From the column “John Freedman in Moscow,”
Plays International (London) Vol. 19, No. 5 (February-March 2004): 28-29.
Plays International (London)
“From the Red Book” is the latest work from Alexander Bakshi, the composer who, slowly but surely, is developing a new genre that he calls the ?theatre of sound.? A production of Bakshi?s own International Theatre of Sound Laboratory, it premiered during the First Moscow International Theatre of Sound Festival in November 2003. It takes its name from the so-called Red Book of flora and fauna facing extinction, but refers in this case to peoples around the world, such as the Krymchak and Selkup tribes in Russia who have almost disappeared. In the program, Bakshi writes, ?At about the same time that these small nations began dying out, the great cultures of the West entered decline.? His point is that, in the end, the most minute and the mightiest voices are of equal importance. Authentic tape recordings of the music of the Krymchaks and Selkups are heard during the performance.
It is the nature of sound and theatre that the former, unlike the latter, cannot properly be described. But Bakshi?s music and sounds — which also means the silent pauses — at least suggest, if not always determine, what transpires on stage. In essence, Bakshi has replaced the playwright. Only, whereas the playwright suggests action through words, Bakshi suggests action through layers of sound combining traditional music with a vast array of natural sounds. When a pianist turns the page of his sheet music, for instance, he does it noisily, almost violently. This is written into the score. It is Bakshi?s acknowledgment of a simple truth — that musicians do not only make mellifluous sounds when performing, they also perform entirely mundane tasks. For Bakshi, it is the musical equivalent of having a dramatic actor stop in the middle of a play to refresh his make-up.
Ilya Epelbaum, famous for his innovative productions bridging the gap between puppet, shadow and dramatic theatre, took on the responsibilities of director and designer for “From the Red Book.” He was joined by the renowned pianist Alexei Lyubimov and six other musicians and actors. But — and here Bakshi?s notions of theatre begin intruding — among a host of other activities, an actress dances; a folk musician builds a wooden contraption that falls apart; Lyubimov inflates balloons that fly away buzzing; and the director, sitting at center stage, draws pictures and films video scenes that are instantaneously projected on screens at either end of the stage. Each musician performs his or her music, of course — Lyubimov runs off some spine-tingling trills on the piano in a duet with the folk puppet Petrushka — but musicians for Bakshi are not merely musicians, they are actors as well, just as actors must be musicians.
Bakshi is not interested in narrative music or theatre. He, with Epelbaum, who helped him find visual images in action, evokes visceral sensations, awakens our slumbering imagination and encourages us to toss out the clichйs and habits that usually limit our ability to think and perceive. Through his music that gives rise to theatre, Bakshi is offering us a freedom that we may not be entirely ready to use.
This notion is illustrated with irony and power in the production?s finale. While a multiple layer of melodies reverberates in the air — two singers sing divergent tunes against the backdrop of a rhythm line that matches neither — Lyubimov stands from his piano, traverses the stage and opens a cage filled with canaries. None of them, however, leaves its perch, preferring to remain in the safety of captivity. On the screen behind them, a video is projected of hand-drawn birds flying in open space. What does not always happen in nature, it seems, can be remedied by the visionary artist. But lest anyone suggest that Bakshi and Epelbaum sentimentalize the powers of the artist, I draw your attention to a disturbing image from earlier in the show: Epelbaum ?captures? a dancing ballerina by drawing a prison cell that is projected by computer on a screen behind her. She caresses the black lines on the screen — the cell bars — in trepidation. And the artist now reveals his evil design: He slowly begins blacking out the entire space, driving the ballerina into a tiny corner before wiping her out of sight altogether. On a more ironic level, there is a comic utopian parody as each musician/actor revs up what appear to be different parts of a huge machine — perhaps a mobile perpetuum, perhaps a magical flying machine, perhaps a time machine. A joyous polyphony ensues as a coffee grinder, a vacuum, an electric drill, an electric mixer and other ?instruments? whip up a frenzy of sound and activity that comes to an abrupt end when the strange contraption that an actor has carefully built throughout the show falls pathetically in a heap on the stage.
In compositions such as “From the Red Book,” Bakshi bears witness to the truth that all sounds may not be equal, but they are all of equal importance. Moreover, sound and music are theatrical, proof that Bakshi?s ?theatre of sound? really does exist.

John Freedman, 2004