Roman kofman
Ukrainian composer and conductor
In 1962, I attended Benny Goodman’s concert with his orchestra in Kyiv. The concert was held at the Sports Palace. The audience was about 15,000 people, filling the stands and the central area, which was usually used for hockey or basketball games. The venue was packed, and I’ll try to explain why.
The situation with jazz music in the Soviet Union at that time was quite diverse. There were three or four official, stable jazz orchestras. One was based in Minsk, led by trumpeter Eddie Rosner. Another was Leonid Utyosov’s orchestra. There was also a jazz orchestra led by Oleg Lundstrem, who had arrived from China, from Shanghai. This group consisted of Russian émigrés, likely the children of the first wave of Russian emigrants. Later, this orchestra became the best jazz orchestra in the Soviet Union.
I first heard about Lundstrem when his orchestra was stationed in Kazan. They were allowed to come to the Soviet Union, but they couldn’t move west of the Volga. At that time, I was a violinist, which was my primary profession. I worked in the orchestra of the Gorky Philharmonic, now the Nizhny Novgorod Philharmonic, and we were on tour in Kazan. I knew nothing about Lundstrem back then, but musicians in our orchestra discovered that they were rehearsing at one of the cultural centers in preparation for an official presentation to ministry representatives. Some of them attended the rehearsal and later described the orchestra as extraordinary and the musicians as magical.
Why was there such a cautious attitude toward them?
Well, because they were considered a suspicious group. Many of them were former exiles who had lived in Siberia. After Stalin’s death, they were allowed to leave the camps but could only relocate east of the Volga. The authorities weren’t afraid of jazz music itself, but they feared upsetting their superiors. What those superiors thought, only God knows.
Were there any legal jazz orchestras at that time?
Attitudes toward jazz fluctuated. For example, Varlaamov’s jazz orchestra was well-known before the war, but government policies alternated between allowing and banning such ensembles. The general public wasn’t involved in these intrigues. For instance, Utyosov’s jazz was widely recognized thanks to the film Jolly Fellows. However, it wasn’t really jazz—it used jazz instruments and a jazz ensemble, but the music was more light entertainment, something like Soviet entertainment. The orchestra was called a jazz orchestra, but they didn’t actually play jazz.
What about Michel Legrand’s concert?
Shortly before Benny Goodman’s visit to Kyiv, another orchestra performed—Michel Legrand’s orchestra. I attended that concert as well. It was held outdoors on the slopes of the Dnipro River, where a stage was set up. However, not many people attended because they didn’t know who Michel Legrand was. The concert received a lukewarm response. The audience began leaving because the music was refined and sophisticated. It was Legrand’s signature style, but most of the audience couldn’t relate to it. I felt embarrassed and sorry for how it was received.
What about Goodman’s concert?
The audience gathered for Benny Goodman’s concert because they knew what it was. After the arrival of trophy films in the Soviet Union, the entire country rewatched Serenade of the Sun Valley, just as it had rewatched Jolly Fellows with Utyosov. Goodman’s name was well-known. The hall was packed, and the concert was spectacular. The audience responded warmly and appropriately. Benny Goodman charmed everyone not only with his music but also with his demeanor on stage. He sat very casually, relaxed, with his legs stretched out in front of him, holding his clarinet, and played.
But our interaction with Goodman’s orchestra didn’t end there. I went home—I was working in Kyiv at the time, having graduated from the violin department of the conservatory and serving in the symphony orchestra of Ukrainian Radio. The day after the concert at the Sports Palace, Benny Goodman came to our radio station. He said he wanted to record Mozart’s famous Clarinet Concerto with our orchestra. He took out his instrument, played the concerto, and we recorded it. I don’t know if this recording has survived—it may still be in the archives. Everyone was amazed at how this “jazz hooligan” played Mozart so beautifully.
After the performance, Goodman thanked the orchestra and said: "I would like, in memory of this event and in gratitude for how warmly you welcomed me and how beautifully you played with me, to present a golden flute to the first flutist. Who is your first flutist?"
At that moment, Comrade Fedkin stood up. He was from Irpin, a suburb of Kyiv, about 25 kilometers away. A simple and honest man, he approached Goodman, who personally handed him the golden flute.
However, the story didn’t end there. The next day, Fedkin was summoned by Comrade Skachko, the head of the Broadcasting and Television Committee—a minister, essentially. Skachko asked him:
"Did Mr. Goodman give you a flute yesterday?"
"Yes," Fedkin replied.
"But you understand that this wasn’t a gift for you personally—it was for the collective of the Radio Orchestra?"
"No, he gave it to me personally. He said it was a gift for the first flutist," Fedkin insisted.
"You are obliged to hand it over to the Radio and Orchestra Fund," Skachko demanded.
"No, I won’t give it up!" Fedkin refused.
The next day, he was fired from the orchestra.
And he didn’t give it up?
No, he didn’t. He took the flute and moved back to his hometown of Irpin. There, he earned a living making T-shaped antennas for rooftops, which were common at the time. The further fate of Fedkin and the flute remains unknown.
That’s the story of Benny Goodman as I remember it—in Kyiv.
What do you think was special about his playing? Why, in your opinion, did his jazz performance style stand out?
His uniqueness was in how harmonious and classical he was. He was classical in playing jazz—not in the sense of being strictly academic, but in the sense of perfection, that’s how I’d put it. It wasn’t like… “hooliganism,” in quotation marks. He played very naturally, like birds singing. That’s a cliché comparison, I know, but… he played as though the music flowed out of him, as if he were having a conversation. That’s how I would describe it.
How did you feel during those years?
I was happy. During those years, in that period, I was genuinely happy. I was young, and in 1961, my daughter was born. I was doing what I loved. I managed to get into the Kyiv Conservatory, which wasn’t easy—it’s a long story, probably not of interest to you. I graduated with honors. I earned a solid diploma that read, “Specialization: Concert Performer.” Life was just… life was beautiful.
Did you feel any anxiety back then due to the global political situation? Did you expect a catastrophe?
I didn’t think the world was on the brink of catastrophe—I didn’t feel that at the time. And the people around me didn’t share the mood you’re describing. The mood of expecting a catastrophe, expecting the end of existence, some kind of cataclysm—it wasn’t there. Life smiled at me. And that was it… My father followed political events. He was always with his newspapers and kept up with everything. He was quite an extraordinary person, by the way. He was a Tolstoyan.
How did you experience the post-war period and Stalin's death?
The post-war period, Stalin's death, and subsequent events, such as the Doctors' Plot, affected me deeply. At that time, I lived in Novosibirsk, studied there for a while, and then moved to Gorky, as I have mentioned. I lived through all of this… But eventually, it all faded into the background when the Thaw began. I approached that era with ease, even with humor. For example, Khrushchev's trip to the U.S. or Adzhubei's book "Our Nikita Sergeyevich" about his meeting with corn farmers in Iowa…
How did you feel about Khrushchev?
I felt gratitude toward Khrushchev because he freed my father-in-law from imprisonment. My father-in-law had spent 19 years in the camps, from 1937 to 1956, being completely innocent. So overall, my attitude toward Khrushchev was positive, though tinged with humor. He was a funny man with comical actions. These days, his personality and fate are dramatized a lot. His life was, of course, unusual, especially its ending. But he wasn’t treated the way he once treated his opponents when he was a Politburo member. So, my attitude toward him is multifaceted, let’s say.
And how did you feel about Kennedy?
I had a reverent attitude toward Kennedy, as many Soviet people did. During the period when the countries were on the brink of war, the sudden news of his death came.
At the time, I was the first violinist in the inaugural ensemble of the Kyiv Chamber Orchestra. We were on tour in Melitopol; it was November 21, 1963, I think. At the hotel, we heard on the radio that Kennedy had been assassinated. That evening, we had a concert, and we decided to change the program, announcing to the audience that in memory of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, we would perform Adagio by Samuel Barber, the American composer.
This tragic story was widely discussed, especially its gruesome details—the killing of the assassin and so on. To this day, I believe the case remains unresolved.
Do you have a theory about who was responsible for the assassination?
My theory? It was obviously a provocation. But whose provocation and by whom? I don’t know. I have no certainty, and therefore no theory.
How do you see the relationship between Russia and the U.S. today?
In some ways, the current situation resembles that era, but there are stark differences. Back then, both sides had rational politicians. Today, especially on Russia’s side, the politicians are irrational, to put it mildly.
Khrushchev also had his eccentricities. People sometimes accuse Khrushchev of banging his shoe at the UN. So what? He was a representative of the people, the country's population. Putin, on the other hand, does not represent Russia. He represents a gang of usurpers who have seized power, surrounded themselves with thousands of bodyguards. He is very far removed from the Russian people. Those supposed 70-80% approval ratings? A fiction. The moment he falters, his support among the Russian people will evaporate.
Do you think the Soviet elite was closer to the people?
The nomenklatura was part of society, “flesh and blood.” Essentially, they were like Russian merchants and landowners, but with party cards. As Mayakovsky wrote:
"The trams lined up at the registry office,
There was a red wedding,
The groom was dressed all in proletarian garb,
And a party card stuck out of his blouse."
That’s exactly how it was. Their blouses were like… well, like traditional Russian tunics.
Why was jazz considered a "forbidden fruit" in the Soviet Union?
Jazz was indeed a forbidden or semi-forbidden fruit, which made it all the more appealing. For example, in the Soviet Union, there was an unusual jazz orchestra at the House of Railroad Workers, led by composer Dmitry Pokras. His brother, Daniil, emigrated to the United States, where he somehow ended up in Hollywood and worked on music. Dmitry stayed in the Soviet Union. But he wasn’t much of a conductor—just a solid, elderly man, at least as he seemed to me at the time, since I was about 20 or 25. The orchestra was called jazz, but it wasn’t jazz in the true sense. It was more like entertainment music.
How did the intelligentsia and ordinary people perceive jazz?
The creative intelligentsia was interested in jazz; they knew all about it—who played, where, and how. But the general public was far removed from it. Very far.
Did anything change after Michel Legrand's concerts?
Nothing changed after Legrand’s concerts. But after Benny Goodman’s tour, jazz became somewhat legitimized. If such a musician was invited, welcomed, and hosted properly, then it meant that jazz had significance and could be listened to. Later, pirated recordings of jazz from “enemy” radio voices began to circulate, but that happened later, not in 1962.
Were Goodman’s concerts a diplomatic move?
At the time, it didn’t occur to me. But yes, that was the period when cultural exchanges became a diplomatic tool. For instance, in 1961, the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Leonard Bernstein, came to Kyiv. In 1958, the Philadelphia Orchestra, led by Eugene Ormandy, visited, and earlier, the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra under George Szell performed in the Soviet Union.
How did people react to such cultural events?
For example, at the 1958 Tchaikovsky Competition, when Van Cliburn won the grand prize, Soviet people were ecstatic. Yet, some believed it was a political decision. David Oistrakh, the chairman of the jury, even had trouble leaving the venue—people were outraged, shouting, and wouldn’t let him pass.
Why do you say Soviet people lived a double life?
People pretended. Pretending became ingrained in Soviet society. They pretended so much that they forgot they were pretending. They said one thing and thought another. This affected everything—politics, work, even family life.
What helped you avoid this duplicity?
My upbringing. My father was a Tolstoyan. When he moved to Kyiv, he joined a Tolstoyan circle and became a vegetarian. All his children, including me, never ate meat, fish, or any animal products. My father even corresponded with Tolstoy’s last secretary, Nikolai Nikolayevich Gusev. I still have those letters.
How did this double life impact society?
Double life corrupts. It seeps into all areas—politics, family, community relationships, and, of course, workplace dynamics. It’s an inevitable consequence for people who lived in the Soviet system.
What do you see as the essence of happiness?
Happiness is family, close ones, children. Everything else—work, politics—is far removed. The older I get, the more I understand this.
What is your perspective on the current conflict?
The conflict in Ukraine drags on, though almost all Ukrainians want it to end. I hope many in Russia feel the same. Unfortunately, America doesn’t fully understand what’s happening here. Political maneuvers have little chance of resolving the conflict. It will eventually wear itself out when people finally tire of it.
What do you think about jazz in Ukraine today?
Jazz is alive and thriving in Ukraine. International jazz festivals are held in Lviv and attract a lot of attention. Donetsk used to be a jazz hub with strong soloists, bands, and orchestras, but not anymore, of course.
Why is Benny Goodman significant to you personally?
Benny Goodman is a special figure to me because my violin teacher, though not my first, was named Yosif Aronovich Gutman—a namesake of Goodman. This teacher opened the world of music to me, and the connection between their names gives Goodman a special place in my heart.
Why do you think Jews, as a musical nation, did not produce many great composers?
I believe it’s tied to history. Composition is pure creativity, requiring freedom and independence. Performance, like playing the violin or jazz, is secondary. Unfortunately, throughout their history, Jews were dependent and limited to what was allowed. This made them outstanding performers but less prominent as creators.
Why is jazz such a free art form?
Jazz is freedom. While African Americans were not free, especially in America, they carried immense inner freedom, and it was reflected in their music.
