Dmitri Shostakovich
Sinfonia n° 7 "Leningrado"

The boiled child in the Chinese style, as is well known, is a delicacy that a true Fool, to be such, must indulge in at least occasionally. But we know its digestibility is certainly not the best, so don’t be surprised if after the succulent meal we are overcome by an uneasy stupor, filled with images and sounds coming directly from Real Socialism. For example, it may happen to be catapulted into the glorious Leningrad (today known by the bourgeois and neo-tsarist name of Saint Petersburg) of 1941, increasingly besieged by the divisions of the Infamous Nazi, with the heroic Soviet People now at the end of their strength and with a strange figure of a sickly and bespectacled musician-intellectual who wants by hook or by crook to enlist to contribute to the city's resistance. It’s Dmitri Shostakovich, and one cannot certainly say that Stalin was generous with him: even though he understood music less than the drummer in a village band, the all-powerful Mustachioed One often meddled in musical matters, branding several works, particularly those of Shostakovich himself and of Prokofiev, his favorite victims, as "Western and decadent", often also threatening them with "disciplinary measures" (read "Siberia"...brrr!). But in the face of the Mad Painter's advance, Dmitri has no doubts: there is no room for hesitation, it's time to defend the Great Mother Russia, Mustachioed One or not. And since his request for enlistment is rejected, he only has one way left to do so: putting the events of that infernal year into music. Thus was born Symphony No. 7 in C major Op. 60, aptly named "Leningrad", one of the clearest examples of how history can become music. A kind of "Eroica" of the Russian People, for which the controversial Soviet musician would receive state awards and honors, at least temporarily reconciling with his stern and mustachioed persecutor. All this might suggest a somewhat opportunistic propaganda operation, but listening clearly shows how this composition was, at least in large part, deeply lived and, I would say, "suffered" by its author, also because when it was completed, the Nazi troops had not yet definitively left Russia.

Of Mahlerian dimensions (1 hour and a quarter), the Seventh surely has its vital and expressive center in the first movement ("Allegretto"), which alone lasts almost half an hour. It's a very complex movement, opened by a broad scene, in which majestic themes alternated with more idyllic ones depict the greatness of Russia, not only of its people but also of its nature. This first part seems crafted deliberately from the beginning, with the precise aim of contrasting the looming threats. It’s here that the so-called "Nazi theme" makes its entrance, which one might spontaneously imagine as a thunderous storm of drums, perhaps supported by military fanfares. None of that: it's just a crude and banal march, initially exposed in a "pianissimo", annoying like the buzz of a mosquito, then stubbornly repeated in a crescendo of volume and intensity à la Bolero de Ravel, increasingly threatening and invasive, until the final explosion of the brass and their heartbreaking outburst. We are in the battle, which does not last long but leaves a desolate scene (a verse comes to mind, just for a change, of De André: "There were only dogs and smoke, and overturned tents...").

After a short but terrible almost total silence, even before the time closes, one can glimpse the first signs of life returning: nature is the first to recover, even if in the background, muffled, the annoying and petty "Nazi theme" can still be heard. The second movement, "Moderato (poco allegro)", starts in a subdued tone, fitting for a "day after" situation. The initial motif has a "cautious" tone, still quite sinister, reminiscent of some of Mahler's "Scherzos". However, this spectral dance progressively enlivens and paves the way for the intense "Adagio", in which the rebirth is definitively affirmed, with the patient reconstruction, almost complete, of the scene presented at the beginning of the Symphony. But the wounds are there, and they are still very much alive in the central phase of the movement, much more tormented and agitated than the "Adagio" indication suggests.

The finale ("Allegro non troppo") is the weak point of the Symphony, not so much for the first part, which basically continues the description of the return to normality already started in the previous two movements, but for the coda, a bit too triumphalistic and pompous, in which the victory (not at all certain at the time) of the glorious Russian People is clearly insinuated. A touch of propaganda that slightly tarnishes, but only slightly, the monumental grandeur of a work incredibly rich in melodic and chromatic insights, especially considering the era.

A note on the version I know, performed by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Karel Ancerl, just to point out how the national orchestra of a people who in 1968 found the Soviet Army in their country, certainly not in its most glorious version, was able to sincerely immerse itself in that heroic, decisive event for Russian history but also for world history.