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The Best of the Best


Susanna Karpenko: The
Most Extraordinary Four
Minutes in Ukrainian Music



This essay is now more or less complete—sans some minor revisions and a bunch of endnotes.

My ambition for this piece was to keep it relatively short. A larger consideration of both Susanna Karpenko's overall career, as well as the broader expanses of her “Patterned Songs” project—of which this present piece is a part—I am saving for a later essay which will be focused on the other two Karpenko videos I have selected for inclusion on my “Best of the Best” list.—Pavlo.





Susanna Karpenko: “Viryazhala Mati Sina”


I should probably begin this essay by admitting that there are certain ways in which its title might be taken as something of a misnomer.

There is first of all a simple matter of accurate measurement: The video for the song “Виряжала мати сина” (“Viryazhala Mati Sina”) that is embedded above happens to clock in at 3:57, and the music itself pretty much reaches an endpoint, slipping into the intense stillness of its profound denouement, a few seconds before at 3:52, so it isn't actually the case that what is at hand here even amounts to four minutes, as the essay's title declares.

One might of course also take issue with the assertion that the title puts forth—raising the question, that is, of how justified this designation of “most extraordinary” really is.

Is it truly the case, in other words, that this—this outwardly modest, in large part subdued, and without any question exceedingly understated piece of music—represents the most extraordinary instance of music making in the whole of Ukrainian music?

There is on the surface of things, after all, nothing particularly grand, much less grandiose about this piece—I certainly don't think anyone would claim for it any sort of monumental status, not as such things are customarily perceived, at least.

And if it is theatrical flashiness and ostentation that one is most impressed with, or maybe swaggering bombast, or perhaps unbounded pretension, then there is assuredly nothing even remotely in line with any of these attributes to be found in the piece.

Yet even disregarding these (in my opinion) highly dubious criteria of evaluation—and acknowledging, also, the undoubted excellence of Susanna Karpenko's musical art in general, and of this deeply moving piece most especially—one would have to grant all the same that there are a great many worthy competitors in the Ukrainian music world (however their minutes might add up) vying for this same designation of most extraordinary.

To identify just a small handful:

Nina Matviyenko's almost unbearably sorrow-laden threnody to millions of murdered Ukrainians in her Holodomor piece obviously comes to mind, as does Pikkardijska Tercija's ethereally sad “Plyve Kacha”.

I am likewise inclined to advocate for Victoria Poleva's fervently peripatetic attempt to discover a measure of redemption in human finitude in her great choral composition “No Man is an Island”. And to my mind, the absolutely stunning, ancient Slavic tribal dance slash apocalyptic, Patti Smith-inspired witches cauldron that is DakhaBrakha's “Na Dobranich” would also have to be a contender, and so too would the irrepressible vitality and complexly sophisticated liveliness exhibited by Burdon's “Pod Biloyu Berоzoyu”.

Notwithstanding these worthy contenders, however, I myself feel compelled, at the present moment at least, to indeed nominate this unsurpassably subdued and understated piece—an adaptation of a traditional Ukrainian song associated with Cossack culture—as the most extraordinary exemplar of the overall extraordinary world of Ukrainian music making.

It is so, I would furthermore argue, precisely because of its hard-won character of subdued understatement, its realization of an expressive subtlety that perhaps only Nina Matviyenko's work at its most poignant—the Holodomor in memoriam just noted could serve as one example [p]—is fully commensurate with.

Unlike the latter piece, though, which partners Matviyenko with a full orchestral backing that rises and falls with the continuously fluctuating arc of her vocal performance, matching her every anguished nuance with a rich dolorous tapestry that fills in and amplifies the aching distress she articulates, Karpenko's “Viryazhala Mati Sina” features instead a quite sparse backing.

Rather than a full symphony orchestra, what we hear in this piece are in fact three “voices” only: Karpenko's vocal, Serhiy Okhrimchuk's violin and Maksym Berezhniuk's duduk [u].

And also differentiating the Karpenko piece from that of Matviyenko is the fact that, whereas Matviyenko's voice is sharply set off from, contrasted to the full orchestra—very much like the solo instrument in a Concerto—during not a few moments in “Viryazhala Mati Sina”, Karpenko's voice is only slightly elevated above the other two “voices” present, and all throughout the piece, moreover, would seem to be operating basically on the same level as these other “voices”.

The duduk and the violin thus weave in conjunction with one another a sort of exquisitely swirling, yet at the same time pointedly tempered, and resolutely melancholic groundswell that Karpenko's voice often sounds as if it is struggling to tenuously hover above.

To be sure, Karpenko's vocal is at all junctures sufficiently enough demarcated from the slowly churning sea of woodwind and strings that Berezhniuk and Okhrimchuk stir up—it is not as if the listener has any trouble hearing her—yet there is little in the way of the overall musical presentation that would position Karpenko's voice in its own “separate realm”, standing apart from the other two “voices”.

And her volume level does sink remarkably low in some spots—this is especially so at the very start of the piece, but also in one or two other places—as if the dramatic persona her voice embodies is under perpetual threat of descending once and for all into the deep, drowning there in despondency and resignation.

It could be said then, I think, that Karpenko's voice situates itself more or less in the midst of these other two “voices”—now and again rising significantly above, and coming close occasionally to even dropping a bit below, but never too far for too long in either direction.

Thus, the larger sound character of the song is really established by all three “voices” working together in relatively close proximity to one another—rather than by way of the more “distanced” dialogic interaction that is in effect when there are two distinctly independent “segments” playing off and responding to one another, such as with the solo instrument and orchestra in a Concerto.

And what this larger sound character amounts to is strikingly dirge-like, lachrymose, and funereal. It is perhaps the fluttering, uncanny sound of the duduk that most of all acts to instill this piteous character, although the somber agitation of the violin—somehow stately and convulsive at the same time—endeavors to impart an ever-unfurling, disconsolate emotiveness to the proceedings as well.

It should be recognized however that, although they enter the proceedings independent of one another, and at certain points very briefly veer off then onto separate paths, the violin and the duduk tend overall to be interwoven to such a seamless extent as to for all intents and purposes assert themselves as a single voice.

Yet, while it is the melancholy baseline carved out by the “single voice” of the duduk and the violin that sets down the basic foundations of “Viryazhala Mati Sina” sound character, it is ultimately Karpenko's vocal that, in its interplay with this “single voice”, puts forward the song's most penetrating expression.

This is so both in the markedly subdued and depressed tone that her voice emanates at the outset of the piece—articulating what really amounts to an aura of utter hopelessness, I think—as well as in the savage departure from the melancholy baseline that her voice at least temporarily launches forth with near the end of the piece.

Immediately after this savage departure is launched, however, Karpenko's voice descends back down to its depressed, subdued tone—and to the melancholic baseline that the “single voice” of the duduk and violin for the most part preserves—and the lachrymose, funereal tone reasserts itself.

This lachrymose, funereal tone of course goes to the heart of what “Viryazhala Mati Sina” happens to be about—its narrative burden, as it might be called. It is a song that has to do in fact with a mother mourning the death of her soldier son, newly killed in battle, the body of which the mother herself horribly discovers on the field of battle.

The rigorously understated approach of the vocal therefore creates the effect, I think, of a consciousness overwhelmed by despair and devastation, trying its best to hold back what it knows will sooner or later prove to be a illimitable outpouring of inconsolable grief.

Hence, the mood of melancholic self-restraint that seems to pervade the piece.

Yet, it is of course the case that attempting to suppress such an overwhelming desolation is ultimately hopeless; and any effort to undertake a narrative account of what happened cannot help but lead to an explosive sundering of this self-imposed restraint.

Thus, the savage departure from the melancholic baseline likewise goes to the heart of the song's essential significance: It represents an inevitable, even if doomed attempt to break free from the tragic calamity and horror that the song's storyline delineates.

This violent release of hitherto held-in-check emotion, however, is incapable of providing any true relief either—it indeed amounts only to inchoate despair helplessly articulating itself—and cannot result therefore in any acceptable resolution, or attenuation of the pain even.

Hence, the need arises for the melancholic self-restraint to be re-imposed.

This, in any event, is essentially the expressive logic that “Viryazhala Mati Sina” follows in its developmental rise and fall.

The song, then, after establishing its profoundly sad tone of overwhelmed understatement, moves inexorably if staggeringly onwards towards an altogether hopeless, yet extremely powerful release of emotion, only to return once more to its initial state of subdued desolation and despair.

This is of course a very common developmental arc present in a great many of the “sadly beautiful” songs that make up such a substantial portion of Ukrainian traditional music [g].

The treatment that Karpenko and her two estimable colleagues confer upon this traditional development arc is certainly extraordinary, though. And it is in the nearly extreme manner of its subdued understatement (even if this comes close to being a contradiction in terms) that again, it seems to me this extraordinary quality most clearly resides:

The immense quietude that the song both begins and ends with lies at the heart of this understated treatment, I believe. Although as I stated above, it is not very probable that many listeners would declare this song monumental in its effects, there is all the same something well-nigh monumental in this quietude.

And this manner of almost paradoxical complexity of expression can only be accounted for, in my view, as the consequence of highly focused artistic labor [r]—which is to say, as an aesthetic attainment.

Karpenko is without question, it should be said, primarily a representative of the Ukrainian “avtentyka movement”, and the “avtentyka ensemble” Bozhychi that she helps lead with her husband Ilya Fetisov is certainly among the most outstanding purveyors of this traditional mode of musical expression.

Yet, perhaps as a by-product of Bozhychi's rigorously ardent focus on pursuing only the most unequivocally authentic approach to traditional music making, Karpenko in her work as a solo artist seems intent, by way of contrast, on expanding the boundaries of traditional music somewhat.

That is, what she is exploring in her “Patterned Songs” project—which her version of “Viryazhala Mati Sina” is not only one part, but could be seen as the veritable “crown jewel” thereof—is undoubtedly the realm of traditional song, but her approach to this realm is indeed much more oriented towards exploration than is the case with Bozhychi's work, or with that of the “avtentyka ensemble” format in general, for that matter.

One facet of this “exploratory” approach is manifested in the enlarged swath of traditional musical cultures from which Karpenko derives her material—not only Ukrainian, but also Serbian, Crimean Tatar, Bulgarian, Russian and Polish cultures.

Another facet, though, arises in the especially sensitive and thought-through aestheticist treatment by way of which she not infrequently engages with these songs, in a manner that unmistakably diverges from what is conventional vis-a-vis a strictly rendered traditional, “avtentyka” approach—even though she invariably will stay well within the greater circumference or purview of this strictly traditional approach.

Therefore, although it would be inaccurate to posit that aestheticism, and the standards and practices that go along with an aestheticist approach, plays absolutely no part in “avtentyka” traditional music making, it is true that an aestheticist approach tends to be very much subordinated in strictly rendered traditional music making to a substantial number of other factors: obviously a rigorous adherence to, and the paramount need to preserve the Tradition, but along with that, all of the social factors that pertain to “horizontal”, community-oriented, traditional music making practices, as well as a basic respect for some of the more foundational values that have long fostered traditional communities, etc.

Aestheticism, on the other hand, with its predilection for the most finely-construed nuances and subtleties that are immediately given in direct experience, definitely tends in this way towards an individualist orientation.

While Karpenko in her solo work actually remains relatively close to the horizontal-based, traditionalist approach in overall terms, she often endeavors to incorporate substantial elements of this more individualist-orientated, aestheticist approach within a broader traditionalist context [y].

For instance, the heightened, nearly acute stillness with which Karpenko's version of “Viryazhala Mati Sina” both begins and ends is not at all typical of the down-to-earth, very much communal- or group-oriented approach of most traditional music. What this stillness, or quietude in fact articulates instead is a realm of individualist, personal emotion which, although it is often enough made reference to or invoked in traditional music, is almost never presented in such an unmediated and direct manner as it is in Karpenko's rendering.

Thus, Karpenko's version of “Viryazhala Mati Sina” resembles to a fair extent some of the a capella music that Nina Matviyenko recorded a few decades ago, such as her very idiosyncratic version of “Letila Zozulya”, whereupon she achieves a manner of intense intimacy by the way in which she utilizes the microphone to capture the most minute emotional nuances vocal expression is capable of.

Karpenko has very probably learned from Matviyenko's example in this, I would guess, although her own approach in “Viryazhala Mati Sina” is still quite different. Thus, even when her voice drops down to a whisper, Karpenko doesn't use the microphone in precisely the intimate manner that Matviyenko did (and as I point out below, at times her approach is the direct opposite)—and therefore could be said to be less reliant on technology, and as a consequence, somewhat more traditionalist than Matviyenko's innovative approach—but instead makes use of more straightforward mechanisms, such as simple volume control and delicacy of phrasing.

What Karpenko shares with Matviyenko's approach, however, is its explicit theatricality. The monumental manner of dramatic quietude that Karpenko employs in “Viryazhala Mati Sina”, in other words, is an approach intrinsic to the stage, and indeed, almost certainly would not work anywhere else except in this type of venue: It is hard to imagine pulling off a song such as this, for example, in the middle of a crowded, boisterous outdoor music festival; or for that matter, in any kind of traditional choral or communal sing-a-long situation.

Unlike what Bozychi as an ensemble aspires to achieve in their music making practices then—which is to re-situate traditional music back into its “natural”, or at least original context within a community-ordered environment, involving the modalities of communal endeavor traditionally associated with song and dance—the sort of practice that Karpenko has pursued as a solo artist actually entails the application of a certain remove from this environment.

What is involved in her practice, that is to say, is a process by which traditional song forms are extracted from their original settings so as to be re-presented in a new setting, reconfigured now in terms of an expressly self-conscious and thought-through artistic form— however traditionalist this music remains in its essential content.

And a significant amount of a traditionalist sound is indeed preserved—Karpenko's work as a solo artist does not at all engage with the experimentalist, “avant gardist” approach exemplified by someone like Maryana Sadovska (although Sadovska in her own “Avant Populist” manner adheres to much more of the traditional approach than a more standard “avant gardist” typically would). Yet what Karpenko is up to in her “Patterned Songs” project does, I think, transfer traditional song to a certain extent to what I refer to as the “Art Music” domain, even while simultaneously retaining a strong presence within the “Vernacular Music” domain.

I intend to discuss all these matters more extensively in a second, already planned essay on Karpenko, that will attempt to provide more of a broad overview of the “Patterned Songs” project. What I wanted to bring out for discussion here is how the theatrical, consciously artistic “understatedness” of the quietude featured in “Viryazhala Mati Sina” is indeed what makes this particular song so extraordinary, both in its divergence from a more traditionalist approach, as well as in the sheer drama that ensues from this quality—first by way of this quality's subtle establishment, and then even more so, by way of its explosive collapse.

As alluded to already, the volume of Karpenko's voice as the song begins is exceedingly low—pretty much of a whisper, in fact. This hushed quality is echoed then by the halting character of Serhiy Okhrimchuk's violin, which emits a kind of quavering tone that floats just under the vocal, as if symbolizing an underlying strata of elemental dejection and gloom that Karpenko, in enacting the song's main persona, can barely manage to distinguish herself from.

Karpenko's volume level slowly rises however in the first half minute or so, albeit only to a moderate degree. At around 0:36, we then see Karpenko actually step back from the microphone slightly as she gradually begins to increase her volume more. (In this way, she is actually employing the reverse tactic of what Matviyenko did—stepping away from the microphone and raising her voice, rather than getting closer to the microphone while lowering her volume, à la Matviyenko.)

It is right after this that Maksym Berezhniuk enters with his duduk, subtly interweaving this new texture into the mix, in a way that as noted, almost instantaneously merges with Okhrimchuk's violin, so that these two instruments then seamlessly articulate a functionally unified, not to mention very poignant sound.

The extraordinary sad beauty of this sonic underpinning—one would look in vain, I think, for anything equal to this sound throughout the entirety of Ukrainian music—thus wafts Karpenko's vocal along as it proceeds to dramatically enact the protagonist's grim predicament. Rather than shape a consistent, steadily rising developmental arc, though, the vocal actually lurches up and down in both its volume and expressive emphasis, as if mirroring the mother's agonized attempt at coming to grips with the course her life has taken, painfully vacillating therein between absolute despair and the felt need to attain some degree of acceptance.

The “single voice” of the duduk and violin likewise adhere to this tremulous approach, keeping close the vocal in its expression, even as the latter continuously staggers ahead, blindly leading the way. In this manner, the two instruments both persistently reflect the mood and disposition of the vocal, while at the same time furnishing a backdrop for it to define itself at critical moments.

Thus, although all three instruments are operating in close contact at the same level, there is certainly aspects of dialogic interaction occuring between them—between Karpenko's vocal and the “single voice” that the duduk and violin form, that is—even if it does happen within close proximity to one another. And it is this close dialogic interaction that makes up the basis of the climatic point that the song moves toward.

We see this climatic point prepared for, then, at about 2:18, when Karpenko steps back away from the microphone even further. Here ensues a brief pause in the vocal, as the “single voice” of the other two instruments raise their volume for just a few seconds to fill in the gap, only to then gracefully lower it again.

At 2:26, the irregular, up-and-down, yet as a whole relatively subdued trajectory that obtained thus far then explodes in a violent outburst of tormented anguish, as Karpenko's voice, in its depiction of the mother finding her son dead on the ground, rises up nearly to a scream.

Already at 2:39, though, after a mere thirteen seconds of this anguish, Karpenko's voice falls back down again, the feeling of melancholy hopelessness infiltrating the mood once more. Then at 2:51, Karpenko's voice bursts out a second time, suggesting thereby the protagonist's desperate unwillingness or incapacity to accept her dismal fate.

It is right at this juncture that Serhiy Okhrimchuk implements what appears a quite strange bowing technique: Rather than glide his bowing arm up and down at an diagonal slant in the conventional manner, so that the bow is drawn back and forth across the violin strings as a means of producing sound, what he begins to do instead is furiously lift his bowing arm up and down at a near vertical angle, such that the bow is retained in more or less the same place where it is touching the strings, and sound is therefore generated by a kind of seesaw action.

The character of sound that results from this unorthodox technique, then, is a sort of frenzied tremolo—an extremely rapid oscillation of volume—that would seem to give expression to the protagonist's trembling agony, her impetuous swings between desperate protestation and hopeless resignation.

At this same juncture, Maxsym Berezhniuk's duduk in effect separates itself momentarily from the “single voice” it had maintained with Okhrimchuk's violin, its volume now lifting up in keening plangency that contrasts, rather than blends in with Okhrimchuk's feverish violin playing. And what it feels like is in fact taking place during these moments of intense expression on the part of all three “voices” is in fact a disruption, if not complete dissolution of the dialogic equilibrium that had been thus far constructed between them.

Yet this second explosive outburst then recedes too, and although Okhrimchuk keeps up the harrowing tremolo tones on his violin for a few seconds more, as does Berezhniuk the plangent tones on his duduk, both instruments begin to retreat also, settling back in so doing into the intermixed “single voice” sound they had begun with.

And Karpenko, in then enunciating the final verse of the song, herself returns to the whisper with which she began, descending back to the melancholic baseline in terms of which the song finally defines itself, as it steadily winds down in the final seconds to its consummate state of exhausted resignation, the aesthetically-crafted “subdued understatedness” of its dramatic quietude prevalent over all.

Thus is executed an intensely dramatic conclusion to an exceedingly stirring and inspiring musical performance. With the exquisitely-crafted extreme beauty by way of which they render this traditional Ukrainian song, what Karpenko and her two co-conspirators have achieved here is again, an appreciable transference I think of Traditional music making practice from its usual home wholly in the “Vernacular” domain, to what without question deserves to be recognized as a deserved foothold within the “Art” domain.

This is not to say that this “Art” domain should be seen as somehow desirable and superior in all respects, and in all circumstnaces to the “Vernacular” realm. Indeed, the latter quite often manifests a stubborn vitality and grass-roots energy that the former could learn much from, if it could only persuade itself to pay attention for long enough. And Karpenko and Co. in “Viryazhala Mati Sina” definitely hold onto a sufficient enough extent of the “Vernacular” approach so as to demonstrate that this is in fact the case.

What music making within the “Art” domain is better at than music making enacted elsewhere, however, is a concentrated focus of aesthetic intention, availing itself in the process of the most rigorous of artistic standards, and prioritizing such standards to a degree that cannot be found in other “domains”—which indeed possess their own prioritized standards of a much different character.

By incorporating a significant degree of this “Art” approach into a musical practice composed primarily of Traditional music elements, thus mixing together aspects of the “Vernacular” approach to music making, conventionally associated with Traditional music, with the “Art” approach, what Karpenko and Co. has done here, I believe, is to help creatively open up age-old and venerable—even if decidedly still vital—traditional music making forms to new possibilities, some of which might even be adopted over the long term as a means of ongoing rejuvenation

By the same token, it doesn't seem to me at all necessary that Karpenko's concurrent, dual activity as a member of the rigorously “avtentyka” traditional music ensemble Bozhychi on the one hand, and as a solo artist vis-a-vis the “Patterned Songs” project on the other, with its boundary-pushing approach to “avtentyka” music, should be seen as in any sense working at cross purposes. Even if these two endeavors do represent two variant approaches, aspects and elements of each could very well serve to augment and enhance the other, if they are engaged with in a sensitive and thoughtful enough manner.

With this performance of “Viryazhala Mati Sina” in any event—which as I've stated, should really be seen as the “crown jewel” of the whole “Patterned Songs” project—Susanna Karpenko establishes herself I believe as if not the absolutely finest vocalist in Ukrainian music, then at the very least among the top two or three [n].

Likewise, the absolutely astounding, and indeed, truly breathtaking performance put on by Karpenko's “co-conspirators” here, Serhiy Okhrimchuk and Maxsym Berezhniuk, leaves no doubt whatsoever (although its hard to imagine any doubt existed on this point prior to this) that these are two of the most accomplished and superlative musicians now working on Ukrainian soil.

And taken in total, the endlessly subtle nuances and startling forcefulness of its overall dramatic articulation thus elevates this version of “Viryazhala Mati Sina”, in my present estimation, as the most extraordinary four minutes—more or less—of the entire Ukrainian music making world.





ENDNOTES:

Although I loathe doing endnotes, and have therefore put off this henious task until last, I will be gradually adding these pesky, impertinent addendum one by one with the best semblance of alacrity I can muster. Since it is easier on me not to follow any particular order in proceeding forward with this onerous imposition, I am going for the moment to be using alphabetical characters, rather than sequential numbers. The latter will be substituted for the former at which point I have completed the oppressive labor at hand.


[p] I should probably qualify this to some extent: Although Matviyenko's “Holodomor” piece is extraordinarily powerful and moving, it doesn't to my mind really represent this singer at her absolute best, when she was indeed capable of an “expressive subtlety” that few singers in Ukraine, or anywhere else can match. This in fact ensued when she was much younger—which is generally how things work as far as vocalists are concerned, of course. The expressive subtlety at work in a piece like Matviyenko's idiosyncratic version of “Letila Zozulya”, for example, in which she attains to a sort of intense intimacy by way of the manner in which she uses the microphone to capture the most minute emotional nuances, is near breathtaking in its persuasive force.

This is an approach that had no precedent in traditional music making, to be sure, and actually is more analogous to what a singer like Frank Sinatra famously did in his popular music recordings six or seven decades ago (although Bing Crosby actually did the same thing even earlier than this).

I'm not sure when this “Holodomor” piece was recorded—I would guess probably some time in the later 90s or early aughts—but it is clear that Matviyenko has by this point lost at least a certain extent of the tensile richness and complexity in her vocal quality that she possessed when she was younger (not to mention the prodigious wind power she shows off in a piece like “Holub and Holubka”—a piece that in many respects, stands I think as one the greatest vocal performance anyone has ever given in the Ukrainian music world).

This is meant as no disparagement of what she was still capable of achieving at whatever point the “Holodomor” piece was laid down, though—for indeed, it is a tremendously, at moments almost overwhelmingly effective performance. Although Matviyenko has lost a certain amount of what she could do in her younger days, she still manages all the same to capture much of the same poignancy through others means—by way of the extreme delicacy of her phrasing at some points, and then extreme dramatic intensity at others, as well as the very subtle—and again, at other points, very intensely dramatic—shifts in volume.

[g] As I detailed in a previous essay, this is the exact same developmental arc informing TaRuta's “Ой піду я лугом”.

[r] I don't mean to suggest here that only in the “Art” domain of music making is there anything we would be justified in calling “artistic labor”; clearly, in both the “Vernacular” and “Commercial” domains, “artistic labor” takes place also. The point I am trying to make, however, is that it is only in the “Art” domain that “artistic labor” becomes the predominant characteristic serving to define the overall mode of music making; in both the “Vernacular” and “Commercial” domains, “artistic labor” is subordinated to one degree or another to other concerns.

The claim I am putting forward here in regards to what Susanna Karpenko is up to in “Viryazhala Mati Sina”—and indeed, in most of her “Patterned Songs” project—is that although most, if not all, of the content involved here is drawn from the “Vernacular” domain, as is a decent amount of its overall sensibility and orientation, the form that she is imposing on this content is one that is more in line with the “Art” domain.

Ultimately, then, it would have to be said that what Karpenko is doing in “Patterned Songs” represents a mixture, in varying degrees, of these two “domains”.

[n] Perhaps her only real competition to my way of thinking, would be Iryna Danyleiko, who by virtue of both the sheer beauty of her voice, and her enormously diverse stylistic capacity, I would almost be inclined to place above Karpenko. However, I find nothing that Daneyleiko has ever done—superlative as pretty much all her work certainly is—as impressive as this single performance by Karpenko.

The only other contender here I would say is Natalka Polovynka, who has an voice as equally beautiful as Daneyleiko's, and likewise is capable of quite astoundingly diverse stylistic expression. But I haven't heard Polovynka give a performance as impressive as Karpenko's here either.




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