12. About a canceled concert
In mid-November, posters appear in the city announcing that Serhiy Zhadan i Sobaki - a rock and ska band led by one of Ukraine’s most popular writers - will perform in Odesa on 13 December as part of a tour to promote their new album.
At the urging of a colleague, I buy tickets early, although I ask myself how the concert will take place in a city with regular air alarms and drone and missile attacks. Anyway, the venue is the Odesa Philharmonic Theatre, an impressive Moorish Revival style building from 1898 that was originally the stock exchange. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of the building - a little expectant and a little afraid of the view. Indeed, the Philharmonic Theater’s yellow-red brick walls are surrounded by a high wooden fence as if it would be a construction site, the large alcove adorning the main entrance is hung with netting, I can only assume it is against the pigeons, and if it weren’t for the ever-changing concert posters on the fence, one would think, that this tired and unrepaired edifice had been standing empty for years.
On the evening of the concert, the area around the Philharmonic Theater is full of e-cigs puffing teenagers. The prevailing fashion combines elements of punk and grunge: girls in tank tops and dramatic mascara, young men in long leather coats. But there is also an older audience, ranging from style-conscious rockers to middle-aged people in a totally (petit)bourgeois fashion. I probably fall into the latter category…
Inside the fence there is a pedestrian gate, behind which I really find a construction site of sorts: stacks of building materials and corresponding equipment. And more groups of smoking teenagers. The Philharmonic Theater itself can be entered not through the main portal, which is behind a pigeon net and appears to be sealed with plastic sheeting, but through a small side door inside the lower pedestal of the building.
After presenting an electronic ticket, a staircase leads down to a large unheated cloakroom with paint peeling from the once creamy ceiling. The brisk ladies working in the cloakroom admonish anyone whose winter coat or jacket reveals anything thinner than a thick sweater not to leave their outerwear in the cloakroom.
However, the first thing we do is hand in our jackets and have a look around - there’s a small café next to the dressing room, plus a simple stall set up in the corridor selling hot and cold drinks and sweets, as well as a table selling the band’s own merchandise such as Zhadan’s books, T-shirts with the band’s dog collar and crossed bones logo, and other stuff. Everywhere I look, sales are for cash only, and I only have my card in my pocket - yet I could do with a hot drink. But well, instead we head upstairs, towards the hall, and looking at the state of the building, I’m not surprised that it’s not possible to pay with a card here - presumably the theater’s electrical equipment, which may well have last been replaced some 50-60 years ago, wouldn’t stand the extra stress.
Throughout the interior of the impressive building, everything bears the depressing stamp of the Soviet era - every surface seems to have been painted over, then painted over again, then yet again painted over, and then again, and then painted over again, and then painted over another dozen times again. But not repaired or renovated. Dozens of coats of paint are now peeling off the walls and ceilings of the unheated building, and the woodwork - door and window sills, panellings and skirtings - simply looks miserable in its worn-out ugliness.
It is, of course, freezing in the hall. My colleague and I find our seats, we sit down and get up again immediately. To go and get the jackets. They are handed over to us by a wardrobe lady with a I-just-told-you-so smile. We put on our jackets and go back to the hall. The crowd is gathering... Soon, a bearded young man with an old-fashioned bicorne hat, round glasses and a long dust coat appears on stage, announcing that the concert is still a little while away, but it’s time to bring some national feeling to the room. He starts by making a few jokes at Odesa’s mayor Gennadiy Trukhanov that I don’t quite understand. Yet, on the other hand: what is there to understand: the young man essentially invites the crowd, with a broad smile on his lips, to overthrow the “Russian” mayor and put him out of his misery. The crowd laughs, claps and stomps their feet. So, the right note has been struck, and although mayor Trukhanov is generally popular in Odesa, members of his constituency do not seem to have found their way into the Philharmonic Theater’s hall this evening. Not surprisingly, as Trukhanov’s fans are mostly Russian-speaking elderly.
“Слава Україні! - Glory to Ukraine!” comes from the stage.
“Героям слава! - Glory to the heroes!” responds an ecstatic crowd.
“Слава нації! - Glory to the nation!”
“Cмерть ворогам! - Death to enemies!” shouts the audience even louder.
And finally:
“Слава Україні, cлава нації i піздець Російській Федерації! - Glory to Ukraine, Glory to the nation and fuck the Russian Federation!”
“Слава Україні, cлава нації i піздець Російській Федерації!” the hall roars with laughter, myself among others.
Then, the host announces that it’s time to get down to business. With the business he does not mean the concert, however, but the charity auction, which is more or less a compulsory part of every rock concert in Ukraine these days - as my colleague quickly explains.
Up for grabs are a pendant with the band’s logo, lamps made from the artillery shells - they look really stylish - as well as band flags, a photo album and some books. The prices are going through the roof and there are plenty of kind takers. The master craftsman who made the shell-lamps is also invited to the stage: he turns out to be a bearded front soldier who explains how he managed to cut beautiful national patterns into the thick metal of the shell. He also thanks the organizers of the event and explains what the money raised by the charity auction will buy - laptops for piloting drones and so on.
The auction lasts for nearly half an hour, with the host encouraging people to bid more and more, making jokes, pulling out of his pockets and plastic bags new stuff to be auctioned off, and raising a decent pile of hryvnias.
Eventually, the whole lot is sold and the moment is approaching for Serhiy Zhadan and the Dogs to take to the stage. The audience claps and cheers. It’s about to start! The air is thick with anticipation. But before that, there is something to be done, without which no major event in Ukraine can begin or end... The host grips the microphone tighter in his hands and asks everyone to stand up for the national anthem. And so we do, everyone puts their right hand to their heart and the sound across the hall is perhaps a little bit cacophonous, but loud and coming from a thousand hearts: “Ще не вмерла України ні слава, ни воля…”
And then the moment we all came for! The lights go out, the host announces: “Жадан і Собаки!!” and leaves the stage. Teenage girls throw off their coats and jackets revealing their punk-grunge-whatever style provocative outfits and run to the front of the stage, screaming and shouting. Cool! At last! I can’t wait to see one of the flagships of Ukrainian rock as I clap and shout along!
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” announces the host, who has suddenly returned to the stage unexpectedly, “I have some sad news for you…”
What is that? What is going on now?
“Повітряна тривога - Air Alarm. Sorry, but the rules…”
Okay, okay, I get it, there’s going to be a short break and we have to leave the hall and go to the cellar where the wardrobe is. It does feel a bit anticlimactic, but then again, air alarms have been on the increase again since December and I’m not really surprised. How long can it last? The concert will start a bit later, no big deal.
After three quarters of an hour’s wait, my colleague and I decide that it’s enough. Walking alternately in and out of the theaters cloakroom, hanging around the crowd of smokers, and occasionally watching the Telegram news, the feeling deepens that this time the Russians are taking it seriously - the first drone strike is followed by another, under attack is not only Odesa but other cities and ports on the the Black Sea coast. So we decide to go home. It is sad, and it’s a waste of money spent on tickets, but well…
Walking along Pushkin Street towards the opera theater, there is a loud explosion and the sky, somewhere up ahead, a little to the right, probably at the harbor, briefly lights up. The air raid sirens are blaring at full power, the rhythmic barking of an anti-aircraft cannon can be heard, the searchlight beams comb the air, and immediately another explosion reverberates in the air.
At the same time, a couple with a small dog walk alongside the opera house. Neither man nor beast seem to be disturbed by the menacing sounds. I wonder if the animals are getting used to war too?
Later that evening, the Telegram announces that the band has postponed the concert until an unspecified date and that ticket holders will be informed. “Apparently it will be after the victory,” says my colleague, and I don’t know whether this is ironic or not.
At the urging of a colleague, I buy tickets early, although I ask myself how the concert will take place in a city with regular air alarms and drone and missile attacks. Anyway, the venue is the Odesa Philharmonic Theatre, an impressive Moorish Revival style building from 1898 that was originally the stock exchange. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of the building - a little expectant and a little afraid of the view. Indeed, the Philharmonic Theater’s yellow-red brick walls are surrounded by a high wooden fence as if it would be a construction site, the large alcove adorning the main entrance is hung with netting, I can only assume it is against the pigeons, and if it weren’t for the ever-changing concert posters on the fence, one would think, that this tired and unrepaired edifice had been standing empty for years.
On the evening of the concert, the area around the Philharmonic Theater is full of e-cigs puffing teenagers. The prevailing fashion combines elements of punk and grunge: girls in tank tops and dramatic mascara, young men in long leather coats. But there is also an older audience, ranging from style-conscious rockers to middle-aged people in a totally (petit)bourgeois fashion. I probably fall into the latter category…
Inside the fence there is a pedestrian gate, behind which I really find a construction site of sorts: stacks of building materials and corresponding equipment. And more groups of smoking teenagers. The Philharmonic Theater itself can be entered not through the main portal, which is behind a pigeon net and appears to be sealed with plastic sheeting, but through a small side door inside the lower pedestal of the building.
After presenting an electronic ticket, a staircase leads down to a large unheated cloakroom with paint peeling from the once creamy ceiling. The brisk ladies working in the cloakroom admonish anyone whose winter coat or jacket reveals anything thinner than a thick sweater not to leave their outerwear in the cloakroom.
However, the first thing we do is hand in our jackets and have a look around - there’s a small café next to the dressing room, plus a simple stall set up in the corridor selling hot and cold drinks and sweets, as well as a table selling the band’s own merchandise such as Zhadan’s books, T-shirts with the band’s dog collar and crossed bones logo, and other stuff. Everywhere I look, sales are for cash only, and I only have my card in my pocket - yet I could do with a hot drink. But well, instead we head upstairs, towards the hall, and looking at the state of the building, I’m not surprised that it’s not possible to pay with a card here - presumably the theater’s electrical equipment, which may well have last been replaced some 50-60 years ago, wouldn’t stand the extra stress.
Throughout the interior of the impressive building, everything bears the depressing stamp of the Soviet era - every surface seems to have been painted over, then painted over again, then yet again painted over, and then again, and then painted over again, and then painted over another dozen times again. But not repaired or renovated. Dozens of coats of paint are now peeling off the walls and ceilings of the unheated building, and the woodwork - door and window sills, panellings and skirtings - simply looks miserable in its worn-out ugliness.
The hall, which seats a thousand, is still a sight to behold. The large windows of the rectangular room are decorated with colorful stained glass, allegorical wall paintings adorn the space above the doors, and the coffered ceiling inspires dignity. At the back of the hall, a balcony on slender pillars evokes a distant echo of the Alhambra or other landmarks of Islamic architecture. Yes, the designers of this building clearly knew what they were doing...
It is, of course, freezing in the hall. My colleague and I find our seats, we sit down and get up again immediately. To go and get the jackets. They are handed over to us by a wardrobe lady with a I-just-told-you-so smile. We put on our jackets and go back to the hall. The crowd is gathering... Soon, a bearded young man with an old-fashioned bicorne hat, round glasses and a long dust coat appears on stage, announcing that the concert is still a little while away, but it’s time to bring some national feeling to the room. He starts by making a few jokes at Odesa’s mayor Gennadiy Trukhanov that I don’t quite understand. Yet, on the other hand: what is there to understand: the young man essentially invites the crowd, with a broad smile on his lips, to overthrow the “Russian” mayor and put him out of his misery. The crowd laughs, claps and stomps their feet. So, the right note has been struck, and although mayor Trukhanov is generally popular in Odesa, members of his constituency do not seem to have found their way into the Philharmonic Theater’s hall this evening. Not surprisingly, as Trukhanov’s fans are mostly Russian-speaking elderly.
“Слава Україні! - Glory to Ukraine!” comes from the stage.
“Героям слава! - Glory to the heroes!” responds an ecstatic crowd.
“Слава нації! - Glory to the nation!”
“Cмерть ворогам! - Death to enemies!” shouts the audience even louder.
And finally:
“Слава Україні, cлава нації i піздець Російській Федерації! - Glory to Ukraine, Glory to the nation and fuck the Russian Federation!”
“Слава Україні, cлава нації i піздець Російській Федерації!” the hall roars with laughter, myself among others.
Then, the host announces that it’s time to get down to business. With the business he does not mean the concert, however, but the charity auction, which is more or less a compulsory part of every rock concert in Ukraine these days - as my colleague quickly explains.
Up for grabs are a pendant with the band’s logo, lamps made from the artillery shells - they look really stylish - as well as band flags, a photo album and some books. The prices are going through the roof and there are plenty of kind takers. The master craftsman who made the shell-lamps is also invited to the stage: he turns out to be a bearded front soldier who explains how he managed to cut beautiful national patterns into the thick metal of the shell. He also thanks the organizers of the event and explains what the money raised by the charity auction will buy - laptops for piloting drones and so on.
The auction lasts for nearly half an hour, with the host encouraging people to bid more and more, making jokes, pulling out of his pockets and plastic bags new stuff to be auctioned off, and raising a decent pile of hryvnias.
Eventually, the whole lot is sold and the moment is approaching for Serhiy Zhadan and the Dogs to take to the stage. The audience claps and cheers. It’s about to start! The air is thick with anticipation. But before that, there is something to be done, without which no major event in Ukraine can begin or end... The host grips the microphone tighter in his hands and asks everyone to stand up for the national anthem. And so we do, everyone puts their right hand to their heart and the sound across the hall is perhaps a little bit cacophonous, but loud and coming from a thousand hearts: “Ще не вмерла України ні слава, ни воля…”
And then the moment we all came for! The lights go out, the host announces: “Жадан і Собаки!!” and leaves the stage. Teenage girls throw off their coats and jackets revealing their punk-grunge-whatever style provocative outfits and run to the front of the stage, screaming and shouting. Cool! At last! I can’t wait to see one of the flagships of Ukrainian rock as I clap and shout along!
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” announces the host, who has suddenly returned to the stage unexpectedly, “I have some sad news for you…”
What is that? What is going on now?
“Повітряна тривога - Air Alarm. Sorry, but the rules…”
Okay, okay, I get it, there’s going to be a short break and we have to leave the hall and go to the cellar where the wardrobe is. It does feel a bit anticlimactic, but then again, air alarms have been on the increase again since December and I’m not really surprised. How long can it last? The concert will start a bit later, no big deal.
After three quarters of an hour’s wait, my colleague and I decide that it’s enough. Walking alternately in and out of the theaters cloakroom, hanging around the crowd of smokers, and occasionally watching the Telegram news, the feeling deepens that this time the Russians are taking it seriously - the first drone strike is followed by another, under attack is not only Odesa but other cities and ports on the the Black Sea coast. So we decide to go home. It is sad, and it’s a waste of money spent on tickets, but well…
Walking along Pushkin Street towards the opera theater, there is a loud explosion and the sky, somewhere up ahead, a little to the right, probably at the harbor, briefly lights up. The air raid sirens are blaring at full power, the rhythmic barking of an anti-aircraft cannon can be heard, the searchlight beams comb the air, and immediately another explosion reverberates in the air.
At the same time, a couple with a small dog walk alongside the opera house. Neither man nor beast seem to be disturbed by the menacing sounds. I wonder if the animals are getting used to war too?
Later that evening, the Telegram announces that the band has postponed the concert until an unspecified date and that ticket holders will be informed. “Apparently it will be after the victory,” says my colleague, and I don’t know whether this is ironic or not.
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