On April 30 at 7:00 p.m. in the Philharmonic Hall, the Ruse State Opera will present Georgi Andreev’s original concert “Roots in the Sky.” The central figure in this new, original program is Georgi Andreev—a virtuoso gadulka player, brilliant composer, and inspiring conductor, who will present his entirely original concert on the Ruse stage for the first time. Combining the spirit of folklore with the richness of symphonic sound, “Roots in the Sky” promises an encounter between tradition and modernity, between earthly roots and the spiritual flight of music.
Ahead of this exciting event, we spoke with Georgi Andreev about the symbolism of the concert, the “ethno-symphonism” style he has created, the power of Bulgarian folklore, and the path music takes to reach the hearts of today’s audiences.
The title of your original project, “Roots in the Sky,” carries powerful symbolism—what do you see in this convergence of the earthly heritage of folklore and the spiritual aspiration of classical music?
The message behind the concert “Roots in the Sky” is that the folklore on which I base my work represents our roots. Not necessarily Bulgarian, but rather Balkan, because these roots are much deeper and more extensive—they encompass various ethnic groups and religions. That is why my work has always been focused on utilizing the core elements that are deeply embedded in our DNA, in our national psychology, in our mentality, in what defines us as Bulgarians, Balkan people, and descendants of a very ancient and highly developed culture. I believe that we are the direct heirs of Thracian culture. We carry the Thracian spirit, national psychology, and culture deep within us, and the Thracians were the most populous people after the Indians.
That is why, in my music, I do not limit myself to the intonations, authentic source elements, and motifs I use. Nor do I limit myself to what is strictly Bulgarian in the sense defined by our national borders, because the combination of this rather modern sound—yet with ancient roots in the heavens—reflects my desire to revive our culture, and it is unique; nowhere else in the world is there such a vast diversity of rhythms and melodies concentrated in such a small area. Perhaps because many civilizations and cultures have left their mark on this territory. And the roots are actually in the sky because I have tried to imbue it with a universality that is timeless, something that has meaning and value even after we are gone…
As for the symphony orchestra, in my opinion, it is the greatest invention of human civilization—or, more precisely, of Western European civilization—because there is no equivalent in antiquity. It is like a supernova in human culture.
And the combination of our roots, core elements, intonations, rhythms, and instruments with the universal sonority of a symphony orchestra offers endless possibilities and a virtually inexhaustible resource of expressive means, lending it this global—even transnational—significance. In other words, in a way, I am trying to elevate, to raise our roots as a sound, as a state, into an orbit that is supranational, supra regional, and timeless, if you will. This is the symbolism embedded in the concert “Roots in the Sky.”
In this project, you are collaborating with many musicians and, of course, with Maestro Dimitar Kosev, whom you specially invited for your concert. What will the program consist of?
I would like to take this opportunity to express my heartfelt gratitude to the Ruse Opera, to the Chorus and Orchestra, to Director Plamen Beikov, and also to my friend and colleague Maestro Dimitar Kosev, who initiated this concert. He is an incredible professional and musician, and working with such people brings immense pleasure. There are few concerts in which there are two conductors partnering on stage. When I play the gadulka, he will be at the conductor’s podium—and not only then. He will also conduct two movements of one of my chamber symphonies for string orchestra, dedicated to the Armenian Genocide. The piece he will conduct, “Violira,” is for gadulka and violin, where we will perform together with Konstantin Dimitrov. The other is “Kraedunovska,” where I will play the gadulka solo with a string orchestra. Ще има и изцяло премиерни произведения, като например "In Memoriam”, което е посветено на годишнината от априлското въстание. There will also be world premieres, such as "In Memoriam," which is dedicated to the anniversary of the April Uprising. Of course, there will be familiar pieces as well—works like "Asparuh" and "Yuvigi Khan," which feature the mixed choir. Overall, it will be a very diverse, interesting, and colorful program, and I hope that neither we, the performers on stage, nor all our fellow musicians and friends, nor the audience, will ever feel bored for a single moment.
Your music has been described as the beginning of a new genre—“ethno-symphonism.” Is this a natural evolution of the Bulgarian musical tradition, or a deliberate attempt to blaze a new trail for it? When, exactly, did you lay the foundations for this new genre?
That definition of my style—“ethno-symphonism”—is spot on. Indeed, this style is my own personal invention, dating back to as far back as 1994, when I was a student and wrote my first composition, “Dzhanguritsa,” which combines Bulgarian folk instruments with a chamber orchestra. It is built on musical themes and intonations characteristic of southwestern Bulgaria - Pirin Macedonia, but it is in sonata form, meaning it could easily serve as the first movement of a symphony in the classical sense of the word. Whether this is a natural development of the Bulgarian tradition, I do not know; rather, it is a conscious choice on my creative path.
I do not strictly adhere to our incredibly rich traditions; rather, I use them only as a foundation, and from there I build what I feel as an artist, what I think, my inner world. In this vein, I do not consider myself a continuator of the Bulgarian tradition, because this tradition has changed significantly over time. I believe that my style of “ethno-symphonism” is built on the foundation of my deep and extensive knowledge of folklore, because I completed my secondary music education in Shiroka Luka, specializing in the gadulka. So, folklore has passed not only through my head, ears, and heart, but also through my fingers. In other words, I have played almost everything that can be played on the gadulka from absolutely every folklore region, both Bulgarian and Balkan.
And this, now combined with the symphony orchestra—the subtleties of which I mastered during my classical training at the Bulgarian State Conservatory under Prof. Alexander Tekeliev, under whom I majored in composition, to unite into a completely new, hybrid fusion that bears, at every moment, the hallmarks of folklore and antiquity, while also incorporating all the characteristic elements of Western European musical culture and achievements.
I have always strived for my music to serve as a unique bridge between East and West, because Bulgaria is situated at a very interesting crossroads—not only geographically, but even psychologically, that is, in terms of mindset, especially when it comes to music. This is the dividing line. My style of “ethno-symphonism” reflects my desire to showcase precisely this apparent mutual intolerance, which is like the two sides of a magnet, like plus and minus, that attract each other.
When you combine traditional instruments like the kaval, the gaida, and the gadulka with a symphony orchestra, what is the biggest challenge?
Having a deep understanding of both folk and classical Western European culture, I am well aware that combining them presents many challenges—both in terms of timbral combinations and in terms of the use of melodic lines, harmony, and balance. Folk instruments are untempered by nature, yet they are exceptionally rich in timbre and saturated with overtones, and combining them with the instrumentation of a symphony orchestra truly presents hidden pitfalls.
For example, just because a kaval is incorporated into a symphony orchestra doesn’t mean it will sound natural or that the symphony orchestra will blend well with it. It all comes down to what the kaval plays and how it plays it, and likewise, what the symphony orchestra plays and how it plays it. Otherwise, a homogeneous sound cannot be achieved. The greatest difficulty lies precisely in the integration.
Not all melodies, whether Bulgarian or Balkan, lend themselves to or are suitable for such an interpretation or such an intervention.
Sometimes changes need to be made. Yes, a folk song is like a river stone—it is absolutely perfect. So any interference with it is very dangerous, especially when using the tools of classical harmony. And of course, here all the restrictions and rules that apply to classical Western European music—where things are strictly tempered—fall away. Here the techniques are entirely different—at the DNA level—and every piece that is written presents its own individual challenge.
You will be participating in the program not only as a composer and conductor, but also as a gadulka player. Tell us about the instrument and what it offers you that the conductor’s podium and the composer’s score cannot.
The gadulka is an instrument that has come down to us through the centuries from antiquity. In fact, Orpheus played the gadulka. The word "lyre" does not refer to a harp, as we are accustomed to thinking, but to the gadulka. The lyre is the predecessor of the gadulka.
Throughout Greece, the gadulka is known as the lyre. On the island of Crete, it is the national instrument—and the most popular one at that. There is also the Pontic lyre, which is similar to the gadulka. It is used primarily along the southern coast of the Black Sea, in northern Turkey, so to speak, near the Caucasus. There, the playing style is completely different. It is an instrument that is extremely difficult to master, having nothing in common with the violin except for the bow. An instrument with endless artistic possibilities and extremely limited technical ones, being fundamentally imperfect and, generally speaking, primitive.
But what does it give me when I play? I very rarely play at home by myself—mostly just to stay in shape—for example, before a concert. With the gadulka on stage, I can do things that I cannot allow myself to do as a conductor, and especially not as a composer. Namely, spontaneous improvisation and its uniqueness. I’ve made discoveries on stage by improvising something that was already set in written form. Playing the gadulka has always brought me great joy.
The times we live in often blur identities. Can contemporary original music, rooted in folklore, be a way for a nation to rediscover itself?
I am pleased to notice something that was missing in the 1990s—I find that there is a marked and growing interest in folklore, particularly among the younger generation. I attribute this to a kind of subconscious defensive reaction against the aggressive, utterly hysterical trend toward globalization, which I do not accept.
As a people with a rich ancient culture but a very small population, we must emphasize our identity, because that is the only way we can make ourselves known.
So, in my view, a composer must express two things. First—the people, the nation, their roots, the clan, and the tribe from which they come. And only secondarily, their own, personal, individual, and unique character and image. In any case, the music must embody these traits. And from here on out, whether it’s grounded in folklore, whether it merely bears its marks, or whether it incorporates themes that are authentic models—that doesn’t really matter.
So, even when folk material is used, the composer’s imagination, inventiveness, professionalism, and creative vision make it sound far more cosmopolitan and universal than if it were performed solely in its authentic form. This is, on the one hand, identity, and on the other, cosmopolitanism and globalism.
- автор на снимката: Александър Иванов
