Alisha Ard, L.A. Trombonist and Jazz Singer

Here's a contribution from Los Angeles musician Alisha Ard. Besides being a great singer and trombonist, she happens to be the first person I took a lesson from when I started playing my trombone again after a two-year mission. Check out her music in the player above, and for more, including her bio, go to www.alishamarieard.com
And look! You can buy her CD here.

I requested that she hold forth on the life of a free-lance musician in L.A. and we see here that she has done so:

So last night's gig was one of those celebrity encounters. You know, the kind that makes for good story telling to my relatives who always like to ask, "Have you seen any celebrities lately?" I could tell it was a good anecdote in the making, and it got me realizing that I had had a few good stories to tell from my gigs in the last few days. In fact, I had been working solidly every night for, oh my!, a whole week! Seven nights in a row of work is quite an accomplishment for a freelance trombone player without (as yet) her own band. In most places such a feat would be well nigh impossible. So not only was it an accomplishment I could brag about, but there was a considerable amount of variety in that week, and, as mentioned, good stories. That's when I knew that this was the blog I had been waiting to write for my old college trombonist colleague, Dan Barrett.

The week we're talking about is Wednesday night, August 13th to Tuesday night, August 19th. I think the best way to do this is to just run through each night chronologically. Hopefully you blog readers out there will then have a better idea of what one full-time musician's life is like.

Wednesday was a gig with the Dry Martini Orchestra backing up a Rat Pack impersonator review to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Commerce Casino. It was very heart warming to hear how the casino gave $10,000 each to the two Olympic swimmers from that city so they could take family members along with them to Beijing. It seems they spared expenses on feeding the band that night, however. The term "bandwiches" refers to the less-delicious fare that is often fed to the band, made all the more poignant by the fact that we see everything that the guests get. Our bandwiches that night looked more like a buffet of buffet leftovers. Chicken, salmon, potato salad, grilled vegetable antipasto, cookies, and some cold seafood on a platter. Is that safe? I saw the trumpet player pick up a large shrimp and start to wrap it up in napkins. I said, "Are you saving that for later?" and he said, "It's for my turtle."

Thursday was a wedding rehearsal at the United Armenian Congregational Church. The church's music director was getting married the next day, and hired a brass quintet to play some processional and recessional music for the ceremony. Unfortunately for us (the musicians), his double duty as music director and groom meant he was a little scattered. He forgot the tuba music at the rehearsal so we cut up a photocopy of the score and taped something together. Luckily the rehearsal dinner food was better than last night.

Friday was the wedding we rehearsed for. The French horn player hadn't been at the rehearsal, but she was at the gig. Unfortunately, her music wasn't. (Remember our forgetful groom?) But she played an important role anyway - she realized that if the groom was too distracted to remember things like bringing her music, he might also forget to pay us too. So she took it upon herself to collect our names and get the best man to write us checks before the ceremony started. Then she mostly just sat and tried to look like she was concentrating on counting rests for the benefit of the videographers. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay.

Saturday was a bit of a mystery gig for me. All I knew was that I was supposed to wear black and be at the contractor's house at 4:45 to carpool to the gig. (A "contractor" is the person who hires you and pays you. Often, as in this case, it is another musician who also hires themselves. It's a bit of a misnomer as less than 1% of all my work involves actual contracts.) I showed up, and then slept most of the way as we drove east into the desert, ending at the Spotlight 29 casino. I blinked my eyes open at a giant sign announcing Paul Casey's ELVIS the Musical, and got really excited! Was that our gig? An Elvis show?! I'd never seen a real-life Elvis show! It was quite fantastic. No rehearsal, just a quick soundcheck. Then the theater doors opened and around 2000 Elvis fans shuffled in to commemorate the death of the King. Many were wearing sunglasses with big, lampchop sideburns attached. Paul's gyrations were quite impressive, and I was almost the only woman (backup singers excepted) who got to enjoy his pelvis work from the rear. He gave me a special introduction (a woman playing trombone is still a fun novelty most places), and, of course, I got a picture with him! But I didn't get one of those silky scarves that he wiped his sweaty face and chest with before tossing them out to a mob of women who thrashed around in front of the stage like hungry piranhas.

Sunday was supposed to be a day off for me. I was relaxing at the beach when I got a phone call from one of the sleaziest band leaders I know. He said he had a gig that afternoon, and it was right in my neighborhood. It was only a couple hours, and I could wear whatever I wanted, so it sounded painless enough. It turned out to be a salsa band playing at an indoor swap meet called La Fiesta. There was a DJ who had a wheel to spin and hand out prizes, greasy Colombian food, and in between our two sets a duo got up and played traditional music from the Andes mountains. One guy had a large, animal-skin covered drum slung over his shoulder that he beat with a feather-covered mallet in one hand and a thin stick in the other. The other guy was using a foot pedal to play a wood block with his right foot while he played a small guitar, and cradled a pan flute in the crook of his left elbow that he tore off some amazing melodies on. I was quite impressed. Our piano player explained to me that the small guitar was made out of a "medello", which is an animal. I thought something got lost in translation until he told me that the "medello" has a hard shell, and I realized he meant an armadillo. But not speaking much Spanish, that was almost all that I understood for the whole three hours. I faked my way through salsa standards like "Llororas" and "Carnaval" and felt like the only woman in the place who wasn't pregnant.

Monday I definitely felt more in my element. It was a Ron King Big Band performance at Charlie O's Jazz Club. Charlie O's has different big bands every Monday night, and so I've done that gig many times. Once it was a big band debut for "Family Guy" composer Ron Jones, and Seth MacFarlane, the show's creator, came and sang a few Frank Sinatra tunes. That boy has talent, I assure you! He could have definitely had a career as a cruise ship singer. Ron King's band, however, was less of a draw. We had a sparse audience, but still had a few jazz luminaries. Frank Capp was there, as was Manhattan Transfer vocalist Tim Hauser. I got to sing one number, but the rest of the night was uncomfortably wedged up on the tiny stage in the trombone section. I realized that with our awkward arrangement I happened to be the only band member who had someone in front of me (the baritone saxophone) and behind me (a trumpet player). Whenever the bari sax player stood up to take a solo, he'd push his chair back into me a little more. I felt like Luke Skywalker, and I wanted to tell C-3PO to shut down all the garbage smashers on the detention level.

Which brings us to last night - the final gig in this little tour. We're back where we started - another Rat Pack show with the Dry Martinis. This time we were at the Sunset Tower, a Hollywood landmark residence-turned-hotel that's been around for almost 80 years. It epitomizes the words "posh" and "swank". I bashfully turned over my 1992 Camry that is covered in bird droppings (because I park it on the street under a tree) to the valet and hauled my gear onto the terrace. There was a dance floor emblazoned with the words "Will You Marry Me?" and the napkins on the table said "Yes I Will!" and had huge (fake) diamond rings for napkin rings. Everything was black and white and had a very Old Hollywood vibe. It was a celebration of the 60th anniversary of a couple's engagement. After the soundcheck the band leader took us all across the street to the Saddle Ranch Chop House for dinner. It's also a trendy spot (as are all places on that part of Sunset Boulevard) where you can ride a mechanical bull, and all the wait staff look like actors. Then we took our places on the band stand and waited for the guests to enter from where they were taking cocktails by the pool. (That would be the same pool that Iggy Pop used to dive, or attempt to dive into from his room window.)

The band played softly while the guests dined. I got out my plunger to play the melody on "Georgia", and I noticed guests at the head table pointing at me and mimicking the action of a trombone plunger. But these weren't just any guests. In particular it was "Let's Make a Deal" game show host Monty Hall, and actor Kirk Douglas and his wife Anne. How many trombonists can say they've had Spartacus mimic their plunger? Then, in a fitting end to a Hollywood evening, I stood waiting for my dirty old car to emerge from the garage amongst all the guests' Porsches and Mercedes when out from the hotel walked the self-proclaimed world's first supermodel - Janice Dickinson, and her date for the evening! I recognized her because of her appearance on an episode of "America's Next Top Model", and she was just as crazy last night as she seems on that show. A man walked up to her and offered her a cigarette, and soon they were blowing flumes of smoke and mispronouncing basic German phrases. Then Janice started screaming "Liar! Liar!" for no apparent reason. I didn't think anything could shock me after that, but the valet who drove up in my car saw me loading in my gear and he said, "Is that a trombone? Urbie Green is a good friend of mine!" Urbie Green is a trombone legend I idolize, and probably the only one of those old legends who is still alive, but I've never met him. How crazy that my valet hangs out with his son!

Now my total earnings for this week of work came to a paltry $915.00. I suppose that's one of the reasons that Jack Daney said, "To be a musician is a curse." But you can't buy these kinds of experiences either, and I love what I do, so that's probably why Jack added, "To NOT be one is even worse."

Next

The Informative Blog will be featuring music of musicians that I particularly like. Before long we'll have an interview with New York composer Daniel Schnyder, a feature on L.A. free-lance trombonist and jazz singer Alisha Ard, and something interesting about the Japanese group Kulchur Pirates.

DMA Recital

Here's the 1st movement of the Edward Gregson Concerto from my 1st DMA recital March 29 2008. Clips with better audio (and video) will probably appear at some point. Miriam Yutzy is at the piano.




Here's the second movement of Daniel Schnyder's Sonata. The movement is called "American Ballad" and you can't hear me because of my bucket mute.




Here's the 1st movement of the Patrick McCarty Sonata:



My son Cole also played a recital recently, as follows:

And that's all for Russian Music

Time to move on to another subject.

Tchaikovsky's Death

This isn't strictly related to the Kuchka, since Tchaikovsky wasn't a member of their circle, but I wrote it anyway, so here it is:

There are two main theories accounting for the death of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Alexandra Orlova has advanced the theory that he committed suicide. The "official" Soviet musicology is that he died of cholera, represented here by Alexander Poznansky. Below I will analyze the evidence associated with each theory.

Summaries of Current Theories
Orlova's theory is as follows: Tchaikovsky was involved in a homosexual relationship with the relative of a nobleman. The nobleman discovered this, was upset and planned to complain to the Tsar, which according to the law could have resulted in various unpleasant legal actions against Tchaikovsky, as well as general disgrace. Another consequence would be the shaming of Tchaikovsky's alma mater, the School of Jurisprudence in St. Petersburg. The reputation of the school was so sacred that a group of concerned fellow-alumni convened a secret "court", with Tchaikovsky in attendance, and determined that he must kill himself (thereby avoiding the public exposure) for the good of the school's reputation. Tchaikovsky agreed to this out of overwhelming fear of being exposed. He took poison in the ensuing days and his family members and doctors, when they discovered the truth, concocted the story of cholera to make the whole situation seem as uncontroversial as possible.
The primary motivation for this theory is Tchaikovsky's life-long torment with his homosexuality, as revealed by Orlova in various excerpts of letters from Tchaikovsky to family. These portray him as fairly unstable and Orlova suggests that he would have taken his own life rather than face the disgrace of public exposure and the legal penalties for his actions.
Primary evidence in support of this theory is a conversation Orlova had with Alexander Voitov, an alumnus and historian of the School of Jurisprudence, who told her the story of the secret court as he heard it from the wife of Nikolay Jacobi, the man who initiated it. Further accounts from Vasily Bertenson (one of the primary physicians at Tchaikovsky's bedside), Tchaikovsky's nephew Yury Davydov, Y. Zander (son of an assisting doctor to Bertenson) and Alexandr Ossovsky (music scholar and contemporary of Tchaikovsky) also mention poison or suicide. Orlova also points out that the details of the cholera story as described by Modest Tchaikovsky and primary doctor Lev Bertenson don't seem to match in certain particulars, which may indicate hasty fabrication in an attempt to cover the truth. Furthermore, it seems that medical precautions for cholera were not being observed at all at Tchaikovsky's bedside and at his viewing and funeral. Also, the unusually strong attempt to definitively establish the cause of death as cholera, initiated soon after Tchaikovsky died, by detailed letters to the press from Modest and Lev Bertenson, seems suspicious.
Overall, Orlova feels that there are enough questions about the cholera theory, and enough source material for a suicide/poison theory, that it is reasonable to assume that the long-time public opinion favoring the suicide story is on track.

In Alexander Poznansky's view, the rumors and gossip of suicide in connection with Tchaikovsky's death are the natural result of the mist of secrecy created by his homosexuality and the unexpectedness of his passing. Poznansky endeavors to put the rumors to a thorough test to see if they hold up. In particular he intends to focus on the external evidence of suicide brought up by Orlova, for if the external evidence can be dissolved, then any remaining motivation is useless in proving a case.
That said, most of his strongest points are those undermining the motivations advanced by Orlova. Poznansky's study of homosexual culture in St. Petersburg indicates that it flourished in both in the city, at court, and among close relatives of the Tsar himself, who held Tchaikovsky's music in high esteem. Tchaikovsky was only one of many prominent homosexuals, with some holding high positions at court and some being far more open than he, none of whom were prosecuted for their actions. This suggests that Tchaikovsky had nothing to fear in the way of legal action against him. Poznansky argues that the secret court of former classmates is unfathomable due to the fact that the School of Jurisprudence already had a fairly rich heritage of homosexual practice at the school, and homosexual alumni in the area. Why would they have gone after Tchaikovsky when he was primarily identified with the public as a composer, not as an alumni of the school? Even if the alumni group had for some reason decided that Tchaikovsky must be dealt with, Tchaikovsky had no reason to submit to their demand of suicide. He retained little fondness for the school and was at the peak of his own career, in the midst of numerous creative projects, and a favorite composer of the Tsar. He probably would have scoffed at their demand.
Poznansky further argues, backed by a quote from a Tchaikovsky letter, that Tchaikovsky was reconciled with his homosexual condition; he felt it was natural and was at peace, indicating that he would not have been especially terrified of exposure anyway.
Beyond this undermining of the motivation for suicide, Poznansky offers a few arguments against Orlova's actual evidence. Records indicate that Tchaikovsky was still corresponding and making plans with the future in mind after the time when he would have taken the poison. The conflicts in the press which Orlova sees as a controversy over suicide, Poznansky explains as a controversy over whether malpractice occurred in Tchaikovsky's treatment for cholera. The discrepancies in Modest Tchaikovsky and Lev Bertenson's published accounts of the final events can be seen as each of them independently trying to describe things in a way that clears them of any neglect or wrong-doing, possibly resulting in an inaccuracy here and there.

Analysis of Evidence
The biggest problem with both of these arguments is that they too often do not consist of the type of material likely to result in a realization of the truth. Orlova's initial writing is not particularly scholarly. She has some compelling and interesting pieces of "evidence", but she is really just trying to deduce a plausible context for them and is "supposing" the details that aren't certain. Outraged by this, Poznansky then overreacts to an astonishing degree, ridiculing her article as if she were trying to prove an indisputable case in court and has failed miserably. Further exchanges on the issue between David Brown, Poznansky, and Richard Taruskin consist mostly of overreactions to each other's overreactions with the arguments becoming further polarized instead of being drawn together towards the truth. Each side has a somewhat irrational air which probably leaves most unbiased readers suspecting that the truth lies with neither party, but is somewhere in between.
A more specific issue that seems to be present in the two original papers is quote mining from Tchaikovsky's letters. Conflicting quotes are taken in order to support both his supposed life-long anxiety and his supposed eventual reconciliation with his homosexuality. It would be more responsible for both authors to give a thorough context for any quotes from letters and to show why it is a credible source for their point.

Analyzing Orlova's Theory
I think that what makes Orlova's story believable to many people is the perceived link between the Soviet government's official denial of Tchaikovsky's homosexuality (accepted everywhere else) and their denial of anything but cholera as the cause of his death. The ridiculousness of the one implies a similar level of falsehood with the other. Orlova subtly suggests this link in her opening paragraph:
"Among musicians and the older residents of Leningrad there is no doubt: Tchaikovsky committed suicide, however much official Soviet musicology insists on maintaining the 'cholera' version instituted immediately after Tchaikovsky's death by his brother and the doctors who attended him. The broader public too believes in suicide connected with Tchaikovsky's homosexuality.[i] "
This is probably why many people seem to have latched onto the suicide story without looking further into the evidence. Unfortunately, there is no concrete evidence offered of a link between the Soviet stance on the two issues.
Orlova jumps to conclusions too much to avoid drawing a rebuke. She states that "one would not normally expect to find medical details in the obituaries of a composer...It is evident that some people were at pains to explain, to prove something (pg. 129)." Then on page 131 for some reason she decides that among all the conflicting evidence "it is impossible to disbelieve the medical bulletins" that were hung on the door of Modest's apartment. Therefore the conflicting personal accounts of Modest and Lev Bertenson must be questioned as if a conspiracy is for sure. By page 136, Orlova has built up her theory so carefully and with so many precarious assertions that this sentence apparently seems logical to her: "Further events, as recorded by Modest, are probably fictitious; it is pointless to examine them further here."[ii]
It seems like Orlova has only thought through her theory from her own point of view. She hasn't considered how tenuous it seems to others.

Analyzing Poznansky's Theory
There are also some particular problems with Alexander Poznansky's arguments. In general, he misunderstands her focus. On page 210 of his article he criticizes her for "resort[ing] to the conspiracy theory" to explain the differences in the testimonies of Modest and Lev Bertenson.[iii] He doesn't seem to realize that her whole point was that there was a conspiracy and these details seem to lend support to it. Why should she present a different explanation? She may have considered several, but evidently felt that hers was the best. Poznansky might have saved an enormous amount of fussing by looking carefully and rationally at Orlova's article, conceding that there are some suspicious-looking things to account for, and then presenting his research showing how unlikely it is that her scenario took place. As it is, he royally overreacted and provoked "a good deal of heat but precious little light" as David Brown said.[iv]
In his zeal, Poznansky has gotten carried away into some arguments that are no stronger than Orlova's. His statement concerning the likelihood of a slow-acting poison to be found in St. Petersburg was entertaining. He refers to an unnamed toxicologist who goes as far as to say that such a poison would be "unusually rare."[v] Poznansky pushes this across as a solid point, combined with his own reasoning: "poison in general is a fast-acting agent, as anyone who reads murder mysteries knows."[vi] Silly Alexandra, she was evidently looking in all the wrong places for proof.

Conclusions
My own conclusion is that the suicide-conspiracy theory is unlikely, given the homosexual climate in the city and in the government at the time, as argued by Poznansky. Although his arguments are in the end stronger and more reasonable, it was a bit of a drag wading through the emotional muck and polemic to arrive at this point. Maybe what the issue really needs is an impartial scholar or two to wade in and sort through the muck with an open mind an a willingness to look objectively at the evidence as a whole, not in any reaction to either side. The problem is most of these scholars seem to be too smart to get involved.

[i]Alexandra Orlova and David Brown. “Tchaikovsky: The Last Chapter,” Music and Letters, 62 no. 2 (April 1981), 125.
[ii] Ibid. 136.
[iii] Alexander Poznansky. “Tchaikovsky’s Suicide: Myth and Reality,” 19th-Century Music, 11 no. 3 (Spring 1988), 210.
[iv] David Brown, "How Did Tchaikovsky Come to Die—and Does It Really Matter?" Music and Letters 78 no.4 (Nov. 1997), 588.
[v] Poznansky, 207.
[vi] Ibid.

Boris Godunov-The Story

I don't really feel like summing up the plot to Boris Godunov in my own words. There are plenty of other places you can go for the plot. For example, just click here: Synopsis

Boris Godunov-Rejection and Revision

Musorgsky finished writing Boris Godunov in 1869 and submitted it to the Imperial Theater in St. Petersburg. It was rejected solely due to the lack of a prima donna role. The couldn't do an opera without a female role in it. Musorgksy was told that if he could insert one scene with a female character, performance of Boris would be assured.
Musorgsky began work on the revision immediately. However, he went far beyond adding the one scene required. A complete over haul of the opera commenced, including an entire new act (two scenes) featuring the new Polish princess Marina Mniszech, a new scene in the final act, and one of the old final act scenes being cut right out. In addition to all this, the music was revised thoroughly, to bring more of a serious and tragic feel to the opera. These extra revisions likely were motivated by reception of the work at a private performance of the original Boris at the home of Vladimir Stasov. It seems that Musorgsky's own friends could not come to a consensus as to whether it was meant as a comedy or a tragedy. It seems that the opéra dialogué style, a distinct feature of the original Boris, was more suited to a comedic style (like The Marraige) than a serious work. So Musorgsky took a much more melodic and emotional approach to his revision, undoubtedly creating the intended serious tone.
The opera was re-submitted to the theater committee in 1872, and after some delay was accepted and performed and published in 1874.

Opéra Dialogué

Opéra dialogué was the style of opera promoted by the Kuchka in the 1860s and 1870s. The idea originated with Cesar Cui who felt that an ideal opera was an unchanged setting of a good literary text in a semi-melodic recitative style. The idea was to make the music blend with the speech of the characters as much as possible and to cut out all the "extra" music (arias etc...) which was unnecessary for the plot. Thus were to be no closed form musical numbers in an opéra dialogué unless a character in the drama was actually singing a song in the story or something like that.
One of the first composers to try an opéra dialogué was Dargomizhsky, who did The Sone Guest. Although it wasn't a hit with audiences, the Kuchka held it up as a standard for that they wanted in opera. Cui's own attempt, William Ratcliff was a complete failure and was treated brutally by critics. The general dissaproval of opéra dialogué was probably rooted in the fact that there was significantly less melodic material for the audience to hold on to, and no virtuosic arias or such things that they commonly appreciated.
Musorgsky also started work on an opera dialogue project, The Marraige, on a text by Gogol. In so doing, he developed his skill of writing speech-like musical settings of the Russian language. He made the musical line follow the pace and cadence of speech. This meant that odd angular intervals were used in the melodic line and strong syllables were placed on strong beats where they would sound natural--agogic accents and the like.
Musorgsky only finished one scene of The Marraige, realized it would not succeed, and moved on to a new operatic project, Boris Godunov. But he applied much of this new technique to his initial version of Boris.

Modest Musorgsky (1839-1881)

Early Life:
Musorgsky, like most of the Kuchka circle, started at his adult life in the military. He was the second son in his family, and his older brother was slated to inherit and run the family estate, while Modest was expected to have a military career. As you might expect, he showed signs of musical creativity quite early; as a small child he would try to improvise piano accompaniments to the folktales his nurse would tell him.1 Well, his military career lasted just two years, and in 1858, having begun to study composition with Balakirev, he resigned his commission and devoted himself to music. In retrospect, this might not have been the best idea: Modest was largely relying on income from the family estate and when Tsar Alexander II liberated the serfs throughout the country in 1861 the estate suffered greatly in productivity causing Modest to seek support elsewhere.

1 ROBERT WILLIAM OLDANI: 'Musorgsky, Modest Petrovich, §1: Childhood and beginnings as a composer', Grove Music Online (Accessed 26 March 2008), <http://www.grovemusic.com/shared/views/article.html?section=music.19468.1>

Mily Balakirev (1836-1910)

Balakirev was the leader of the "Moguchaya Kuchka". He was the only one who had met Glinka personally, and he sought to continue in the nationalistic direction that Glinka had been going. Although Glinka's nationalistic ideas consisted mostly of including folk material in serious music, Balakirev took a passionate political approach to establishing Nationalism as the dominant musical style in Russia. His orchestral pieces outline a fascinating development, first departing from Glinka's Kamarinskaya and ending in a style which, especially harmonically, is an antithesis of Western European developments. More on Balakirev's influence on the Kuchka later.

A Life for the Tsar

Glinka got the idea of a Russian nationalistic opera shortly after returning from his trip to Italy in 1833. He was not terribly impressed with the Italian style, and since it dominated the opera scene in his homeland as well as his trip abroad, it is easy to see why he was with Vasily Zhukovsky's suggestion to try an opera to the story of Ivan Susanin, the peasant-hero who had sacrificed his life in 1613 to keep the Polish army from discovering the hiding place of the tsar-elect Mikhail Romanov before Romanov was officially installed. The opera worked out rather well. In 1833 the idea of Official Nationality had been spread throughout Russia, expressing the idea that orthodoxy, autocracy, and nationality were all bound together and that personal happiness was gained through support of the Tsar who, in turn, was chosen and supported by God himself. This ideology was naturally intertwined in the story. The opera begins with Ivan Susanin lamenting the lack of a Tsar in Russia and advising his daughter and future son-in-law that it is no time for a wedding when the country is languishing with no true God-ordained ruler. Russia was in the "Time of Troubles" following the fall of Boris Godunov (hey, there's an opera coming up about him, too) and the strong presence of the Poles in Russia had everyone rather down. When news of the election of Mikhail Romanov comes, everyone is thrilled and the wedding plans commence. This is quenched, however, when the Polish army (the enemy) shows up and demands to be taken to the place where Romanov is hiding, intending to prevent his installation and maintain power in Russia. Ivan Susanin appeases the Poles by offering to lead them to Romanov, but instead he leads them far out into the frozen forest where they have no chance of surviving or finding their way back. When they discover his trick, Ivan mocks their failure and their hopeless fate and they kill him. The final scene is the celebration at Red Square where the coronation of Tsar Romanov takes place and Susanin's family is recognized and honored for their father's sacrifice. One of the most interesting things about the opera is Glinka's use of reminiscence music for dramatic effect near the end. As Ivan Susanin lies awake with the Poles in the forest, realizing his fate, he sings of his family and his various experiences, while corresponding motives from earlier in the opera come floating back. This practice had been used by plenty of European composers (Mozart and Verdi), but Glinka was the first to do it in Russia. More interesting things to follow.

Mikhail Glinka (1804-1857)

Glinka was "the first Russian composer to combine distinction in speaking the musical idiom of the day with a personal and strongly original voice."1 He was exposed to music from an early age and as he grew up he became somewhat disenchanted with the lack of any real "Russian" music.
After spending three years in Italy experiencing the Italian opera tradition and studying the classics, Glinka returned to Russia and shortly after began work on an opera that would be different from everything that had been done in Russia. This one would be distinctly Russian, based on folk themes and the classic Russian story of Ivan Susanin, which had previously been set as an opera by Catterino Cavos in 1815. It worked out well. The name was changed to A Life for the Tsar shortly before the 1836 premiere. Glinka masterfully incorporated the doctrine of Official Nationality that had recently been promulgated throughout the country, and the work was a great success.
His next major project was a fantasy opera after a story by Pushkin, Ruslan and Lyudmila. Due to a disjunct collaborative process with various librettists, the opera didn't earn the same good reception that his earlier work did, and Glinka never again attempted an operatic project. In Ruslan, Glinka incorporates oriental (middle-eastern) music with diatonic material to represent the various characters, while holding on to a Rossinian Italian form for some scenes and wrapping it all up in a large circular form.
The other significant contribution of Glinka is his orchestral piece Kamarinskaya, a fantasy on two popular folk songs. This provided the model for Mily Balakirev's later attempts to establishing Russian nationalistic music as a legitimate genre.
Overall, Glinka is best known for pioneering the use of Russian folk music in major works for the orchestra and theatre. He was the first native Russian composer to be well-known throughout Europe, and nearly all Russian composers after considered Glinka their main example and influence.

1 JAMES STUART CAMPBELL: 'Glinka, Mikhail Ivanovich', Grove Music Online (Accessed 20 February 2008), <http://www.grovemusic.com/shared/views/article.html?section=music.11279>

Timeline of Italian and French Opera in Russia

One of the results of Peter the Great's "window on the West" was the importation of Italian opera troups from Europe to the imperial court at St. Petersburg. This began under the reign of Tsaritsa Anna (1730-1740) and continued to expand for several decades. Here's the timeline:

1731- Calando by Giovanni Ristori is the 1st opera performed in Russia

1735- Francesco Araja comes to St. Petersburg with an opera seria company.

1736- First opera seria in Russia: La forza del 'amore e dell 'odio (Araja).

1741- Opera by Johann Adolf Hasse, La Clemenza di Tito (text by Metastasio) for Tsaritsa Elizabeth's coronation. Includes a prologue by Domenico dall 'Oglio: La Russia aflitta e riconsolata.

1755- First opera with Russian text: Tsefal i Prokris by Araja and Sumarkov. Huge success.

1762- Catherine (II) the Great becomes Tsaritsa. Establishes extravagant court music culture, modeled after Versailles. Also French opera comique is imported. Although the Italian opera seria is still maintained at court, the tsaritsa's preference for French opera draws emerging native Russian composers to use it as their model.

1765- Baldassare Galuppi becomes principle court composer and director of opera.

1768-Tommaso Traetta becomes principle court composer and director of opera.

1776- Giovanni Paisiello becomes principle court composer and director of opera.

1776- With French opera evolving, which is often based on folk tunes, collections of Russian folk songs begin to emerge.

1781- Skupoi (The Miser) by Vasily Alekseyevich Pashkevich is possibly the first opera composed by a native Russian. Modeled after the French opera comique.

1782- Paisiello's Il barbiere di Siviglia becomes a big hit in Russia and spreads to Europe where Mozart decides to sequel it with Le Nozze di Figaro in 1784.

1784- Giuseppi Sarti becomes principle court composer and director of opera.

1790- Nikolay L'vov and Jan Prach publish their collection of folk songs with western harmonizations.

1796- Composer Catterino Cavos comes to St. Petersburg from Venice.

1804- Fancois-Adrian Boieldieu is brought to head the Court's French opera troupe.

1815- Ivan Susanin by Cavos is premiered.

Throughout this timeline, nothing distinctly Russian developed. It was all Italian opera written by imported Italian composers at first, with French comic opera arriving later, and the early native Russian composers emulating these styles.

The Influence of Peter the Great

Peter the Great (1672-1725) caused a breakthrough in the development of Russian culture. His reign (1682-1725) directed his people's attention to the Western European countries which had flourished in technological development, science, literature and the arts. Even though Peter wasn't a great music lover, and valued it little besides its practical use, his efforts in opening up a flow of knowledge and skill from the West paved the way for his music-loving descendants on the throne, Tsaritsa Anna (reigned 1730-1740) and Tsaritsa Catherine II (reigned 1762-1796).
What Peter the Great seems to have been most concerned about was the great discrepancy between Western European civilization and Russia's. He traveled often to foreign places, met a lot of smart people like Sir Isaac Newton, and brought back well-educated teachers, scientists, and musicians to teach the people and bring them up to the level of the rest of the world.

Russian Music before Peter the Great

In the way of secular music, there were minstrils, or skomorokhi, who probably traveled and sang songs like minstrels in other countries. There isn't much (if any) in the way of musical sources surviving, because their craft was an oral tradition. So all we can do is conjecture based on iconography and knowledge from similar people in other countries (like the troubadours of France). Once the Orthodox church took over the dominant position in Russian music, the skomorokhi were persecuted and kept from having any major influence.
In the church, beginning with Vladimir of Kiev's 988 A.D. conversion to Christianity we expect to find chant, as that's what was going on most places at that point. We don't know much about this early Russian chant because the notation used in the surviving sources is (so far) undecipherable. Decipherable chant sources have been found dating back to the mid 1500s. Solely momophonic (znamenyi) chant existed through the 16th century. In the 17th century, a more florid chant called demestvennyi chant appeared. Due to its complexity it may have been intended for trained singers. Also in the 17th century polyphonic motets appeared. This represents the most significant penetration of Western Culture to this point, at least in music. These polyphonic pieces are based on the Venetian tradition and the style was transmitted by Polish composers who had been in Venice and returned to Poland. From there the tradition gradually spread through the Ukraine and into Russia. Who were these Polish composers? I don't know. Maybe I'll try and look them up.
So, the simple znamenyi chant, the more advanced demestvennyi chant, and the quasi-venetian polychoral motets constituted the extent of progress in Russian music through the time of Monteverdi, Gabrieli, Purcell and many other sophisticated European composers.
One other body of music exists also: rather dissonant polyphonic motets that seem to be based on folk music. The dissonance is such that it either represents a strange and astounding pocket of harmonic exploration somewhere in the 17th and 18th centuries, or today's scholars have not figured out how to transcribe the sources correctly.

Why Russia did not develop a musical culture like Western European countries

When Vladimir of Kiev converted to Orthodox Christianity in 988 AD, he enforced the practices of the church over all of Russia. This included a dearth of instrumental music in the church and a persecution of influential music outside the church. Whereas in Europe instrumental music evolved primarily in the church, and great composers like Gabrieli, Bach, Handel, and Mozart wrote instrumental masterpieces for church occasions, in Russia there was nothing but unaccompanied choral music, aside from the wandering skomorokhi who were kept out of influence by the church. This strict rule suppressed creativity and experimentation that flourished in Europe, slowing developmental progress, and further detracted any European composers from taking interest in or having opportunities to work in Russia. It was a kind of stagnant pool.

Also the invasion of the Mongols in the 13th century seems to have had a suppressing influence on cultural development. Perhaps it was partly due to 600 years of military action, pushing the Mongols further and further back to their original land, and partly because the dominant Mongols were not a culturally sensitive people; i.e. they had nothing to offer and didn't encourage or tolerate the development of anyone else. I don't know for sure.