Alla Zagaykevych: "For me, a composer’s individuality is the most defining characteristic."

When people hear the name Alla Zagaykevych, they often think of folklore and electroacoustic music. Your path to folklore is fascinating, but what led you to electroacoustics? And why did you shift your focus away from symphonic music?

— I'm actually a full-fledged symphonic composer—I’m always writing symphonic music. I got into the Kyiv Conservatory after studying at the Rivne Music College, where I was a theory major with solid piano skills. I started composing almost by accident, thinking that every theorist should know at least a little about writing music to truly understand what they’re analyzing.

During my first winter session at the conservatory, I went on a folklore expedition. It was in the Chornobyl region, before the disaster. Back in college, I had a somewhat snobbish attitude toward folklore—I didn’t see it as real music or art. To me, it was just old, dry voices singing something outdated. But when I heard living authenticity—the sheer pressure of air, voice, and energy—it was like discovering an entirely avant-garde musical world. From then on, I started attending rehearsals of the folklore ensemble that would later become Drevo with Yevhen Vasylovych Yefremov.

But composition was always a constant in my life. I was a very energetic person—I played badminton almost daily and even studied organ. We had an amazing philosophy professor, Oleksii Bosenko, who ran a Philosophy Problem Group. It was the late ’80s, and thanks to him, we discovered the works of Czesław Miłosz, Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, and Juan Ramón Jiménez.

I also led the composition section of SSCA (Student Scientific and Creative Association), a club for young composers and musicologists. Twice a year, we organized concerts, bringing in composers from Vilnius, Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Minsk, and Armenia. Since SSCA received state funding at the time, our compositions were performed by professional musicians, for example, Kyiv Camerata.

Folklore studies—expeditions, rehearsals, and performances—were quite popular among composition students in my year. But by my fourth year, it was my orchestral piece that Roman Kofman conducted with the student symphony orchestra at the National Philharmonic of Ukraine. That same concert featured a work by Victoria Polyova, who is now a renowned composer. By the time I graduated, most of my compositions were for orchestra, with a handful of chamber pieces as well.

How did electronic music come into my life? My classmate, composer, and pianist Petro Tovstukha, played alongside guitarist Oleksandr Nesterov, who was the leading figure in Ukraine’s new improvisational music scene. Through them, I was introduced to experimental electroacoustic music blended with acoustic instruments. Other musicians, like saxophonist Yuriy Yaremchuk and percussionist Serhii Khmelov, often joined in.

For my classmates and me, this experience felt like an alternative conservatory—maybe even more important than the official one—because Nesterov was the only source where we could hear truly contemporary music.

Was contemporary music part of the conservatory curriculum?

— Not really… for us, it more or less ended with Shostakovich—which means it never truly began. In fact, my composition professor, Yuriy Ishchenko, a remarkable neoclassical composer, first heard recordings of European avant-garde figures like Nono and Stockhausen during my lessons with him. No one in his professional circle had any real interest in that kind of music.

By the early ’90s, I realized that, along with my fascination for authentic folklore, I was also deeply drawn to academic electroacoustic music. But at the time, no one in Kyiv was actively exploring that field.

I think electroacoustic music is one of the most experimental because of its freedom—the way sound flows without strict constraints. Unlike orchestral music, it’s not as rigidly tied to a set ensemble. How does your creative process work? Writing music usually involves a lot of structure, planning, and calculation. How much room is there for improvisation? In folklore, for example, improvisation is often at the core.

— It’s important to separate different kinds of improvisation—folk, jazz, and "academic." Even symphonic music has improvisational elements. You can find them in Stankovych’s scores, for example. It’s a kind of free movement within a framework set by the composer, where the musician doesn’t exactly improvise freely but rather rearranges and recombines elements.

In folk music, improvisation is actually quite minimal. The most a performer can do is slightly alter a few notes within a melody. Each style has strict rules—the timbre of a particular region must be preserved, rhythmic structures must remain precise, and only small harmonic variations are allowed. So instead of true improvisation, it’s more accurate to call it variation.

Electroacoustic music follows principles similar to those of symphonic music. I had the opportunity to study at IRCAM (Institute for Research and Coordination in Acoustics/Music) at the Pompidou Center, where I was accepted with a symphonic composition. In academic music, electroacoustic compositions align closely with contemporary orchestral works in terms of their aesthetics and sound execution. Orchestral music, in many ways, represents the peak of timbral exploration.

At the same time, composing electroacoustic pieces often involves numerous technical hurdles, sometimes imposing even more constraints than instrumental composition. However, from a technological standpoint, electroacoustic music allows for sonic fluidity—such as gliding tones—that traditional instruments cannot achieve. Each medium has its own limitations, and reaching the desired result isn’t always straightforward.

Historically, electroacoustic music emerged in the early 1940s in France. Pierre Schaeffer’s A Concert of Noises (Cinq études de bruits), the first of its kind, was broadcast on the radio. Back then, the resources available in the French Radio studio were minimal—likely just microphones and tape recorders. Meanwhile, in Cologne, musicians worked with electromechanical instruments equipped with keyboards and controllers, leading to vastly different approaches in both technology and musical aesthetics.

There are many such examples, but one of the most unfortunate cases is that of Edgard Varèse, a composer who aspired to work with electronic music while primarily composing for the orchestra. As the pioneer of the "liberation of sound," he envisioned Poème électronique as a groundbreaking work, presenting detailed plans and concepts. However, technical barriers prevented him from fully realizing his vision. Nevertheless, his Déserts, written for orchestra and electronics, stands as a true masterpiece.

Have you ever faced disappointments—times when something didn’t work out or almost fell apart? Especially when you were just starting out with electroacoustic music?

— Actually, in the beginning, everything went pretty smoothly because, at IRCAM, I had assistants. Each one specialized in a specific area and helped composers work through technical challenges. But when I came back to Kyiv and set up a studio and the Department of Music Information Technologies at the conservatory, things got a lot more complicated. Suddenly, I had to handle all the technical issues myself. Still, there were students, other composers—it was a really inspiring environment. I wasn’t just focused on my own work; I was also helping others, almost like an assistant at IRCAM. And in the process, I kept developing my own skills. It was an exciting time.

Do you have a piece that you consider your Magnum Opus? Opera 'Vasyl Vyshyvany', king of Ukraine seems like a strong candidate, but perhaps you see it differently?

— In terms of the score and sound realization, Vyshyvany' certainly fits the bill. But an opera is more than just its score. It was meant to be a dreamlike opera, unfolding within the visions of the main character. However, the production ended up being too grounded in realism. I believe Vyshyvany’ would work better with a more abstract interpretation.

There are two pieces that stand out to me. One is Nord/Quest, a work for folk performers and electronics. It was written for Iryna Klymenko and Serhiy Okhrimchuk, with percussion and electronic elements incorporated. It’s one of the few compositions I still enjoy both listening to and performing.

Another piece I’m particularly proud of is my recent symphonic work with electronics, Spaces of Light. Its execution was impeccable—it was performed at the closing of the Warsaw Autumn festival in 2022.

I also consider my first chamber opera, Numbers and Wind (2003), based on the poetry of Vorobyov, to be an important milestone. That period was marked by close collaboration with Oles Sanin—during the Mamay era and other joint audiovisual projects.

Have you ever encountered creative limitations imposed by a director or producer when composing for film? 

— I wouldn’t call them limitations—film is a collaborative art form by nature. In Mamay, for instance, the visuals and editing were built around musical structures, drawing inspiration from the epic duma genre. But as new visual decisions were made and scenes were adjusted—lengthened or shortened—I had to rethink certain musical elements. The process was incredibly rewarding, especially working closely with director Oles Sanin. With Dovbush, the approach was different. The entire soundtrack had to align precisely with the film’s dramaturgy, plot, and shot rhythm. The challenge was making the music both subtle and powerfully expressive at the same time. It was a demanding task, especially since we completed it during wartime. The real saving grace was collaborating with such talented musicians and colleagues.

I also worked on the documentary Breaking Point: The War for Democracy in Ukraine with American filmmakers. The film was already tightly edited, and they provided reference music. They mentioned they could simply purchase the rights to the existing soundtrack, which included pieces by Pärt and Górecki, but they also invited me to try composing something original. I took on the challenge and rewrote the entire score. It was a fascinating and complex experience—replacing Pärt is no small feat. But ultimately, why should a film about Ukraine feature Pärt when it could have Ukrainian music instead?

You’ve mentioned before that your perspective on Leontovych and Lysenko’s folk song arrangements has evolved, as you came to realize they embellished the original material. Today, we are still navigating issues of cultural inferiority and post-imperial influence. Leontovych is often used as proof of Ukraine’s sophisticated and European-level culture, both for Ukrainians themselves and international audiences. How do we make sense of all this?

— It’s natural that composers of different eras interpret folklore through the lens of their own time, and this happens differently across cultures. We saw this clearly in our first folklore studies classes at the conservatory. After returning from Paris, I even taught a course called The Composer and Folklore, where I explored how figures like Stockhausen, Cage, and Berio engaged with folk traditions. 

Leontovych and Lysenko indeed applied European harmonization techniques to Ukrainian folk music, aiming to elevate it to a "European" standard. If modern ethnomusicologists were to analyze their harmonies, they’d find that many of them weren’t originally present in the folk tradition—especially in Lysenko’s case (Leontovych’s treatment was somewhat more refined). These elements were added from outside the tradition.

For ethnomusicologists, though, timbre is one of the most defining aspects of regional singing styles. Traditional folk singing follows distinct structural principles, often heterophonic, which actually align more with contemporary music than with the classical European traditions of the 19th century. Later composers, such as Borys Lyatoshynsky, took a different approach to folklore, similar to what Béla Bartók and Karol Szymanowski did. Instead of simply harmonizing folk tunes, he integrated them into intricate polyphonic textures shaped by modern European sensibilities, emphasizing expressive intensity. His complex polyphony is evident even in his film scores. In Ihor Savchenko’s 1951 film Taras Shevchenko, for example, his choral arrangements showcase this style, though they also reflect the aesthetic influences of the time. However, they stand apart from the so-called "Stalinist folklore" of that era. Instead, his harmonies create a rich, almost dreamlike atmosphere.

While Ukrainian symphonic music that does not rely on ethnic elements is far more significant for understanding contemporary Ukrainian musical culture, the theme of “folklore and the composer” remains highly important to us. Can a rustic theme still serve as Ukraine’s cultural calling card in the 21st century? DakhaBrakha offers one possible answer with its concerts and its bold embrace of a folk-based core. However, the fusion of African drums with Ukrainian singing is not, in itself, authentically traditional.

And what about authentic folklore?

— It’s beautiful, but organizing it is quite challenging—bringing genuine tradition-bearers from Polissia or Poltava to perform, especially abroad, and doing so consistently. Still, there are examples. The renowned folk singer Dominika Chekun from Rivne Polissia frequently participates in various events, ranging from ethnographic conferences to festivals.

The contributions of ethnomusicologists like Iryna Klymenko and Yevhen Yefremov are also highly significant. Moreover, many ensembles today continue to develop the principles established by Drevo.

There have long been tensions between rural folk music and academic traditions, as well as between electroacoustic and symphonic music. Some well-known figures have contributed to these conflicts. However, you seem to be bridging these gaps—for instance, by organizing “The Ukrainian Electroacoustic Dimension” at the Philharmonic.

— I’m not trying to merge classical music and folklore; they are distinct, independent realms. What matters to me is the authenticity of the timbre. I value the presence of professional folk singers or ethnomusicologists in performances. I can’t imagine an opera singer performing a Polissian vesnianka (spring song). That being said, in my opera Vyshyvany, something similar happens—though even there, the singers made an effort to adopt a folk vocal style.

The Ukrainian Electroacoustic Dimension was intended to establish a foundation for long-term collaboration with the Philharmonic on an institutional level, but this has yet to materialize. My large projects, Em-vision (EM – VISIA) and Electroacoustics, have been ongoing since 2003. In a way, I’ve never let go of the responsibility to promote contemporary Ukrainian music. The establishment of the Association of Electroacoustic Music, which is part of the International Confederation of Electroacoustic Music, was born out of this same commitment.

My colleagues and I have created works that blend symphonic music with electronic elements, and there is already a well-developed European repertoire in this field. Such compositions are regularly performed at festivals across Europe—from Vilnius and Warsaw to the West. However, this approach has not yet become widespread in Ukraine.

You once said that a nation's musical foundations and those of its composers will always be similar. What do you think defines the musical foundation of the Ukrainian people?

— That was quite a bold thing for me to say… There was a time when the Composers’ Union wasn’t just a professional organization—it was practically an enforcer, policing its own members. In the late ‘90s, musicologist Olena Zinkevych published an article called Opposition, which tried to bring some of this to light, and honestly, it was disturbing. You read about how a handful of well-known composers and musicologists outright trashed Silvestrov’s work, calling it “drunken brawler music,” or claimed that Hrabovsky didn’t know how to compose and should be expelled. But Hrabovsky is an incredibly intelligent artist who expresses his ideas with such clarity. I remember at one of these so-called meetings, he said something that really stuck with me—that deeply understanding folklore doesn’t mean being stuck in the past; it actually gives you a much more modern outlook on music. Being a true composer isn’t about just using folklore—it’s about grasping the deeper meaning of Ukrainian music.

After enduring intense criticism, Hrabovsky composed the remarkable Concerto misterioso, applying an algorithmic method to blend folk intonations with freely generated rhythms. The result is an intricate and refined piece—delicate and dreamlike—where the underlying structure feels organic rather than mathematically constructed. This kind of approach resonates deeply with me. 

Of course, there are other artistic perspectives. For example, the 2024 concert at Carnegie Hall featuring Kyiv Camerata primarily showcased works by Zubytsky, Kozarenko, and Stankovych, all of which incorporated folk elements. It was evident that conductor Keri-Lynn Wilson and the musicians aimed to present Ukrainian music as something strikingly vibrant, with a strong emphasis on folk influences, particularly Hutsul motifs. However, in doing so, the unique artistic voices of Stankovych, Zubytsky, and Kozarenko became somewhat diluted. Instead, the music followed a recurring pattern—virtuosic, harmonically dense, fast, dazzling, and, unfortunately, somewhat theatrical, even bordering on cliché.

I recently came across a statement in a 1923 issue of Muzyka magazine that felt surprisingly modern: “We will support the highest level of Ukrainian music and reject provincial patriotism.” It’s disappointing that in 2024, when presenting Ukrainian music to the world, we continue to lean into the same stylistic choices that composers were already trying to move beyond a century ago.

That said, there have also been inspiring examples. Consider the 1990s, when Ukraine had just gained independence. Conductor and composer Virko Baley—once a prominent figure, though less visible today—was instrumental in bringing Ukrainian music to the U.S. for the first time. He organized a concert featuring works by Stankovych, Silvestrov, and Hrabovsky and wrote an article titled Orpheus Unleashed, reflecting his vision of Ukrainian music as liberated and independent. He introduced an entirely different repertoire to American audiences—one grounded in complex orchestration and innovative sonorities, distinct from both Moscow’s influence and European avant-garde traditions. Baley understood these distinctions because he had studied them closely. He recognized, for instance, that while Silvestrov’s early work might seem reminiscent of Boulez, its structure was fundamentally different. This was not the postmodern Silvestrov of today, who now writes short, Schubert-like bagatelles. His early compositions were grand, powerful, and cosmic—just listen to his Third Symphony or Fifth Symphony.

Comparing how Ukraine was represented in the 1990s to how it is presented today, it's clear that we've taken a step backward. It feels like a retreat to the aesthetics of the 1950s.

So, back to Stalin-era folk music?!

—  In a way, but with modifications. That’s exactly why Lyatoshynsky faced criticism—his music was considered too complex when simplicity was the expectation. I think these aspects need serious reflection.

In a way, this is a critique of the organizers of the Carnegie Hall concert.

— The second half of the concert had a more "European" approach, seemingly geared toward aligning with European musical traditions. 

That reflects a lingering inferiority complex. The general public still feels the need to justify that Ukrainian composers have created—and continue to create—music on par with global trends.

— What I felt was missing was a deeper exploration of individuality. For me, that’s the most defining characteristic of a composer. In the 1990s, Virko Baley was able to capture this—his programming was groundbreaking, shedding old limitations and highlighting the originality and complexity of Ukrainian music. If concerts like this were curated with a stronger sense of artistic purpose, they could make a far greater impact.

I think part of the responsibility lies with us—not you as a composer, but with the audience and the broader community. It wasn’t until russia’s full-scale invasion that I really saw a widespread revival of forgotten Ukrainian classical music on stage. Take Kos-Anatolsky’s ballet 'Soychyne Krylo' (The Jay's Wing) —it has a fantastic storyline for a broad audience, yet it’s only now being brought back, and even then, not in its full version. The same goes for Lyatoshynsky’s opera The Golden Crown—it’s only been revived recently after years of work to reconstruct it. But these are still classical works.

There have been some big new productions commissioned specifically for large stages, which is great. But beyond that? We don’t hear enough from contemporary composers, and they hardly get any commissions.

— The few commissions that exist—whether from opera houses, the Lviv Organ Hall, or the Lviv National Philharmonic—have only really started appearing in the past few years, during the war. But in general, composers don’t get commissioned. Our entire musical infrastructure was built in the 1950s, with the mindset of that era, and it has barely changed since. The Ministry of Culture’s budget is still primarily allocated to a handful of opera houses, symphony orchestras, the Veryovka national Ukrainian ensemble, the Virsky Ukrainian National Folk Dance Ensemble, and their regional equivalents. There’s zero funding for electroacoustic music. There’s no support for folklore or folklorists, even though authentic folk traditions are rapidly disappearing. 

And the Ministry of Culture isn’t doing anything to change this. We still don’t have a state-funded contemporary music ensemble—while in places like Paris, they’ve existed since the ’70s and ’80s. In Ukraine, these kinds of ensembles disappear because there’s simply no funding, which is why contemporary music remains mostly unheard. In Kyiv, the only state-supported platforms for it are two festivals organized by the Composers’ Union—Premieres of the Season and Kyiv Music Fest—where, fortunately, I’ve had the opportunity to present my symphonic works. 

It’s great that independent projects like Open Opera Ukraine’s early music initiatives can be organized, but these are led by seasoned arts managers with extensive experience.

And what about philharmonics?

— Philharmonics have only recently started to recognize the abundance of contemporary music. However, they remain hesitant, as this music is often complex, and they’re unsure whether their audiences would be interested. But a philharmonic isn’t just a concert venue—it should be a place for generating ideas and meaning. I was glad to see Electroacoustic Dimension gain recognition there, but it’s essential for philharmonics to take the initiative in developing relevant programs and securing funding for them. The Liatoshynsky: Space festival in January 2025 was especially inspiring as a philharmonic project—not just because of the music, but because it encouraged discussion, reflection, and deeper engagement.  

Translated by Anna Petelina