Vasyl Vatamaniuk plays with inspiration, artistry, and virtuosity. The foreign media have often described the tsymbaly player as a Ukrainian Paganini and they go into raptures over his unusual instrument. The tsymbaly, also known as the dulcimer or cymbalom, came into use in the 17th century, and since ancient times troyisti muzyky folk trios — usually consisting of a violin, dulcimer, and tambourine in western Ukraine — performed at weddings and on holidays and market days. Vasyl Vatamaniuk embarked on his music career with a troyisti muzyky group in Kosiv. He is currently Merited Artist of Ukraine and a soloist with the orchestra of the Veriovka National Choir.
“I developed a fascination with the tsymbaly as a boy,” recalls the musician. “I’d play at wedding parties with a folk group, together with adult musicians. Our family was poor at the time. Mom weaved carpets and dad was a cart driver. I would earn 10-15 rubles playing at a wedding and they would feed me, too. Sometimes I would play at three weddings in one day and bring home 50 rubles. And we had splendid village musicians, especially violinists who played better than some professionals. I learned from them. I couldn’t read music and played by ear. When I entered the Lviv College of Music it was hard at first because the tsymbaly has many different tunings: Hutsul, Hungarian, Ukrainian, and gypsy. A good tsymbaly player must know all of them.
We were invited to play the national anthem during the opening of the previous Verkhovna Rada session. I had to find a small tsymbaly, so I could carry them on my shoulders (it weighs only 12 kilos and the big one weighs 90 kg). I searched all over Kyiv before I found one. But the small tsymbaly had the Hutsul tuning, so I had to remember the way I had played at all those weddings.
If this instrument is hard to find, then there must not be many tsymbaly players either.
There weren’t many when I started playing, but now they are trained at music schools in Chernivtsi, Kyiv, and Lviv. But there are only a few professional performers, including People’s Artist Heorhiy Ahrotino of the Folk Instrumental Orchestra and Dmytro Popichuk of the Bandurist Choir. We three know how to make our own instruments. It’s a shame that most musicians today don’t know how to tune their tsymbaly. All they can do is sit and play an instrument tuned by someone else.
You say you can make a tsymbaly. Aren’t these instruments factory-made?
There used to be a factory in Chernihiv, but it was unprofitable and had to be closed. However, no one but a musician can make the best instrument for himself.
My grandfather was an excellent tsymbaly-maker and I learned a lot from him. True, I trust a wood turner to do the complex parts, but I do the inside work myself. I have an excellent tsymbaly at the orchestra, but it’s 30 years old, so it’s time to make a new one.
Your tsymbaly is 30 years old. How long have you been with the Veriovka Choir orchestra?
I joined it, then quit, and then joined again. The first time was in 1970, when I won an all-Ukraine competition. I came to Kyiv with Vasyl Popadiuk from Kirovohrad where we had performed with the Yatran Ensemble. We passed muster during the competition, and Anatoly Avdiyevsky helped us find an apartment in the capital city. But neither Popadiuk nor I were issued a propyska to reside in the city. Later we were told that we couldn’t be registered because we were from western Ukraine. To make matters worse, an anonymous letter arrived from Kirovohrad, to the effect that we were Ukrainian nationalists. That’s what professional jealousy is all about. My son was born in 1972 and I had to return to Kirovohrad, and then promptly left on a tour of Hungary with the orchestra. Then it was Italy and afterwards America. Yet all the while I wanted to perform at a higher professional level.
My second arrival in the Ukrainian capital took place in 1978, and I have been with the Veriovka Choir ever since.
Apart from the choir’s orchestra, you performed with the Troyisti Muzyky Ensemble organized by your friend Vasyl Popadiuk, which was very popular. Would you tell us about that stage of your career?
When Popadiuk and I joined the choir, the orchestra was made up of old musicians. Some couldn’t read music, and had been engaged way back by Hryhoriy Veriovka. Among them was Kasian Yevchenko from Popelnia, who had built a number of interesting instruments. It was then we conceived the idea of playing some of those instruments. A group of six musicians was formed, inspired, and artistically directed by Popadiuk. A basolia was played in lieu of cello and drums. And there were a violin, tsymbaly, kozabas, bukhalo, koza (a Hutsul version of the bagpipe), buhai (lit., “bull,” a barrel-like instrument played by pulling the “tail” rope), and huk (lit., “a yell”; a unique drum with a two-note range).
They say that Troyisti Muzyky Ensemble was invited to all the concerts that were attended by members of the government.
We were invited to perform as an original act. We performed comic scenes rather than musical numbers. It was a kind of musical theater. Yes, we performed at practically every concert marking a party convention and would later play at the banquet. We even performed during the last party convention under Brezhnev. I remember the general secretary sitting, looking indifferent, with the entire Politburo retinue all around. Everyone was closely watched and no one was allowed backstage. Security guards would accompany every performer to the stage and back. We were preparing for our number and Popadiuk had all these musical instruments hanging from his costume. A folk pipe shaped like a pineapple hand grenade dropped to the floor and then all hell broke loose. Yet even the secret service didn’t dare ruin our concert appearance, although they wanted to check the Moldovan Serhiy Lunkevych’s violin. It was a very special one, made by Stradivari, so when a KGB officer started shaking it, he became angry, grabbed his violin and left. Too bad the Troyisti Muzyky didn’t exist for long. Vasyl Popadiuk quit and joined the Kalyna Ensemble. He wanted to put together a separate group, but passed away shortly afterward. Without his guiding spirit, the ensemble fell apart. Vasyl was like a powerful engine propelling the Troyisti Muzyky. With his passing no one could keep up the good job.
Mr. Vatamaniuk, you went on numerous concert tours during the period of stagnation. Did anyone invite you to stay abroad?
When we first toured America in 1977, the Diaspora’s attitude made us wary. Not like now, when they are sick and tired of all kinds of Ukrainians coming their way. At the time, there was a dearth of communication. Also, Popadiuk and I were the only ones in the entire orchestra who spoke Ukrainian. The rest were from Kirovohrad oblast, totally Russified. Kostrubiako, a millionaire, was the unofficial sponsor of our tour. He had a Spanish wife and her parents had a farm, and the land turned out to contain an oil deposit. Her parents had died long ago, but she was still receiving oil revenues. We met with them a couple of times after concerts. Now he really wanted me to stay and did his best to talk me into it. You’ll be in business, he told me. What business? The idea made little sense at the time. I had a wife and a son waiting in Ukraine, so I couldn’t even dream of staying in America, because that would mean leaving behind my past. I couldn’t make that kind of sacrifice. Today, if I had an opportunity to stay there with my family, how would I earn a living — as a construction worker? Not at my age.
They say the Veriovka Choir returned from the latest tour of America with seven fewer performers. How are they doing?
Each in his own way: Stanislav Savchuk works as a hotel linen deliveryman. The button accordion player Samiylenko works at a furniture factory, and the dancers all found construction jobs. By the way, we toured Canada for several days on our way back from the States. During a concert in Toronto all our former musicians, singers, and dancers stepped onstage, I mean people who had immigrated at different periods. We joked that Toronto could supply enough manpower for a second Veriovka Choir. There are about 40 ex-performers living there and only a handful work in a professional capacity. Among them is Popadiuk’s son Vasyl, an excellent violinist. All the rest may get together to perform once a year and then leave to lay flooring or work their machines, as the case may be.
Do these people miss the stage and the choir?
Young people have a totally different attitude. They were lucky to bring their families along and that’s all they care about.
Mr. Vatamaniuk, do you often visit the land of your birth?
Yes. It’s a short way from my village home to the river Cheremosh, and there is a clear view of the Carpathian Mountains from the windows. It’s so beautiful; I’ve never seen anything like that in any other country.
Are troyisti muzyky still playing at wedding parties in Kosiv?
No, electric guitars are popular. Young people can’t imagine a wedding party without them. Tsymbaly can be seen on stage during concerts. Ten to fifteen people may attend a folk concert in Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts. Popadiuk and I used to play to packed audiences there. Our current audiences are middle-aged people, but they can barely afford the price of a ticket.
What is the situation abroad?
It’s the exact opposite. People are mostly interested in folk art and they are thrilled to listen to the tsymbaly and to play it.
