Ukrainian singer about music contests’ backstage intrigue and “new” music lovers

Anzhelina Shvachka has every mark of an opera star. She is pretty, tall, slim, and most importantly, she has a beautiful voice. She also has the prestigious title, ‘Merited Artist of Ukraine’ and has performed unforgettable classical impersonations on the stage of the National Opera. Her most acclaimed role, however, is Carmen, winning her recognition at home and abroad. She has successfully competed in international contests: Grand Prix in Beskow, Germany (1997); diploma at the Mirjam Helin Contest, Helsinki (1999); third prize at the Byul-Byul contest in Baku, Azerbaijan (2000); second prize at the Alchevsky contest, Alchevsk, Ukraine (2001). Foreign impresarios took an interest in her, and now Anzhelina has fans in Europe and Asia.

They say that a singer’s family is half of her success. Anzhelina is happily married. Her husband, Oleh Vostriakov, is a journalist, who writes articles about his wife. Her father-in-law is also her beloved partner on stage, Merited Artist of Ukraine Oleksandr Vostriakov. He is always there to help and encourage her. Her mother-in-law Liubov Hryhorieva is a physician specializing in phoniatrics. This is probably what makes Anzhelina so confident, although she insists that she has been independent since childhood.

She was born in Dnipropetrovsk. At grade school, she enrolled in six various hobby groups, including a choir and an amateur rock group. Her daily schedule was so tight, she would often return home at 11 p.m. with just enough strength to get into bed. The ballet training she received as a child helps even now as Anzhelina performs the Segedilla and the Gypsy dance as Carmen.

The future Ukrainian opera star left home at 14, entering a music college in Dniprodzerzhinsk (majoring in choir conducting). To get a rehearsal room, she would get up at 4:30 a.m. “Tough, but it helped mold my character,” recalls Anzhelina. She graduated with honors and was told she could make an excellent conductor, yet she loved singing. She enrolled in the Kyiv Conservatory of Music. Her professor was Halyna Tuftina, soloist with the National Opera. As all students, Anzhelina regularly went to the Opera, combining business and pleasure, learning from impersonations and enjoying the aesthetic aspect. Soon she heard her favorite singer, Oleksandr Vostriakov. She was conquered by the power and beauty of his dramatic tenor and tried not to miss a single opera with him. Imagine her joy when she joined the company and discovered she was on the same cast with him. Together they sang in Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov (Marina Mniszek and Dmitry the Pretender), Prince Ihor (the Konchak Woman and Volodymyr Ihorevych), Mascagni’s Rustic Chivalry (Lola and Turidu), Verdi’s Rigoletto (Maddalena and the Duke), Bizet’s Carmen (Carmencita and Jose). Once Oleksandr Vostriakov’s son Oleh saw Anzhelina on television and was smitten. Shortly afterward they met in person. Oleh drove his father home after the performances, and started driving Anzhelina home too. Soon they realized that they were meant for each other and got married. At the wedding reception the MC asked the guests where one should look for a wife, — at school, in a streetcar, or in the street. Oleh said that he found his wife on television, and that it was the best arrangement ever.

At present, the most important thing for Anzhelina Shvachka is her son, born in late December. Incidentally, as an expectant mother she jumped with a parachute, went on a concert tour abroad, made recordings for the radio, took part in various soirees and concerts, vied in the Tchaikovsky international contest, and returned home with a diploma for placing fifth.

Anzhelina, you must have been bitterly disappointed to receive only a diploma in Moscow, considering your popularity and the fact that many described the event as the Shvachka Contest?

Yes, and what hurt the most was not being pushed back undeservedly, but the fact that everyone competed for money. A Japanese corporation added ten thousand to the twenty thousand dollars worth of the first prize. This created an unhealthy atmosphere among the contestants and the jury, even though most awards have been determined in advance, a fact no one even tried to conceal. Mammon is a deadly threat to real art. Yet I was not there for the money. I do not see a contest as an opportunity to pay for car repairs or to finish the construction of a dacha (unfortunately there are many performers who think the opposite). I wanted to sing, enjoy myself, and do my best. I did all that.

They used to say that one had to travel to Moscow to have justice restored. What about now? Perhaps it’s not worth taking part in contests where everybody knows who will win?

I believe the main thing is singing for your audience. You can’t buy your listeners’ affection, not with money or titles.

Did you communicate with the winners after the contest?

No, I didn’t even stay for the closing banquet; I had to return to Kyiv. June 24, I got off the train and rushed to the Opera for the rehearsal of Ruslan and Ludmila. It was scheduled as a costume concert the next day, at the Lysenko Hall of Columns. I couldn’t let down my colleagues.

You have performed abroad. Which audiences do you prefer?

Unfortunately, we no longer have the enthusiastic and passionate audience we used to have at the Ukrainian Opera, when people met Yevheniya Myroshnychenko and Anatoly Solovyanenko with bouquets of flowers at the staff entrance after the performance. We no longer have all those women worshipping Lemeshev and Kozlovsky, fighting over who was best, and following their idols across the Soviet Union. Today’s audience is close-fisted with money, so to say. Some spectators forget to turn off their cell phones, and even do not mind answering calls during the performance.

I remember from my childhood that it was unthinkable to go to the theater wearing jeans and sweater. Now it’s different.

Yes, it means that our audience lacks culture. It’s quite different abroad. You have to dress up for the theater. People in Moscow, Vilnius, and Baku showered me with flowers after the performance, asked for autographs or having a picture taken with me. In fact, I still receive letters from Moscow. Here in Kyiv, my home city — well, I am not even sure I have any fans. I get the impression that I’m being taken for granted, that they are sure I’ll be there no matter what. And they are not especially excited by visiting stars. At the Philharmonic Society it is different. The audience is more refined; they know when they see a good performer, and they can show their appreciation.

With your voice you can sing coloratura parts written for a mezzo soprano. Why don’t you?

Actually, I include the coloratura arias from Rossini’s Semiramide and Meyerbeer’s Huguenots in my concert programs. No one else sings them here. But if I start singing them often, I will have to quit the company; we do not stage operas with coloratura mezzo sopranos, coloratura basses and baritones. This kind of music calls for a different vocal technique and the singer’s larynx changes. If I did it, I would not be able to sing as Carmen or Lyubasha. Well, I could do Santuzza, Eboli, and also Rosina (her part was originally written for a mezzo), as they suggested and I did in Ankara. Like I said, it is dangerous, you can lose your voice.

Interesting things tend to happen on tours. We know that you have experienced most of your adventures as Carmen, which is the principle part on you repertoire.

I first sang as Carmen in Baku, in 1999. The audience was ecstatic and my dressing room was besieged by fans after the first act, all eager to take pictures with me. They nearly broke down the door. I asked for a militia anti-riot squad to guard the room. The famous Soviet pop singer Polad Byul- Byul Ogly was then the Minister of Culture of Azerbaijan. He presented me with a gold coin and said that a golden voice should be paid in gold. In 2000, I was again in Baku, again as Carmen, and then there was the earthquake. I was taking a shower in my hotel room when the earth shook, and the lights went off. I broke a vase of flowers, groping in the dark for my passport and money. My room was on the 21st floor and the elevator had been out of service before the earthquake, so it would take me about fifteen minutes to walk down the stairs. I do not know how but I found myself in the lobby several minutes later, wet, barefoot, with just a few clothes on. It was December. I found the rest of the guests in a similar condition, some wearing pajamas, others just shorts, but no one would pester anyone; all felt like companions in distress. Yes, there are quite a few things I can remember about my tours.

You are a courageous woman. Does the same apply to your creative search?

Yes, I love experimenting. I appeared in a show in Dnipropetrovsk, based on Tchaikovsky Eugene Onegin. I sang as Olga and the pop singer Sergei Penkin was Lensky. There were pyrotechnic effects and slides with scenes from movies in the backdrop meant to create an 19th century atmosphere. Everything was very unusual. At present, I work with a producer’s agency preparing a rock opera, so I will sing with a rock star, I do not know who as of now.

How do you work off the stress?

Caring for my family, and spending time with my favorite pet, my little dachshund Cleopatra. She is just like me; I mean her character. And she has fans, too, but she does not flirt with just anyone. She reminds me of Carmen — so very independent.

Anzhelina, you can rest assured you have fans here and they are worried about your absence from the National Opera stage. When are you coming back?

Soon, I hope. My mother-in-law promised to help with the baby, and I have some international tours scheduled in February and March.