As a boy from a deported Crimean Tatar family, Enver Izmailov did not seem to stand a chance, but now he is confidently carrying out his solo lifelong project

The Day hosted a legendary mu sician, master of folk ethnic jazz Enver Izmailov, who was in Kyiv, to take part in the presentation of the multimedia CD Crimean Tatars, Inheritors of Old Cultures, released by the volunteer organization Spivdruzhnist, assisted by the Fund for Cultural Relief at the US Embassy. The project involved experts from Ukraine, France, Germany, the US, Qatar, and Japan. The disk contains extensive data relating to Crimean Tatar history and culture, interesting photos, video and audio materials illustrating ages-old traditions, rites, and current realities of the peninsula as the Tatars return to their ancestral homeland after being deported under Stalin. And it has compositions by Enver Izmailov, one of the most spectacular folk jazzmen skilled at tapping (playing with both hands), whose virtuoso performance highlighted the presentation. We took advantage of the concert and invited the musician over. The man turned out immune to the star syndrome and quite sociable. He told many interesting things about his life and creative endeavors.

Planning this interview for our July 4 issue in the Ukrainian and Russian, knowing it would mark the American Independence Day, and preparing a poll of our experts about American values that Ukraine should borrow, we asked Enver to list his own scale of values. He replied instantly: freedom, professionalism, and the well being of his near and dear, adding that those values were what we should borrow from the Americans. This could serve quite well as an epigraph for our conversation.

CONSTRUCTION, BASSOON, AND GUITAR

“I was born to a worker’s family in Fergana and my becoming a musician could be described as a whim of fate. We lived like so many others, meaning we didn’t have a record player or television, so I could listen to music only on the radio. I was especially fond of pop songs and rock music. Once, when I was 14, my father’s younger brother brought a seven-string guitar and taught me several chords. I felt strongly attracted to the instrument. The guitar was old and strings thick, almost like in a double bass. Plucking and pressing them took a lot of strength. I learned to play by myself, competing with the boys in the yard, picking out tunes. Of course, I didn’t dream of ever becoming a professional musician at the time. My father was a carpenter, and he wanted me to do likewise. Since I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about the craft, my uncle suggested that I enroll in a vocational school and learn gas welding. I did, and I still have fourth grade. I also had to do some construction work, and then it was draft time. At the military registration and enlistment office, they signed me up for a driving school and the skill proved useful when I served in the Far East. Honestly, I wasn’t happy about the prospect of being a construction worker or truck driver. My aunt then prevailed on my parents, and I enrolled in a music college. There were no guitar classes, and I decided on the domra. The instrument was like the guitar, except that it had four strings. For me the main thing was to become a professional musician, so I could read and play music. As fate would have it, the domra class was closed that same year, and they offered to teach me to play an Uzbek folk instrument called rhubab. I was frustrated and decided to quit, but Sergei Gavrilov, retired drum major and teacher at the wind instruments chair, talked me out of it, saying they had vacancies and that I could choose between the tuba, trombone, or bassoon. I turned out no good for the tuba, my lips were too thin. The trombone was already in use (they’d found another student), so I took up the bassoon. I thought I’d get my diploma and then see. My training didn’t last long as I was drafted into the army. Imagine a young fellow from sunlit Uzbekistan finding himself in the Far East with its short summers and long severe winters. We young conscripts had our share of bullying by superiors, but of course not to the horrifying degree like now. I ended up in an engineer regiment and practiced music when off duty, meaning very seldom. A year passed living through the army routine. Once we were visited by the Far East Army District Song and Dance Ensemble. I was on mess duty and spoke to some of the men. I mentioned the guitar and played for them. They liked it, but when their major learned that I still had to serve ten months, he said he couldn’t take me. I then played my trump, saying I could also play the bassoon and lied that I could read music and had my own instrument. This decided him.

“My joining the ensemble was not uneventful. When it was time to leave I threw a party that ended in a brawl, and I was locked in the guardhouse. The CO was angry as hell, shouting I could kiss my “philharmonic” transfer goodbye. Fortunately, the chief of staff interceded and my term of ten days was commuted to 24 hours of digging pole holes. Through with penal labor, I was sent on my way to the ensemble. As I arrived it became obvious that I didn’t have a bassoon of my own, but then my parents helped, sending a textbook and 700 rubles (a lot of money in those days), so I could buy the instrument. Also, I had lied to the major, saying I had studied for three years at the music college; I had studied for only a year. While in the army, I’d forgotten much of what I’d learned (to tell the truth, hadn’t learned much anyway). The orchestra boys covered for me. I spent a week practicing vigorously and made it. That’s how my life in military music began. The ensemble was based in Khabarovsk, but we toured all over the Soviet Union. It was a very good school, so I eventually returned to the music college as an experienced musician. After graduation, I vied in competitions at various levels, winning prizes, yet it was all amateur, a pastime rather than a serious occupation; I mostly earned a living playing at restaurants and sometimes at weddings...

“I did a lot of experimenting on my guitar and eventually decided to attach another neck. After that, I played for my friends to see their reaction; when you practice so much you get used to your instrument, you need someone else to listen to it and tell you if it’s really any good. In fact, I knew I could show good technique using the conventional guitar. Among other things, I could make a fair job of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee (I had it recorded on one of my first albums) and I played with Fergana’s Sato rock group, with Narket Ramazanov’s sax and flute (the two of us are still with the Minaret trio, starring Rustem Bari at percussion). We played folk jazz even then, doing Uzbek, Tatar, and our own music, performing at all those “houses of culture” [Soviet version of a club or community center] and festivals, although we weren’t affiliated with any philharmonic society [under the Soviets any performing group had to have a certain official status, subject to official censorship, so its repertoire could be checked and approved before letting it on stage]. We were lucky. In 1976-80, Fergana hosted international jazz festivals, starring musicians from all over the USSR and from the West. Sure enough, we were exposed to much domestic criticism, but we had been noticed, and there was some media coverage...”

CRIMEA: STARTING FROM SCRATCH

“My family went through the deportation. May 18, 1944 is a tragic date for the Crimean Tatars. My parents were deported from their native village when they were in their teens. It marked a turning point in their life. A whole people had turned into an outcast, an enemy. They experienced countless hardships. In fact, my parents tried to avoid the subject, afraid even memories would bring disaster on their children if they in earshot. However, I’d always known where we came from. We spoke Tatar at home, and I was enrolled in a daycare center and then grade school where Russian was the language of instruction.

“I returned to my native land in 1989 as a grownup. I had to start from scratch, figuratively and literally. Fergana was then a scene of ethnic hostilities, so our family had to leave on short notice. Thinking back to that time, I understand it was a provocation, but the situation was terrible, and we had to act quickly. I was then a married man, father of two daughters. All our non-Uzbek neighbors were fleeing, leaving their homes. But for those tragic events, we could have stayed in Fergana. As it was, we had to leave, and I decided to return to our homeland [the Crimea]. I had visited the peninsula several times to establish contacts and see if I could get a job and a home. I hadn’t been able to. Housing costs were soaring, so one could buy a house at reasonable price only in a backwater province. After all, I was a musician, so I had to live closer to civilization. Finally, I had found a more or less suitable option, half a house for sale in a village not far from Dzhankoi. When it came time to register the deed, I discovered that the paperwork had been done wrong, which meant that I had to start all over again. It was then I experienced all the perils of our bureaucracy. I was a nonentity to the local bureaucrats, none of them appreciated jazz. By the time I had several records cut by the Melodia Company and ranked as the fifth leading jazzman. The bureaucrats wanted bribes, and I couldn’t afford them... Then I got a break. One of the collective farms wanted to hire a music teacher for the local club. The offer included a place to live. Once again I had to start all over. I earned a living as a teacher, placed in charge of the so-called children’s ensemble, using my spare time to shape a solo program. I was little known to the local Tatar community; our people were scattered all over the former Soviet Union. Even after returning to the Crimea, they all had different mentalities associated with the various places they’d lived. Getting adjusted was hard. My first performance on the peninsula was under the program of festivities commemorating Ismail Gasprinsky, a great Crimean enlightener. The project was held under the auspices of UNESCO, and my solo performance turned out to be extremely successful and shocking. Mine was a kind of music the local audiences had never heard, and the press reactions were just as mixed. An old man came up after the concert, saying you did a good job, kid, you ought to play at weddings. I realized that to him this was the highest praise.”

“I’M MY OWN MANAGER”

“In 1991, I was offered a concert tour of the Baltic states. The organizing committee planned it as a single concert in a single place, but then, seeing the cheering audiences, suggested three more concerts. After the Tallinn festival, attended by music critics from a number of countries, I discovered I had a lot of fans. After that I was offered tours in Finland and Germany.

“I think my first performance abroad was funny. I was very nervous, being in Finland, a genuinely capitalist country. Also, the concert was on my birthday. I tried to visualize my audience and the way all those people would respond to my music, but the reality proved entirely different. I found myself in a small jazz club, facing people seated at their tables, eating, drinking, and listening. Another concert was organized in front of a supermarket. I had mikes and wires linked to the amplifiers and was told to play. The equipment turned out to be far from adequate. Worst of all, there was no audience, except for customers just passing by. Under the contract I had to play for fifty minutes, so I picked the guitar, closed my eyes, and started playing. Shortly afterward, a sour-faced female manager ran over and started saying something I couldn’t understand. Eventually, it transpired she wanted me to turn down the volume. Great! I felt lousy but told myself that musicians in the West often had to perform at cafes, in the street, and didn’t think it such a bad thing. At the time I held my ambitions in check, but now I would never accept such a contract. It was a lesson I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Before you make a deal, you have to learn everything about it, otherwise you might get into trouble. Now I’m a musician well known in Europe, and I play only for those who really like jazz. I don’t have a manager, meaning I have to make all the arrangements for every concert myself. I often get personal invitations, often on the Internet. The trouble is, I don’t know much about it or computers. I don’t have one. I have to meet people and discuss everything to avoid unpleasant surprises. Sometimes I play for charity. I do so where and whenever I think it’s necessary. And, of course, when friends ask me. But I can’t keep it up on a regular basis. I have a family to support, including grandchildren.

“I never do crap in my concerts. For me, every concert is like the first and only time. I wish I could play more in Ukraine, but most business offers come from abroad. Staging concerts in Ukraine is difficult, it takes sponsors.

I’m working on a new solo album. I have nine guitars of my own, mostly secondhand, bought cheap. Four guitars are custom-made, two presented by friends. I can’t say that I have one single instrument I love the best. I pick a guitar depending on the kind of sound I want to get out of it; each has its own voice.

“I put together one of my concert programs together with my daughter Linie. She isn’t performing now, having to look after her newborn son. In fact, my daughter is a very purposeful young lady; she takes after me in many ways. She has a beautiful voice and she plays the piano, while being in the fourth year at the Institute of Foreign Languages. She’s fluent in English and German. We plan to record songs of The Beatles. I think it’s going to be an interesting project, especially considering that there will be a female vocal part. My younger daughter isn’t a musician, although she has an exquisite ear for music. She got married two years ago and recently had a son. This means I have two grandsons, one a month old and the other three months.”

IDEAS FROM FOLK MUSIC

“I’m happy to watch jazz music gain scope and momentum in Ukraine. The audiences are getting larger in Kyiv, Odesa, Donetsk, and elsewhere. I’d say that Odesa is the Ukrainian jazz capital city, just as New York is the world’s jazz mecca. Every time performing abroad I felt like I’m representing all of Ukraine — although there have been cases when I was described as an Uzbek musician, maybe because I was born in Fergana.

“I consider myself lucky, since the language of music doesn’t require translation; it’s understandable to any audience anywhere in the world. The guitar has a remarkable quality; you can play all kinds of melodies. Given some extra skill, one can even simulate different instruments. Folk music inspires me to get fresh ideas. For example, my composition Western Funk is based on the Tatar folk song Sweetheart. The original tune is mournful, but I render it in a modern style, making it more dynamic. The Shawl Dance is traditionally performed at Tatar wedding parties. It’s a contest in which one has to pick a shawl off the floor without touching it with one’s hands. The tune is rhythmic, fiery, and at the climax, as a dancer is ready to pick up the shawl, the music becomes slow. As the man lifts the shawl from the floor he is greeted with a drum roll, then the tune mounts, turning into a quick dance. Traditionally, coins and banknotes are tossed at the shawl and young people have to show a lot of prowess to pick all of it. Sometimes the dances haggle over the sum to be tossed on the shawl. Some even manage to fold the shawl first and pick it next.

“The Shepherds’ Haitarma rhythms are widespread in Tatar music, akin to the Brazilian bossa nova, marked by an unusual sophisticated meter ranging from 7/16 to 9/8 to 11/8 to 13/8. Rhythmically, these dances remind one of Balkan folk choreography. I try to use my guitar to demonstrate its diversity. Thus, I made a more portable design, convenient for concert tours, with two or three necks. I try to make it yield more interesting timbres without using compressors and a synthesizer.

“I play with the Minaret and other groups. I like to remember the Ultramarine project. It was recorded in Frankfurt, two years ago, in collaboration with Bulgarian musicians. My friends and I also organized the international jazz Black Sea Trio, made up of a Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Crimean Tatar musician. Add here the Black Sea Do and Black Sea & Orchestra projects. The latter is real interesting, by the way, because we succeeded in putting together musicians from a number of countries (Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Russia, Georgia, Moldova, Greece, and Ukraine), and we have an album. I think it turned out not bad at all. Each has his plans, and they don’t always fit. I will soon appear at a jazz festival in Feodosiya.”

MOVIE DEBUT

“Not so long ago I was asked to write music for Vladimir Vinogradov’s production of the French film Amazon Forever. We met after the “Anthropology” TV show emceed by Dmitry Dibrov. Volodia watched me on the show and seemed to like what he saw. He suggested doing business together, and I told him frankly I’d never written music for movies before. Vinogradov said there was always a first time and sent me on a business trip to Rio de Janeiro, paying for it himself. He wanted me to meet people and upgrade my creative experience. He also wanted me to perform during one of those Brazilian festivals, saying that I had to expand my audiences. He had a point, of course. Amazon Forever is a comedy, but it deals with a serious environmental subject, illustrating the aftermath of past disasters, focusing on the destruction of Amazon primordial forests, looking at it from the Chornobyl angle, presenting the latter as a sinister harbinger and a grave warning to the human race.”