Kyiv’s folk-pop group Bozhychi is a real phenomenon in the capital’s cultural life. Born slightly over five years ago, they have attracted the attention of a variety of intellectual groups of influence, ranging from theater to showbiz. Where the theater is concerned, they made their name by staging a very unusual performance called “U poshukakh vtrachenoho chasu...Zhyttia (In Search of Lost Time... Life). Their foray into show business was marked by fruitful cooperation with Oleh Skrypka, which contributed colorful and highly appropriate folkloric colors to the palette of one of the Maidan’s chief heroes. Another tangible result of this meeting of minds was the recent launch of Bozhychi’s debut CD Kotylasia, oy yasna zoria z neba (A Bright Shooting Star Came Down from the Skies), released with Oleh’s assistance.
Many stories could be told about Bozhychi and the absolutely marvelous profession of the folklorist. But this task is best entrusted to the group’s artistic director, Illia FETISOV:
How did you become interested in folklore?
I.F.: My life took a very interesting path. I was born in Russia, in Sverdlovsk, in the Ural Mountains. I was nine when we moved to Ukraine. We lived in Lviv, where I graduated from a music college and then enrolled in Kyiv’s National Music Academy in 1996, majoring in composition. All my works sounded folk-like, although I’d never taken any interest in folklore. We had classes in folklore in the first year and were required to analyze a folk song. My first reaction was scornful. What could all those grannies without a musical education sing? I turned on my tape recorder and went into shock, because I couldn’t understand in what octave they were singing. It turned out that it was an entirely different culture, something I knew nothing about. From that moment my interest was awakened and I met my future wife shortly afterwards. She was a singer with the Volodar group. I also started singing with this group, and that was when I went on my first folkloric expedition.
How did you finally change your profession?
I.F.: At a crucial point I realized that the most valuable and most beautiful things were already written by the people, that all those folk songs, unlike modern music, had been tested over time, for thousands of years; that it was a very sensitive selection, something no one’s compositions had been subjected to. I could no longer write music and transferred from the composition department to the Faculty of Folkloric Theory. At the time, several people wanted to sing but they weren’t part of any performing groups. So we decided to perform Christmas carols at the home of the woman who was the head of our faculty. This was Christmas Eve, 1999. She said, “Why don’t you people try singing together?”
So your Christmas carolers put on a performance.
I.F.: We started singing as a trio and then people began joining us. That’s how our group grew to its current size.
What about the name?
I.F.: Bozhychi. Our first song was about a divine miracle and then we decided to dedicate our group to the Lord. We first wanted to call it “Bozhyi,” as in Bozhyi liudy , people of God, but the ending didn’t sound clear enough, so we finally agreed on Bozhychi — i.e., the Kyivan Rus’ pagan deity of Koliada, who embodied youth and the Sun.
As far as I know, your activities are not restricted to the Bozhychi group.
I.F.: The first thing we did to make ourselves different from the others was to befriend the theater. The Dakh Company staged a play titled U poshukakh vtrachenoho chasu...Zhyttia. What made it different was that we borrowed the plot from folk performers. You see, my wife and I are interested not only in songs, but also in stories that people tell about themselves. At first we didn’t have a plot, just the lyrics and songs. But then we started performing them and eventually conceived the plot; then we had the hero and we started impersonating ourselves. In the end, the play won several prizes and we performed it in Austria and Hungary. We also opened a folk dancing school at the Oles Honchar Museum and created the All-Ukraine Young Folklorists’ Association to popularize the folk arts. We organize expeditions; we transport people from most regions in Ukraine to the Carpathian Mountains, to the Vasyl Mohur School of Traditional Crafts (named after a gifted Hutsul violinist). Interest in the performing group is so great that we have to restrict membership. Every year we raft down various rivers and organize folkloric canoe expeditions. This is the main source for enlarging our repertoire, which is quite large: we have several thousand recorded numbers. We got on our feet within a short period (since 1999), made a reputation for ourselves, and began to sing well. In five years we managed to accomplish something that would’ve taken others a decade. Perhaps our name, which is a reference to God, has helped.
You’re still with Oleh Skrypka. How does this cooperation benefit you and him?
I.F.: He started by asking us to record the popular Ukrainian song Ty zh mene pidmanula (You Cheated Me) with him. Then we collaborated on his Vesna spring collection. We have folk voices, but he supplied the material, so we had to figure out the music and vocal arrangements. His songs began to sound completely new thanks to our group. And our CD Kotylasia, oy yasna zoria z neba became a possibility thanks to Oleh. We recorded it at his place and it was a really festive occasion. By the way, Oleh is very serious about folklore. I would even call him a professional in the field. Actually, he associates mostly with folklorists; he asks them for information about genres and traditions; he took part in an expedition to Poltava oblast with them and recorded songs and tunes. He didn’t take folklore lightly, as many other pop stars did. Instead, he let the culture into his inner self. That was how the Krayina mryi (Dreamland) turned into a genuine folk festival.
Folklore is becoming wildly popular. Is there a lot of competition?
I.F.: There are lots of groups, and a school initiated by Drevo. All of us try to be friends. There is friction, of course, but there’s no harsh competition. There seem to be many folk-pop groups, but their actual number is much smaller. That’s an important consideration because the tradition is starting to fade away, because its carriers are between 60 and 70 years old in the west, and 80 and 90 in eastern Ukraine.
But perhaps the ethnic trend, which has been observed all over the world, will help?
I.F.: A Western producer said it well. He said that culture disappears where fashion starts. On the one hand, we want to make folk things fashionable, because popularization is necessary. But once something’s in vogue, smart operators are sure to turn up and capitalize on it. These characters are concerned about proceeds first and may theoretically wonder about quality at a later date. Fashionable trends may destroy the ethnic heritage. That’s a question I still have to answer myself. I’m into popularizing culture, but I’m also a threat to it.
Paradoxical, isn’t?
I.F.: Yes. Folklore, if one visualizes it in the early twentieth century, appears to be a culture that was maintained by most of the population. No one could make any money by using it in any way. Now it’s little-known and the situation is different. There is that strong world music trend in Europe, simply because the continent hasn’t known true folk traditions for several centuries. To them, our culture is something very exotic and they see it only as a source of super big revenues. Unfortunately, here European influence is negative. Look at Ruslana. She got her material in Kosmach, where we also have a school of folk crafts. We’ve heard a number of negative comments from people about her group’s performance, precisely because their attitude was purely commercial, without a desire to perceive that culture. People in the countryside are keenly aware of this. And so if anyone tries to exploit this folk heritage in any way, the outcome will be hair- raising...Our interpretations are based on this heritage and before long everyone will regard them as the best examples, for there will be no original carriers left by then, meaning that we’ll be playing this role. Therefore, we must use every opportunity to communicate with folk performers, so that later we can show not only how they sang, but also tell about why they sang it that way. Dealing with their mentality is very interesting. I’m writing a doctoral thesis on the subject.
What makes their mentality so specific?
I.F.: They don’t think in terms of music. A folk performer thinks in terms of lines. Music to him is a range of sounds varying in pitch, so the lines disappear when a song is translated into music; it’s broken up into little segments, small written symbols. A folk singer can perform a song based on breathing, producing open or closed sounds. You can’t do this with notes; there are no closed or open sounds there. The same is true of folk dances and chants. Folklore was always an oral transmitter of creativity. So when this oral transmission is broken, the performing group stops recreating the material from the mental point of view, only from the audio point of view. Hence the devastating changes in the manner of execution and style of the original work. The composition degrades.
Does the question of copyright apply here?
I.F.: There’s no copyright law on folklore. There are related performers’ rights. However, if we record a folksong, these rights should be vested in all those grannies singing it, and in us. A CD will be made, but since the level of legal awareness is markedly low in the countryside, these old women won’t be able to claim their rights, meaning that the recording company will be able to make a profit at their expense and by taking advantage of the situation. We can, for example, sue anyone who uses any of our songs in commercials. However, there’s nothing we can do about anyone learning a song by using our CD, because a song isn’t a subject of the law. Yet no one seems to bother considering the fact that traveling to villages, finding people who can sing these songs, and then recording them are tasks that require a lot of time and effort. We often record songs by picking up bits and pieces and then putting them together as a single composition. Theoretically, we can claim that every such reconstruction is our own creative product. So, we owe the Bright Shooting Star song to Nastia F. Babenko, an old woman who was born in 1914, who lived in Petrivka, a village in Myrhorod oblast. Reconstructing this song, actually preventing it from disappearing, took four expeditions. In other words, these songs are our creative products, but we can’t claim copyright, because we aren’t the authors of these songs, we simply restored them. So there are problems from this angle.
Can this situation prevent the threat of commercialization?
I.F.: I think there’s no way to change the situation — and there’s no need to try. There can be no copyright claims in regard to any folk creations. Everything boils down to decency. If someone doesn’t realize that there’s so much work involved in every such composition, if s/he learns it and then performs it abroad, feeling free to claim that it was discovered during that person’s expedition — well, things like that happen, don’t they? There’s nothing anyone can do about these kinds of situations, except perhaps when people learn to think along different lines.
How do you collect material? How do you select villages for your creative expeditions?
I.F.: Water is our chief method of transportation; few villages can exist without being located to bodies of water. And so we select a river and travel the entire length, exploring the villages along the banks. When we enter a village, we visit homes inhabited by old people; we introduce ourselves and ask them if there are people who remember and can sing old songs. Folk traditions are almost extinct, especially on the Left Bank, so finding these people takes time. People also tell us where to go and whom to ask. There’s a lot to do with journalism and psychology. It’s difficult to establish contact with people who are seeing you for the first time; they’re not expecting your visit, they have work to do in the vegetable garden, and suddenly they’re being asked by visitors from Kyiv to sing an old song. You have to be an astute psychologist and a communicative person; you have to learn to blend into the landscape.
How do you win their confidence?
I.F.: You have to show them that you know something. They love that. I remember visiting a village, where the people knew an old Ukrainian carol, but we also knew this version. So we performed it and they liked it. This is especially true of local musicians. They’re so ambitious and require a very special approach. We met a local violinist. They’re truly unique, as only a few are left, really. The man adamantly refused to perform, saying his violin had been destroyed by mice; that he didn’t have a concertina. We spent an hour and a half talking to him. And then I asked him how they used to play it, two- or three-part-like. The man believed me and started talking. I visited him three more times. On other occasions we’d meet people who would sing and dance for us, just like that; you’d be shown those you wanted to see...I mean it’s an enjoyable business. Every time I return from an expedition I suffer from depression. For a few days I look gloomily at the big city and its people. I say “hi” to people in the elevator and they eye me suspiciously, but greeting everyone you meet on a village street is an unwritten law in the Ukrainian countryside. There you find yourself in a different world, with a different lifestyle, so back in the city I am oppressed by what I see. The countryside means hard manual labor, but you can also relax there, nothing compared to the city.
What makes folk songs from various regions different?
I.F.: A lot has to do with the terrain. Steppe songs are the longest, with many turns and refrains, even though they have lyrics. Now take Hutsul songs: these come from the Carpathian Mountains and their tunes are fast, up and down the slope, lots of lyrics, and little music. The timbre makes the difference: deep throaty voices in Poltava oblast, higher pitches in Chernihiv oblast, in eastern Ukraine. There are also differences depending on the village, so the same song is performed differently in a couple of neighboring villages. Geographical zones tend to change faster on the Left Bank; on the Right Bank, they occupy larger territories.
Why?
I.F.: For historical reasons. The Left Bank remained practically uninhabited after the Tatar invasion, people would settle here and there. Instrumental music makes this fact clearly apparent; several tunes dating from Kyivan Rus’ settled in Russia, but also remained in Ukraine. The basis remains the same, only the form changes.
Now, there’s an interesting distinction between us and our neighbors.
I.F.: The form is simpler in Russia and more capricious in Ukraine. There are numerous similar examples in the vocal art of Russia and Ukraine, but our renditions have a larger, more polyphonic structure, with several layers, whereas in Russia it sounds more on the heathen, archaic side. Yet in the end, we love singing Russian songs, just as they love singing Ukrainian songs. Everyone wants to have something his neighbor does.
Speaking of old roots, how much does our pagan past affect our folk heritage?
I.F.: There are pagans and Orthodox believers in our group, but no one objects to our name; it sounds both pagan and Orthodox. The same is true of our culture. Some people are a combination of absolutely inscrutable traits. We were in Vinnytsia oblast recording a church choir, and found out that the women were considered the principal witches of that village. They even told us how a thunderstorm could be averted.
Really? How?
I.F.: You have to take a staff carved specially on the Feast of the Jordan, dip it in holy water, then see where a snake is eating a frog. You save the frog with that staff, and then the staff will ward off a thunderstorm. This defies reason. And even in rites, in ritual songs, we see paganism, meaning that it has been preserved in our culture.
You are telling us amazing things, but the next question is inevitable: How do you earn a living? And what about folklorists?
I.F.: Different ways. Drevo, for example, tours Poland, teaching the people to sing Ukrainian songs; our folk legacy is a top-rated commodity there. Our group is made up of people with a variety of occupations; very few specialize in folklore. My wife and another person run their own singing groups. And I’m a journalist by training. There’s also a girl involved in the First Million television show. Another one works for the Kyiv city administration. Other performers are college students. Our folk repertoire can’t earn us a decent living. Even during the Orange Revolution on the Maidan the people who were organizing events were also those who were responsible for folk festivals. But they decided that folklore would be too remote for the million people gathered on the square, so most of what those people watched and heard was rock and other popular music. I mean there’s no demand for our products.
Meaning that I shouldn’t even ask about your hobby?
I.F.: This is my professional hobby and the same is true of most of the Bozhychi performers. It’s our spiritual life, the way we live every day; we meet on a regular basis, we have rehearsals; we share personal and family celebrations. Our folk heritage is what keeps us together; it is the one thing that remains at the top of our common agenda. This is the life of people who have penetrated folk creativity. That is why folklore will exist only in those people who perceive it as a vital, spiritual basis of their life rather than as a hobby, academic subject, or line of business.
What makes you do all this?
I.F.: Honestly, I don’t know. Bozhychi is a group made up of decent people. What we’re doing doesn’t pay off; it’s something that will be done by people who are aware of a certain need deep inside, believing they’re doing something fellow humans actually need. Folklore is truly living creativity; it can’t be photographed or canned. You link up with the eternal, living source. But you have to feel this. It’s like when you are asked, “Why do you breathe?” There’s no answer. It’s the same with folklore: it’s nourishment, spiritual nourishment.
Anyway, you have achieved a lot and will probably make even greater progress. Do you feel that you have achieved success, which you may not have been counting on?
I.F.: I am firmly convinced that whenever I plan to achieve material comfort and success, my plans never work out. Bozhychi’s success is the result of our conscious inactivity; we’ve never done or intended to do anything to become well known. If we continue in the same vein, we’ll simply disappear in the folkloric domain. That’s why we are successful, because we don’t have such ambitions. We have a funny motto: the members of Bozhychi are modest and brilliant. These adjectives are incompatible, of course, yet reality has proved different. We are a modest group, but some people consider us brilliant performers. They could be wrong. We don’t seek publicity. We simply live this way.
