Three compositions as a time machine to the year 1978

Jersika Records expands its collection of historical albums by releasing a recording found in the Latvian Radio archives — from a concert in distant Georgia, at a festival where the Latvian representatives received special acclaim

This summer was rich in newly released albums — some offered more traditional sounds, others contemporary solutions; some featured international ensembles, while others included only local musicians. However, one album stands out in this context: Live at Tbilisi Jazz Festival 1978, released on July 12 under the Jersika Records label.

On this record, we hear the legendary ensemble 2R+2B, comprising the revolutionary jazz musicians of Soviet Latvia — and I dare say, also its builders. The legendary lineup included trumpeter Gunārs Rozenbergs, saxophonist Raimonds Raubiško, double bassist Boriss Bannihs, and drummer Vladimirs Boldirevs. The LP features three compositions: Raubiško’s Puspuda Sāls (Half a Pud of Salt) and Heopsa Piramīda (The Pyramid of Cheops), as well as Bannihs’ Girza.
Incredibly, such a recording has survived, and it is priceless that Mareks Ameriks and his team discovered and published it, thus enriching our collection of historical albums. In this way, we preserve our musical history and build an archive for future generations to study. Because this recording is so historically significant, I decided to discuss it with our local jazz historian, Indriķis Veitners, who is the head of the Jazz Department at the Jāzeps Vītols Latvian Academy of Music, as well as a clarinetist and saxophonist.

I’d like to hear your thoughts on the importance of publishing such recordings in shaping Latvia’s historical media archive.

I think you’ve already said a lot in your question — it really is a time machine. First of all, it’s incredible that such a recording has survived at all. There’s practically a detective story behind how they (Mareks Ameriks and Mārtiņš Krastiņš) found out that it was indeed recorded in Georgia. The sound quality is astonishingly good for such an old tape; you can truly hear and feel that concert.

Personally, I find the most fascinating aspect to be that it’s a genuine snapshot of time. It’s as if we’re transported back to 1978, with an authentic sense of presence — you can imagine being at that concert. Especially when listened to on good equipment, it’s pretty impressive.

The record is brief, but it contains invaluable material. I was especially struck by how they played the piece Girza for ten minutes — a completely ambient, magical piece that seemed to put the entire hall into a trance. On the LP, you can hear the whole audience listening intently. This also illustrates well what Mikus Solovejs writes in the record’s liner notes: the very moment in which the musicians found themselves, as well as their innovations and explorations. Even listening with today’s ears, they play brilliantly — but just imagine this in 1978!

It’s no wonder the authorities of the time didn’t love them — because this was truly world-class jazz, which was uncomfortable for the «establishment.» This wasn’t any kind of socialist realism; this was genuinely high-level art, even with avant-garde elements, which the authorities didn’t want or need.

I honestly want to sing praises to this recording — I really like this LP. I think it’s a miracle that it exists. Such records must be published. And in terms of historical significance, practically nobody knows much about «2R+2B,» and now we have a record. Thanks to Jersika Records’ prestige among audiophiles, there is finally some publicity for the fact that, at that time, Latvia had a high-level jazz ensemble. Moreover, the band members went on to continue their careers — Gunārs Rozenbergs, Raimonds Raubiško, and the others. It’s a remarkable testament to the mindset of Latvian jazz musicians of the time, as well as their aesthetic sensibilities.

This is one of the most significant historical albums released so far by Jersika. I mean specifically historical albums — and there haven’t been that many.

Yes. You mentioned that distinctive mindset. What did you mean by that?

By that, I mean it was absolutely not the mainstream that prevailed in the USSR at the time. It was an American-style post-hardcore bop with elements of free and avant-garde jazz.

But how was it even possible to cultivate such a mindset in Soviet conditions, where access to information was so limited? It’s not like a new album came out in America and suddenly everyone here could listen to it. Were there restrictions and some «trickery» in how people obtained access to those records, right?

Yet everyone was reasonably informed; there were different channels—mainly radio, such as Voice of America’s Jazz Hour and others—for regular music listening. There were also records, which were accessible if you really wanted them.

To answer your question of how it was even possible: It was a profoundly personal and all-encompassing devotion of these musicians to jazz as an art form, almost like a religion. If you live in it, if nothing else exists for you except that, if you’re genuinely interested in it, then your thinking develops in that direction. Perhaps it was a form of inner escapism — escaping from the surrounding reality by devoting oneself entirely to one’s art, ignoring and rejecting the harsh reality outside. They lived in a parallel world.

Do you think this desire to escape reality is what drives such musical breakthroughs, when people try to make revolutions — if not in society, then at least in music?

I don’t think they were trying to make revolutions. They were dedicating themselves wholeheartedly to something they saw as meaningful. None of them was setting out to overthrow anything. They simply did their thing and ignored external conditions. If you ask me how they managed to achieve it, I’d say only because nothing else existed for them.

That wasn’t unique for that time. Many people did fascinating work, achieved results, and conducted research precisely because the surrounding environment was so miserable. It was a way of not losing your mind. The question was: how much courage and strength did each person have to follow through?

For Raubiško, it may have been easier, since he played in the Radio Big Band. But what did they record at Latvian Radio in the 1970s? Mostly accompaniments for songs by Raimonds Pauls and other pop composers. No jazz there.

Right. But there were also venues where they could play.

Yes, but only once a week or once every two weeks — not more often. And with Komsomol officials at the front, as they always said. There was «face control,» so to speak — you couldn’t just do what you wanted freely.

We can hardly even imagine what it was like today. It’s as if you live deep in the countryside, dreaming of an opera performance, and then once a year, you make it to the city and finally see it. Perhaps not the most precise analogy, but that’s how I sense that atmosphere—unrealized, unattainable dreams. Of course, such conditions also created many illusions. When, suddenly, in the 1990s, everything became possible, people thought, «Now it’s happening, now we’ll go to America and everything will work out.» And then they went — only to discover that reality was completely different. That isolation had left its mark.

But I recall people saying that Riga had slightly less censorship when it came to jazz than the rest of the Soviet Union.

Yes and no. It’s difficult to prove today, but one fact speaks against it: the records themselves. How many jazz records with Latvian musicians were released during the Soviet era, and how many with Lithuanian musicians? Lithuanians had over 30, while we had fewer than 10. And those Lithuanian records were even pressed in Riga, since the factory was here.

There was a strong jazz community here, thanks to Leonīds Ģidbaļskis and his colleagues, who organized the Vasaras Ritmi (Summer Rhythms) festival. But that was only once a year. They tried, yes, but opportunities for realization were still minimal.

So, if you ask me how it was possible in Soviet reality, it was only because these people devoted themselves entirely, honestly, and uncompromisingly to their art and did nothing else.

Returning to this particular recording, what fascinates me most is its authenticity. You can hear it when you listen. At times, they even play a little unevenly — it’s a live concert recording — but it’s authentic. And it went entirely against the current.

What was «the current» back then?

Mainly conformism. And, as far as I know, no one else in Riga was playing like that.

You mean others were playing more traditional jazz?

It’s hard to say; there’s little evidence. However, I think they were definitely outside the mainstream in some ways. They leaned much more toward the avant-garde than the others. Egīls Straume’s experiments, I believe, came later.
As for references, we have the LP Fiesta, recorded around the same time, which features compositions by E. Straume, G. Rozenbergs, and U. Stabulnieks. On that record, you’ll hear more jazz-rock, also, if you’ve seen the film City. Autumn. Rhythm (Город. Осень. Ритм, 1976), which shows the Leningrad Jazz Festival, you’ll see and hear Boriss Bannihs, Vjačeslav Mitrokhin, Mihail Vainer, and a very young Zigmārs Liepiņš (basically the Modo lineup) — and again, you hear jazz-rock.

What can you say about the Tbilisi Jazz Festival itself? It was quite a significant event.

It was one of the many jazz festivals that regularly took place in the USSR at the time. It’s difficult for me to comment in detail about this specific festival, but I know it has existed for quite some time and was especially significant in the Caucasus. Overall, the series of jazz festivals across the Soviet Union was a fascinating phenomenon because they were all created in a similar manner. In each place, there was a kind of local Nidbaļskis — a fan who somehow managed to «push through» the idea with the official state institutions and secure permission to organize the festival. And the organizer didn’t even need to be a musician. For example, in Riga, that circle was essentially comprised of the technical intelligentsia — engineers and people of similar professions — united by a genuine love of jazz. And it was identical everywhere.

That seems rather strange, because back then, jazz wasn’t exactly the kind of music the government respected. It was the music of freedom, supposedly forbidden, yet these festivals existed everywhere, and musicians continued to play.

Yes, but here’s the thing. First of all, let’s note that jazz was never officially banned in the Soviet Union. That’s one of the widespread myths. It was unwanted, inconvenient, ideologically incorrect — yes. Jazz was ideologically «wrong» music, but everything depended on the political situation and context at any given moment.

Secondly, in reality, everything depended on individuals. That has always been the case. If the «right people» were on the other side of the table, then everything could be arranged. And yes, jazz might have been ideologically awkward, but on the other hand, everyone was tied together through various relationships, and sometimes those circumstances worked in its favor.

A good example is Summer Rhythms. I concluded that, in fact, the festival was convenient for everyone. Because it wasn’t organized by the Philharmonic, which meant the Philharmonic itself didn’t have to do anything. They only participated. It wasn’t organized by the Jūrmala concert hall, nor even by the Culture House Oktobris. It was organized by a jazz club, which legally had the status of a dance circle, an amateur collective. They did all the organizational work, while the Philharmonic and everyone else benefited. It was a good box to tick in reports — «we have a successful cultural event.» And in any case, it reached a particular audience (since jazz always had a specific audience): primarily creative and technical intelligentsia, artists, doctors, writers, etc. Everyone was satisfied.

In that sense, rock was much more dangerous to the authorities because it was far more socially active. Rock could carry political lyrics. But jazz was, by nature, instrumental music — no text. Jazz is more abstract. So it came across as a kind of abstract art.

So, I would say your question doesn’t have a single answer. In each case, there was a particular person who said «yes.» A specific person organized and carried out the entire project, and everything depended on their initiative.

But what about the newspaper Soviet Culture, which called Boldirevs and Bannihs the best Soviet rhythm section? How can it be that such a major publication wrote about such a «risky» music style, and about some festival in Georgia? On the one hand, I understand jazz as the music of the intelligentsia, so that it could be played and listened to — but I grew up with the idea that «today you play jazz, tomorrow you’ll sell your Motherland» [AN: a well-known Soviet slogan against Western influence].

But what exactly puzzles you? I think the perception of Soviet times as a total prison where everything was terrible is a bit exaggerated. Yes, life was quite grim then, because the system was stupid. However, on the other hand, people lived and enjoyed themselves just as they do today, just as they have at all times, regardless of how difficult life was.

It was ideology that twisted everything — every event had to be framed with some silly Lenin quote and presented in the «right sauce.» But if you knew how to present things in the right way, you could get away with a lot.

That phrase about «selling the Motherland» was relevant earlier, during Stalin’s time, when there were real repressions. After Stalin’s death (1953), things changed a lot. During Khrushchev’s «Thaw» (1953–1964), attitudes toward jazz rose and fell depending on international politics, but overall, the view shifted. Gradually, it became accepted that yes, jazz was perhaps a bit American, but «we can have our own Soviet jazz.» Just like we could have our own Soviet contemporary music, our own Soviet avant-garde — all presented as achievements of Soviet art, they weren’t playing «that nasty American music,» they were playing their own. They were playing Girza.

So it’s really no surprise that there was an official review in a leading newspaper. However, you must read those articles carefully. Much was hidden «between the lines.» You can’t just take them at face value; you have to interpret what was not written, or what was written in code. That’s how you can extract a lot of interesting information.

The official discourse was always about «achievements» and positivity. At the same time, critics had to find a way to present genuine criticism, which was sometimes tricky. Take Aivars Baumanis, for example — a critic at Soviet Youth. He was a big jazz fan, a journalist who regularly wrote about jazz concerts and the Summer Rhythms festival. Sometimes his criticism was very sharp, though always within the limits of what was permissible. The question was: how much could you dare to say? If you said too much, there were consequences. You’d be called into the party committee and told, ‘Don’t do this again, don’t write that again.’

There are numerous examples of censorship and self-censorship from that time. Incidentally, Edgars Raginskis is currently researching exactly this topic of censorship. But there were critics — respected voices who understood the music and wrote about jazz in leading Soviet publications. That’s why Boldirevs and Bannihs were recognized.

So then how did our ensemble even get invited to that festival?

In my opinion, it’s nothing unusual. 2R+2B were representatives from Latvia, and Latvia held a very prestigious position in jazz within the USSR at the time. And every festival was looking for something special. Just like today, everyone knew each other. And it so happened that this ensemble was truly avant-garde, of very high professional and artistic caliber, innovative. Nobody else had anything like it. We are fortunate that this concert was recorded. Incidentally, in the official Melodiya LP released from the festival, 2R+2B were omitted.

And you also mentioned it was a detective story, how Marek even found this recording. Why?

The detective story revolves around determining where the recording was made. The tape was found in the Latvian Radio archives. Nobody knew it existed. And of course, you could hear it was a live recording. So they started investigating, because the tape was mislabeled (the original photo can be seen in the LP insert).

They listened and realized it couldn’t have been recorded in Riga — none of our halls sound like that. Only after thorough analysis and research did they conclude that it was from a festival in Georgia. They even sent the tape to Georgia to check. With Tālis Gžibovskis’ help, they tracked down the festival organizers and eventually even the sound engineers who had recorded the concert at the time. That’s why it’s a bit of a detective story.

To conclude, this is truly a unique recording. It’s like a time machine, letting us hear the phenomenal performances of R. Raubiško, G. Rozenbergs, and the other two gentlemen — their playing style at its most vivid, in a live concert back in 1978—a time when all four musicians were in the midst of creative development and growth.

At the same time, the recording also serves as a time capsule, much like a photograph that captures a specific moment. It is a truly invaluable artifact of Latvian jazz history — and I dare say, one of the most significant recordings in the entire history of Latvian jazz.