Vinyl about life

A conversation with Una Stade about meeting with a broken instrument, an album as a form of self-therapy, Japanese ideology about broken porcelain dishes, and simply life

Last November, Latvian singer and head of the RDKS Music Department Una Stade offered the audience her debut album, which is not just an artwork but rather an opportunity to glimpse into her inner world, to get acquainted with the emotions that have arisen from real life events. The album is special because it allows us to hear Una in a solo role, as we mostly see her either together with the group «Latvian Voices» or as the conductor of the RDKS gospel choir. This time, Una decided to share with us her very personal art, which she performs and has also composed — both the music and the lyrics. The presentation concert took place on November 21st, but I hope to see Una on stage someday and hear her perform these compositions or maybe something new. I met with Una on a cold day to delve deeper into how her debut work came about, what inspired her, and how her life has changed since our last conversation several years ago.

Congratulations on the release of your debut album! This is your first one, isn’t it?

That’s my first, yes.

And is the program the same as what you presented in your master’s concert?

Almost, with a few changes. I removed one piece and made some content changes to another; I wanted everything to be cohesive and have some sort of meaning and continuity.

The album’s message hasn’t changed from what I remember from the concert exam — the music is about heartaches, relationships, and life.

The album covers a very specific period, starting with one piece from a specific moment in life and continuing until today.

Until the «today» of your master’s concert exam or the «today» of today, with so many new things happening in life?

The new things are not yet written. If I ever get to another album, then there will be, but yes — the story of this album begins with a specific moment in New York, standing in the maternity ward of a Brooklyn hospital, waiting for a baby to be born. It includes the time when I had already moved to Latvia, started going through a separation, and met the Riga Cathedral School’s youth. Everything is happening in parallel in life.

So, when we last spoke with you, did this album start to take shape? Or had you not thought about it yet?

I hadn’t thought about it at all. I really only started thinking about the album in the context of my master’s when I was planning what the final recital could be about. I didn’t want it to be something superficial; I didn’t want it to be music by some other composer — I started a more serious exploration of my life. There is music written by my grandfather, music written by Tuomo [Tuomo Uusitalo], and music I have written myself; a lot has been created just in the process of learning together with the youth.

How did you decide to enroll in the master’s program?

Who knows? [laughs] Honestly, I don’t have a single answer to that. There was COVID; there was a feeling that it gave extra time, which seemed silly to waste. It seemed interesting to see what else I could do with music because until then, I hadn’t really composed anything myself, or at least hadn’t recorded or saved it. I was very lucky to meet Ēriks Ešenvalds, in fact. He said that I could compose… I just needed someone to tell me I could, too, because I thought only composers could compose. It seemed like something very original had to be created, and only then did I realize that, actually, no, I could just find those elements that I like, combine them, talk about what’s important to me, and discuss my themes. I understand that other people write music because they want others to hear it, but in my case, it was self-therapy — a process of self-exploration.

How about the pieces where there were changes? What about the one you removed?

There was one piece where I used the Japanese idea of broken porcelain dishes — Kintsugi. The concept is not to throw them in the trash but to glue and mend them with gold so that you preserve the broken dish and make it more valuable. Perhaps the idea was very important to me because I want to believe that it’s the same with people and life. However, in the context of the album, I realized that I haven’t fully patched myself in gold yet; there are still repairs to be made, so I wasn’t ready for that piece yet. I removed it to let it marinate a bit more.

But does this process have an endpoint? It seems like an endless process in human development…

Yes, but until I consciously ended the album, I didn’t feel that peace; it didn’t feel like something had concluded.

Well, and the album is called «Music for a Broken Instrument.» Is it because something always breaks in life?

There are various levels that determine that. First was my encounter with a physically broken instrument — harmonium. I saw this instrument at the RDKS school; we were fooling around with different keys, and then one day, during the COVID times, walking through the school, I saw it standing amid repair rubble, literally. I played it a bit and then asked the workers to bring it to my classroom. I called the instrument’s owner, Jānis Erenštreits, and asked if I could use it; he happily said yes. And so began my exploration of this instrument. Very interesting. It sounds the way it does because it’s broken and keeps breaking all the time because it has broken cracks that continue to unravel. Normally, a harmonium sounds quite smooth; in this case, it has to be pumped with the foot. I really liked the sound of the organ and how smooth it is, yet the feet create some kind of rhythm… Not even a rhythm; it even sets the tempo! I started experimenting with it, writing the initial ideas. In a way, the choir’s sound is hidden in that instrument. It’s something you can’t achieve with pianos — you can’t sustain the same sound for long. The instrument truly inspired me.

The second aspect of the title is that there was a kind of crisis in life in various ways, all sorts of painful events. I think this composition is about capturing a feeling and not being afraid of it but rather being drawn to it and understanding how that emotion resonates. It ended up being a bit of self-therapy. That’s why the album cover is like this; you can read the title in two ways — «Music for a broken Una Stade» or «Music for a broken instrument.»… In reality, everything is true, whether it’s about the broken instrument or my own brokenness, whatever way you look at it. All truths at once.

I thought for a long time about what the album cover should be like, considering that I wasn’t physically going to release it. I looked at some options and even took some pictures, which was very cool but never went public and probably never will. There were a few other ideas, but then I realized that I didn’t want someone else to design the cover; I wanted to create it myself. I’m not an artist, but it occurred to me that I could collaborate with artificial intelligence, which I did. It took a lot, a lot of tries, until I got to the right texture. My favorite style is classicism, especially in architecture and arts, so this broken classical monument collapses. There’s gold from the removed Kintsugi song in there. I also worked on the title until I liked it.

Why not release the album physically?

Do you even have a CD player to listen to music?

Yes!

Well, you are perhaps one of the very few!

In the car?

Well, I don’t have one.

A car or a CD player?

I have a car, but it’s somewhere lonely, waiting to be fixed. But the disc slot was locked by DaGamba’s album, which got stuck and remained there, unfortunately, without even playing once… [laughs]

You know, I often think about CDs. I believe that a disc is more of a gift or a souvenir that symbolizes a physical result of your work and also a reminder to listen to it later. However, when you save something in your «playlist» to listen to later, you probably won’t actually listen to it, as you’ll just forget about it. But if there’s a CD, you see it and remember that — hey, I wanted to listen to what was on it!

This album was actually created in a magical way. The people who participated did it with great joy and commitment, even though I could barely pay them anything financially. You can’t earn that kind of money by simply working as a teacher in a school. That’s why I’m not considering releasing a physical disc. I also have to organize large performances and invest money in the youth, so I thought releasing a CD was unimportant. I think those who need to hear it will hear it or have already heard it. It’s very nice, of course, to receive feedback when people write that they are sitting, listening, crying, or getting goosebumps, but they will listen to it on «Spotify» or «Apple Music» anyway.

Have you thought about seeking co-funding from the State Culture Capital Foundation [VKKF]?

That’s a question of each person’s priorities. For me, in these years, my priority has been the youth, and it still is; the RDKS school, now «Daile» as well, there’s still «Latvian Voices,» and then I think, do I really need to release that album, is it important to me? I realized that the CD is just a reference point; a certain stage in my life has ended, and now I can start something new. Both emotionally and musically, I had to finish something to start accumulating new emotions and ideas.

Did your choir participate in your album?

Yes, the youth contributed to the album, which was fantastic! There are youngsters who have long graduated from the RDKS; they recorded instruments, the choir sang, and in one piece, «Latvian Voices» is also present, which is very important to me. The composition, in fact, is fantastic. I am very happy because I really like the result, if I may say so about my album. I am happy that everything said there is truly well expressed, not just something randomly written or written because I wanted to release an album. The actual work, the exploration, meeting with grandparents, hearing my grandfather’s piece, suddenly realizing that it fits. Then, to write another different song, listen to my wedding waltz, which Tuomo gave me at the wedding — listening, feeling sad, and then realizing — oh, this is the song on which harmonies I want to write another one — my song. That song he gave at the wedding is called «First Dance,» and the next song I wrote was «Last Song» — formed on the same harmonic basis, in the same tonality, at a similar pace — everything is very symbolic. One piece transitions into the next, but it might not sound like that from an outsider’s perspective.

In the presentation concert, there was a great collaboration with the graduates of the Jānis Rozentāls School, with whom I had already worked on «Pūt, vējiņi» (Blow, Wind, Blow) and other musicals. Together, we devised an artistic strategy for the entire concert. My grandfather did not feel like playing the piano in the cold church, which is completely understandable at the distinguished age of 93, so we listened to a recording during the concert. Similarly, we listened to Tuomo’s piece because it was important that the audience heard him playing the piano in that piece. From the concert’s scenography, one could understand and feel how everything came together. The compositions are divided into three blocks. One block contains finely crafted songs, then there are piano pieces, including my grandfather Gunārs Stade’s and Tuomo’s pieces, and then there are distinctly minimalistic compositions influenced by Ešenvalds, something he probably isn’t even aware of.

It turned out to be quite a human-centric album.

Absolutely. Each song has a real story; the sounds are not random. It might seem that it’s not recorded with high quality, but the album intentionally sounds that way — there are intentionally left random sounds that could be cleaned up. Pauls Dāvis Megi, the producer, said — «I’m used to working with pop music; I need to clean this up!» I said — «No need to! It should be live!» Real-life events. The choir stands and sings a song, but something creaks — that’s life. The choir is a large mass.