform Cage’s silent piece, 4’33”?
I performed that piece. We used to have a contemporary music club here, and I did 4’33”. The audience appreciated it because it was prepared for something exceptional or radical.
How did that performance affect you as a musician?
That depends on how it fits into the general context of the concert and where it falls into the program, whether it’s in the beginning, the middle or the end. I’ve done it two or three times, but I prefer playing a Cage-style prepared piano. That was very long ago, though, and I don’t do that sort of music very often anymore. I’m much more interested now in the relationship of the pianist and piano onstage.
In what sense?
I start with the assumption that there is a triangle: myself, my audience and the instrument. As a rule, I try to play traditional or recognizable or even mainstream material. But I then try to come up with something that sharply diverts the music to another stream. That usually happens through using a device of one sort or another that will alter the instrument’s sound. When the odd sound begins, I quite often take that as my cue to fall on the floor [laughs]. Now that I have more electronic instruments to work with, it’s much easier: All I need to do is turn on the sequencer or arpeggiator, the music goes on and I can start doing something else, such as talk to the audience, as the instrument plays itself. I might take a saxophone, get under the piano and have a musical “trialog.” That is just one of very many approaches that I might take.
As you began exploring experimental music, did you have to restructure your piano technique?
Yes. I developed my own technique, always with the idea that it should allow me to be as expressive as possible. When I was playing classical music, my favorite works were the [Bach] toccatas. I tried to analyze each one so I could compose my own methods. I like to play staccato. Almost all my technical tricks, as it were, are based on staccato phrasing. I play with a very powerful attack. For that reason, I like a very bright sound. I don’t like pianos with a mellow tone.
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Anatomy of an Improvisation
Can you describe how your solo piano performances take shape?
[Kuryokhin grins.] My words are not adequate. The audience might see it entirely differently, so I’ll try to describe the psychology of the musical material, as I understand it. First, I try the instrument. I start with one or two notes. Although I usually have the opportunity to familiarize myself with the piano before the concert, I try to create the impression that I’m playing it for the first time, so I play very sparsely. Then I play tighter, though still atonally. At this point, my music is very contemplative; I never start with hard percussive music. I want the atonal harmonies to evolve into more traditional harmonies, sometimes Bill Evans types of chords, but without rhythm. From that point the voicings may shift to fourths and fifths, like McCoy Tyner but more percussive and still without rhythm I spend a lot of time psychologically preparing the audience for when the rhythm begins, so that when it happens there's usually a lot of applause.Somehow this moment predetermines the flow of the whole concert.
Anyway, for five minutes or more I develop this feeling, then there’s a very sharp turn to another quality. This turn should be completely unexpected by the audience. I might get inside the piano and use some kind of toy to produce sound, a shaker or perhaps a toy bird that sings. Then I’ll reach out to the keyboard and use it to make more sounds. I might start singing some famous song, then I’ll take off into some atonal improvised singing. [Kuryokhin illustrates by yodeling wordlessly in a comic falsetto as nearby customers glance our way curiously.]
Then I like for the music to become very beautiful, with orchestral or choir sounds played in beautiful harmonies. The melodies are similar to those of church music. From there I go into a collage of styles. I like the accompaniment to follow an entirely different musical tradition than the solo.With the left hand I might be playing a church choir while doing some ragtime with my right. One hand will be on the [SCI] Prophet [synthesizer] and the other on the piano. … After a while I’ll also turn on the Yamaha DX100 for some electronic sound effects, turn on the [Prophet] arpeggiator and leave the stage. I’ll come back in with a ladder, climb it with the Yamaha and then fall on the floor. From that point, dozens of things could happen. I follow different directions for each concert. The most important thing is to make sure that the flow from one second to the next is logical.
“No matter how perfect your skill with the instrument is, sooner or later it will lead to a dead end.”
At what point did you have to move beyond the piano to express yourself?
I got stuck at a dead end after studying most of Cecil Taylor’s works, which represent an ultimate end of technical progress. The music of Keith Emerson and Rick Wakeman in rock, Oscar Peterson in traditional jazz and Cecil Taylor in the avant-garde all convinced me that I had to find another relationship between musicians and their instruments. I realized that no matter how perfect your skill with the instrument is, sooner or later it will lead to a dead end. The Horowitz concert was great because it made me realize that you can invest any music with enormous content. Even though he plays very simply, it was so logical. This kind of interpretation could only have been achieved by experience and an incredible amount of thought.
What were the hours and days after the Horowitz concert like for you?
I couldn’t play anything, it affected me so much! I wanted to play very simply, very clearly, very melodically.
You also attended a Chick Corea concert recently.
He gave a great concert with [vibraphonist] Gary Burton. I’ve been following Chick’s music for a long time. He’s a wonderful pianist, a great musician.
Did you get to play with him that night?
A little bit.
How was it?
I don’t remember. I was completely drunk [laughs].
Did hearing Chick play live give you insight into his artistry that wasn’t apparent from just hearing his records?
It was comparable to the Horowitz experience. He was doing what he loves to do, and doing it very freely, without any reservations. The weak point of most Soviet musicians is that they have sort of an inferiority complex. When they feel they’re playing something that the audience doesn’t seem to understand, they try too hard to prove that they can play other kinds of music as well. As a result, they sound artificial. They lack a natural feeling. This is especially true about experimental music: By creating abstract sounds, traditional conservative musicians try to prove that they can play other music as well, but it just doesn’t come out sounding convincing. Therefore, they start to despise me even more: “Sure, Kuryokhin can play Dixieland or traditional jazz, but he plays it so badly” [laughs]. So I spend a lot of time proving that I can play everything, and what I manage to prove [to them] is that I play everything poorly.
How do you maintain a positive attitude in the presence of that kind of hostility?
It’s very simple. I love music. Music is what I want to do, so that’s what I’ll do.
Doesn’t that make it difficult for you to survive?
Well, I’m employed as a teacher for an amateur rock group at a local club or factory. It’s easier for me now than it was two or three years ago. I’m much better known. I’ve been asked to compose music for movies and theater. There are many more ways for me to earn money.
Practice Makes Imperfect
How do you rehearse your ensembles?
We rehearse different blocks in each one. These blocks combine according to my gestures or words at the actual performance. For example, it is impossible to have two basses play in perfect sync. So I stretch that further by working with six basses. For me, the main principle behind my orchestral sound involves juxtaposing sounds that are traditionally never combined. The guitars, basses and drums, the rhythm section, play a very simple melodic structure. [Kuryokhin vocalizes a throbbing punk-like beat.] The soloists, who are standing elsewhere on the stage, never play solos that would make sense with that structure. For example, I ask the saxophonists to play like Charlie Parker. I like to have lots of guitars onstage; they create a much higher possibility of accidents [laughs]. The music is very melodic and the orchestration is very beautiful, maybe like Count Basie, but the saxophonist plays like [avant-garde reed player] Evan Parker. [Kuryokhin imitates squeals, percussive thumps and whistles.]
Why do you enjoy these kinds of stylistic collisions?
They come up with entirely new feelings. The audience expects one thing — a jazz concert — but they get something entirely different.
“My anger comes out as irony, but it’s a very joyful irony.”
You’ve described your concerts as joyful celebrations. Yet you also seem to stir political messages into all the anarchy.
I can’t help but feel a kind of subconscious anger, that’s true. I’ve had this feeling for a very long time, since my school days, when I was being taught by very stupid teachers who ordered me to do this and that, though I knew even then that they understood absolutely nothing. Still, you had to obey them, or you were kicked out. That is where my anger comes from. It was a logical development from there to get angry at musicians who don’t want to understand you. You find that the people who understand you are mainly not musicians; they’re your friends, artists, writers and so on. Therefore your compositional and performing methods are dictated not so much by purely musical values but by the general intellectual atmosphere. This doesn’t mean that I want to express my anger directly, however. Very often I find that the best way to express it is in the opposite way. My anger comes out as irony, but it’s a very joyful irony. I try to convey the same spirit in my piano music.
Is there something in your music, then, that American audiences might not understand? Since Soviet audiences are familiar with the atmosphere in which you create, would your music communicate more clearly to them than to American listeners?
Of course, something might evade the understanding of the American audience. From what we’ve seen in your press, for example, most American audiences and critics did not understand the Ganelin Trio [the first avant-garde Soviet group to tour the U.S.]. They’ll write that Ganelin is like Cecil Taylor, Vladimir Tarasov is like Billy Higgins, or Vladimir Chekasin is like Coltrane or Ayler. But they couldn’t see the essence of these people as musical voices.
So despite all the difficulties, you’re most at home here, playing for audiences who understand your work.
Of course, although it would be very nice for me to travel to the West. In fact, it is very necessary. What I’m trying to convey to foreign audiences is that my musical approach is different from what is being done in the West. I want you to understand that what is happening here is not an imitation of this or that American artist. It is, quite simply, our music.
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I met some young Russian guys in Berlin just before the Wall came down who thought Aquarium was the very best thing happening in Russian music.
Ленин - гриб! Sorry, couldn’t help myself.