Visible Difference, Audible Difference: Female Singers and Gay Male Fans in Russian Popular Music

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Visible Difference, Audible Difference:

Female Singers and Gay Male Fans in
Russian Popular Music
Stephen Amico
Published online: 29 Jul 2009.
To cite this article: Stephen Amico (2009) Visible Difference, Audible Difference: Female Singers
and Gay Male Fans in Russian Popular Music, Popular Music and Society, 32:3, 351-370, DOI:
10.1080/03007760902985809
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Popular Music and Society
Vol. 32, No. 3, July 2009, pp. 351–370
Visible Difference, Audible Difference:

Female Singers and Gay Male Fans in
Russian Popular Music
Stephen Amico
Downloaded by [Florida International University] at 10:29 25 December 2014
Studies of Soviet and post-Soviet popular musics have tended to give scant attention to
the variables of gender and sexuality, often positing a tacit and de facto heterosexuality
on the part of both performer and audience. In this article, I focus on the dynamic of
difference—musical, visual, and discursive—in the musics of three post-Soviet, female
singer/musicians (Zhanna Aguzarova, Eva Pol’na, and Zemfira Ramazanova), showing
how such difference serves as a locus of attraction for many gay male listeners, and
performatively questions hierarchies based on gender and sexuality. In conclusion, I posit
the potency of the female voice as a variable that short-circuits the “gaze,” setting up a
relationship of mutually salubrious reciprocity between artist and (gay) audience.
With her feathers, huge glasses and platform shoes, and also semi-crazy babble
about her brother Martians, the fragile Zhanna proclaims her steel right to be other,
one who does not resemble others. (Kurchatova)
Owing, in part, to Russia’s particularly turbulent political and social history,

examinations by Westerners of Soviet and post-Soviet popular musics have often been
remarkable for a foundational theoretical basis built upon the binary dissent/
complicity. Such schematization contributes not only to a continued politicization of
the cultural sphere of the USSR’s successor states—where “politics” itself is often
narrowly defined as primarily or exclusively governmental or juridical—but also to
the elision of other variables which have occupied a far more prominent place in
analyses of Western popular musics. In particular, interrogations of gender and
sexuality have been largely absent from studies of Russian popular musics. Both the
politicization and the concomitant elision have certainly been an effect of the specific
genre—rock music—which has occupied the premier position in analyses of Soviet
and post-Soviet popular musics. For, as much as rock was, indeed, a genre formed and
performed in opposition to Soviet cultural and political repression, it was also one
that has been (and continues to be) coded as overwhelmingly “male”—the “default,”
“unmarked” gender. Additionally, and perhaps owing to rock’s “masculinity,” both
ISSN 0300-7766 (print)/ISSN 1740-1712 (online) q 2009 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/03007760902985809
352 S. Amico
the performer and audience have tended to assume a de facto heterosexuality in
academic analyses of the genre.
The salience of the non-heterosexual/non-male, in regard to both artist and listener,
however, was made explicit in November of 2004 with the publication of a “gay guide”
(“gei-gid”) within one of Russia’s leading national entertainment listing magazines,
Afisha.1 In this volume, a sidebar item was devoted to the country’s “gay divas”: singers
Zhanna Aguzarova, Alla Pugacheva, and Liudmilla Zykina, singer/actress Liudmilla
Gurchenko, and film director/actress Renata Litvinova. While each of these artists has
enjoyed considerable success throughout the Russian-speaking world, attracting
audiences of varied demographics, the appeal in particular of the “popular diva” to
many gay Russian men is a variable that must be examined not only in terms of
understanding the connection of the performer to a specific audience, but also in order
to present a more nuanced and, indeed, accurate understanding of Russian popular
musics as well. In this article, I will examine the works of three Russian, female
performers of popular music, all of whom can count significant numbers of gay men
among their fans: Aguzarova (formerly lead singer of the seminal rock band Bravo, and
now a solo artist), Eva Pol’na, lead singer of the duo Gosti iz budushchego (Guests from
the Future), and Zemfira Ramazanova (lead singer and guitarist of the band Zemfira).
Specifically, I will focus on the dynamic of difference—musical, visual, and discursive—
discussing how such difference serves as a locus of attraction for gay male listeners,
finally showing how the relationship between fan and singer, in a symbiotic fashion,
not only performatively questions gender and sexual hierarchies, but also empowers
both listener and musician.2 Although my analyses draw upon fieldwork in both
St. Petersburg and Moscow, including numerous interviews and conversations with
gay Russian men, they should not be taken as universal explanans, encompassing all
gay men, or even all gay Russian men. Similarly, my use of the term “gay audience”
should likewise be taken as indicating a subset of one specific group of historically,
culturally, and geographically situated men. Finally, I use the terms “gay” and
“homosexual” (in contradistinction to “queer”) to indicate those men who
self-identified as having their primary sexual-emotional-erotic connections to and
with other men.3
Sexing/Gendering Difference
It was a gay sensibility that, for example, often enabled some lesbians and gay men
to see at very early ages, even before they knew the words for what they were,
something on the screen that they knew related to their lives in some way, without
being able to put a finger on it. Often it was the simple recognition of difference,
the sudden understanding that something was altered or not what it should be.
(Russo 92)
Singer and composer Zhanna Aguzarova would most likely earn the epithet
“different” apart from her musical creation. Some of my informants told me about
her “strange” pronouncements of interplanetary travel or speaking with aliens,
Popular Music and Society 353
ascribing these to psychiatric or substance-abuse problems, a desire to titillate the

press, or a combination of any or all of these. In the context of Russo’s positing of
difference as a site of recognition and connection for the homosexual viewer/listener,
Aguzarova’s popularity with gay men would certainly be unsurprising. The very
suggestion, however, of a specific and generalized node of attachment, a lightning rod
for “a” “gay sensibility,” may seem to veer disturbingly close to essentialism. Solie is
certainly cognizant of the dangers inherent in “differing” specific groups or
individuals within the musical, noting how creating sites of difference may lead not
only to essentialism, but to discrimination as well. However, she also highlights how
the inverse of differing—“saming”—can be read not merely as an assumption of, but
indeed as a demand for similarity,4 and finds that the highlighting of difference can
have positive results: specifically, a foregrounding of difference may give voice to those
who have been previously silenced or obliterated, serving as “a form of resistance
against subsumption into an undifferentiated universal subject” (6).5
Inherent in Solie’s argument is the suggestion that difference, insofar as it serves as a
site for association, is best not thought of generically, and in this regard it is the tacit or
explicit expression of non-traditional gender and sex roles by Aguzarova, Pol’na, and
Ramazanova that serves as one locus between the female performer and the gay male
listener/viewer. On one of the most basic levels, all three women implicitly question
the highly rigid and binarized gender system in Russia in which the latter factor of the
male-masculine/female-feminine split is connected to an overdetermined idea of
female pulchritude. Ramazanova, for example, generally dispenses with the sartorial
trappings of stereotypical femininity favored by many urban Russian women, and is
frequently attired in t-shirts, jeans, and boots, tattooed and free of make-up.
Aguzarova, while often wearing clothing that accentuates her female physique, also
veers far from normative standards of female beauty; with her severe make-up,
prominent aquiline nose, and multicolored hair, she is more Nina Hagen than Anna
Kurnikova. And, while Pol’na has in many instances exhibited a socially sanctioned
type of female beauty, she has also been unafraid of presenting herself as different from
the vast majority of female singers currently popular in Russia with their perfectly
painted faces and lithe, sinuous bodies. Pol’na’s body itself, in fact—she has in recent
years gained a considerable amount of weight, leading some to refer jokingly to her as
“Eva Polnaia” (meaning “full” or “fat”)—distinguishes her from the hordes of nubile
popular songstresses such as the members of “girl groups” Blestiashchie or Tutsi.
Relationships to non-traditional gender comportment or sexuality6 are also
brought about via the lyrical content of several of Pol’na’s and Ramazanova’s songs,
these containing allusions to homosexuality; indeed, Pol’na’s “Begi ot menia”
(“Run From Me”) was referred to by one of my informants as her “lesbian song.”
The narrative describes a romantic relationship steeped in ambivalence, and one in
which the narrator portrays herself as the cause of the sorrow between the two parties
(“ia tvoi slëzy,” “I am your tears”). Throughout the song, the narrator’s interlocutor is
neither described nor named, and until the second verse, it is possible to ascribe
either gender to the partner. At this point, however, via the past tense of the verbs
354 S. Amico
predavat’ (to betray) and iskat’ (to look for), the gender of the addressee is made
clear; in Russian, gender is expressed in several ways, one of which is via the
past perfect tense of the verb, in this case the feminine forms predavala and iskala
(e.g. “znaiu, ty menia tak iskala” “[I] know you [feminine] looked for me so”).7
Furthermore, the interpretation that Pol’na, despite her female voice, may be singing
from the position of the man, is foreclosed by the line, “ia tvoei mechtoiu ne stala”
(“I didn’t become your dream”), again via the perfect past tense form of the verb stat’
(to become)—here, stala (feminine). As such, the gender of both characters is
unambiguously feminine.8
Pol’na also alludes to male homosexuality in her song “Goluboi angel”
(“Blue Angel”), using one of the most widely known slang words for a gay male
(goluboi—literally, “light blue”).9 Although the adjective may be read as carrying no

connotations of sexual orientation, it is equally possible that the word, within the
context of both Pol’na’s own sexual ambiguity (to be discussed below), and the lyrics
to this particular song, could be easily read as connoting gayness. The title itself can be
read as a reference to Josef von Sternberg’s film of the same name, one that starred
Marlene Dietrich—lesbian, according to some, at the very least sexually androgynous
to others, and one of many Hollywood “gay icons.” And while it is possible that this
reference might be lost on gay men in Russia who did not have access to large numbers
of Western films for decades, both biographies (translated into Russian) and films of
the actress are now available on the gay.ru and lesbi.ru websites, two of the most
widely accessed internet portals for gay men and lesbians in the Russian-speaking
sphere. The lyrics themselves paint a picture of one whose love is proscribed
(“ia goluboi angel grusti/liubov’ k sebe ne pustit,” “I am the sad blue angel/I am not
allowed love”), and such proscription was operative not only in the Soviet period in
the form of Article 121, which criminalized male homosexuality, but continues to the
present day; although homosexuality is no longer illegal, it continues to be socially
stigmatized, carrying very real economic, social, and physical consequences for those
who might risk “coming out.”
The last verse, in which Pol’na sings “kril’ia moi zakrivaiut polneba” (“my wings are
blocking off half the sky”) also has allusions to male homosexuality. The word kryl’ia
(wings) was the title of the first “gay novel” in Russia, written by Mikhail Kuzmin in
1923, a “coming of age” story remarkable for its positive representation of
homosexuality. Additionally, one of St. Petersburg’s oldest gay organization, also
Kryl’ia, takes its name from the title of Kuzmin’s novel. These connotations are
bolstered by the fact that Pol’na has exhibited a connection to and empathy with the
“gay community,” a community that likewise has embraced her; her presence, for
example, at a drag ceremony at the Moscow club Dusha i Telo (Soul and Body), left the
hall “in ecstasy” (“v vostorge”) (Guru Ken). In this light, it is likely that gay men could
read symbols or connotations of homosexuality in, or into, her work.
Pol’na’s perceived difference, however, is not simply a product of her textual references
to homosexuality, or her presence at drag shows; it is, rather, also related to questions
regarding the singer’s own sexual orientation. Some of my informants said that they had
heard rumors of Pol’na’s being either lesbian or bisexual, though none was entirely sure
whether such rumors were true or if they had simply been manufactured (by the press or
Pol’na herself), perhaps as a way of garnering media and listener attention via the
production of “fantasy lesbianism.”10 Pol’na has remained equivocal about the question
of her sexual orientation, and when asked by an interviewer about her epithet, “the singer
of lesbian love” (“pevitsa lesbianskoi liubvi”), she responded:
I don’t consider myself a singer of lesbian love. I consider myself simply a singer, a
creator and an artist. I write and sing about Love with a capital letter, about general
and universal feelings, therefore I even try not to use gender determinates in the
words of the texts. If it’s easier for someone to give me this “wreath” because of this,
then let them think that way. (Bel’sh)
The last statement—“let them think that way” (“pust’ oni tak dumaiut”)—exhibits
a type of equivocation seen also in the replies of certain male singers such as Valerii
Leont’ev and Shura, also widely perceived as homosexual, in response to questions
about their sexuality, neither denying nor confirming “rumors” (Mekhtiev;
Polupanov). And, although Pol’na gave birth to a daughter in 2005, giving
(negligible) ammunition to those who might wish to cite “proof ” of her
heterosexuality, news reports of the time notably fail to give the name of the father,
further stating that “the name of the newborn is still not decided, but the family name,
it seems, will be her mother’s—Pol’na” (“Eva Pol’na rodila”). At the same time as the
other member of this perhaps romantic, perhaps simply biological union remains
unnamed, Pol’na’s name has been linked—in a suggestive manner—to at least one
other woman of “non-traditional orientation,” specifically Ramazanova. According to
an article in the newspaper Utro, Pol’na is one of several women noted to have had a
“close friendship” with the singer.
The phrase “close friendship,” however, must be understood in the context of the
article, which, while initially professing to dispel rumors about a love affair between
Ramazanova and director, actress, and (according to Afisha) gay diva Renata
Litvinova, later goes on to suggest, through innuendo, that the rumors of a romance
might not be unfounded; the writer even uses the word “druzhba” (“friendship”),
complete with quotation marks. The reason for the supposition is not because of
Litvinova, who “until the friendship with Zemfira has never been observed in a close
relationship with a woman,” “having appeared in society only with men,” but
specifically because of Ramazanova. It is the “feminine” Litvinova, who is seen as
having transferred some of her gender-appropriate characteristics to her androgynous
“friend”; according to the reporter, “Z, under the influence of coquette Litvinova, has
become ‘softer, thinner,’ and even restrained” (Mironova).
Like Pol’na, Ramazanova has been silent about her sexual orientation and widely
perceived to be lesbian. In 2004 she was often included in press reports and
accompanying photographs in reference to the proposed action of the vice-Mayor of
Perm’, who sought to levy larger rental fees for the city’s performance hall from those
performers adopting personae of “non-traditional orientation” (Peliavina and
356 S. Amico
Savina); such accounts often placed her in the company of popular music luminaries
such as the openly gay singer Boris Moiseev. And like Pol’na, her songs also reference
homosexuality, either openly or obliquely. Perhaps the most unconcealed reference in
this regard is found in her song “Sneg” (“Snow”), which, like “Begi ot menia,” paints
the picture of an amorous relationship (“ia vorvalas’ v tvoiu zhizn’, i ty obaldela/ia
zakhotela liubvi, ty zhe ne zakhotela,” “I burst into your life, and you freaked
out/I wanted love, you really didn’t”), making the gender of both parties, through
grammar, explicitly female; in this case, the feminine past tense forms obaldela,
vorvalas’, and zakhotela, instead of, respectively, the masculine forms obaldel,
vorvalsia, and zakhotel. Also, as with Pol’na’s “Goluboi angel,” Ramazanova indirectly
offers the possibility of a connection to a specifically gay male audience through the
subject matter of one of her earliest songs, “SPID” (“AIDS”) from her first,
eponymous CD. While AIDS is not, of course, a syndrome exclusive to homosexual
men (affecting large numbers of intravenous drug users and female sex workers in
Russia), it is nonetheless, in both the general and the gay press, a syndrome closely
associated with male homosexuality.
While Aguzarova’s work, in general, does not reference homosexuality—the
singer herself is ostensibly heterosexual—there are nonetheless instances in her
music of a refusal to adhere to the stereotype of the compliant female. In her song
“Zvezda” (“Star”), for example, the narrator sings of a powerful and unfettered
celestial body, the star (“komu nuzhna ona—ei vsë ravno/net nikogo nad nei, ona
vol’na”, “she doesn’t care who needs her/ there’s no one above her, she’s free”), that
makes visible a route toward strength (“svet eë moi osveshchaet put’, i gonit proch’
bezvol’nuiu pechal’”, “her light illuminates my path, and chases away the weak-willed
grief ”). While the noun zvezda may be better translated, despite its feminine
grammatical gender, as “it,” I have chosen to translate it as “she” in order not to
obliterate the possibility that this word may be apprehended as connoting a
specifically female subject and subject position. This is especially true in the context
of a song in which there are not only textual references to feminine power, but also
a pronounced foregrounding of the female body, via the female voice; that is, while
the verses are sung to a text, in the singer’s middle range (with occasional leaps
upward), the choruses are wordless, delivered via an alternation between not only
an extremely powerful chest voice, but also, and notably, a piercing and affecting
soprano. Here, the upper register, unmistakably female and unimpeded by text,11 is
a material performative of disruption.
Hearing Difference
Aguzarova’s uses of wordless melodies, vocables, and scat-like singing in her songs
constitute some of the most stunning instances of her voice, and highlight the power
of the musical (as opposed to the strictly lyrical). While texts are undoubtedly of great
importance in listeners’ receptions of and connections to songs, studies of popular
music have often tended to overvalue the importance of both lexical and social
meaning, lyrics and context, frequently to the extent that the music itself becomes
inaudible.12 While it is beyond the scope of this article to examine the precise
mechanics of musical affect, attention to specifically musical attributes of cultural
productions is essential in foregrounding affect’s role, operating non-linguistically, in
the construction of alliances and identities.
Popular music in contemporary Russia may, as in the West, be broken down into
numerous subcategories,13 each with specific stylistic and contextual attributes.
Despite the differences, however, a considerable amount of Russian popular music,
across genre and style, shares an almost formulaic quality, often exhibiting the
following: 1) a strong preference for minor scales; 2) a heavy reliance on diatonic
harmony, especially tonic-dominant relationships, and the use of harmonic
progressions based on the circle of fifths; 3) melodies constructed—often in relation

to the aforementioned harmonic structures—of sequences; and 4) instrumentation
making use of “traditional” Russian instruments such as the baian (button accordion)
and semistrunnaia (seven-string guitar).14 Contrasting the work of Ramazanova,
Aguzarova, and Pol’na with much of the contemporary popular music in Russia
reveals frequent incidences of musical divergence from the conventions that inform
the country’s current musical soundscape.
In Aguzarova’s “Orël ” (“Eagle”), for example, there are tonic-dominant relationships
within the verse; however, the harmonic relationship of the verse itself to the chorus is
unique and unexpected. While the verse is in B minor (built upon the progression i-VII-
iv-v), the chorus is in D minor, and makes use only of the tonic and subdominant.
Although it is possible to analyze the final G-minor chord of the chorus as a dominant
substitute, insofar as its mediant serves as an enharmonic equivalent to the leading tone
of the verse’s tonic (that is, A# to B), the harmonic relationships are nonetheless atypical,
as are the immediate modulations between verses and chorus (B minor to D minor).
Additionally, the anomalies of the harmonic structure are highlighted even further near
the close of the song, the final appearance of the chorus ending unexpectedly and
suddenly on the B -minor chord. This chord leads immediately to the C-minor chord,
the tonic of the key in which the song ultimately closes.
There are numerous examples of such harmonic surprises in Aguzarova’s work, as
well as myriad instances of dissonance in melodic lines, another attribute rarely
encountered in Russian popular music; in some cases, the atypical melodic
constructions are based upon the aforementioned uncommon harmonic attributes.
In the song “Ploskogor’e lei” (“The Lei Plateau”) the melody lines, taking their cue
from the underlying harmonic structure, often outline dissonant intervals; although
the dissonance does not occur “vertically” between concurrent pitches, the
Figure 1 “Ploskogor’e lei”—Vocal Line, Verse.

358 S. Amico
Figure 2 “Ploskogor’e lei”—Harmonic Structure, Verse.
relationships among the sequential, “horizontal” pitches suggest dissonant

relationships in several instances. Figures 1 and 2 are, respectively, a transcription
of the verse’s vocal line, and a schematic of the underlying harmonic progression.
In the vocal line, dissonant relationships are found between the B that begins
both short phrases, and the ultimate C on which the second ends; here, the interval
is that of a minor second (or ninth). Such dissonance is related to the harmonic
armature, which impacts not only on melody, but on the bass line as well; the synth
bass, following the roots of the chords, once again produces (horizontal) dissonant
intervals such as the diminished fifth between the B and F (in the second phrase), the
latter approached chromatically from E. This is only one of numerous instances of
such dissonance in Aguzarova’s work.
Similar examples of unusual harmonic progressions and dissonance are seen in
Ramazanova’s music, both evident in the song “Nebomoreoblaka” (“Skyseaclouds”)
from the 2005 CD Vendetta. The overall harmonic scheme of the song, marked by
frequent modulations, is rather sophisticated; the relation between each verse and the
immediately subsequent chorus is a tonic that is a major second lower (a downward
modulation from verse to chorus). Additionally, the relationship among the verses
(and among the choruses) is a tonic that is a major second higher at each successive
appearance (e.g. verse one in G minor, verse two in A minor, etc.).15 This atypical
harmonic movement, as with the example of “Ploskogor’e lei,” above, engenders
dissonant relationships in the melodic lines as well, perhaps most notably in
the numerous occurrences of arrival at or departure from the tonic of a section via the
diminished second of the scale. For example, the G-minor chord of the second phrase
of the first verse is reached via a progression from B -major to A -major, finally
reaching the tonic. Likewise, the tonic of the break, also G minor, is reached by
chromatic motion, via the A -major chord; here, the A is the minor second relative to
the tonic. Additionally, the introduction’s “melody” (or riff), played on highly
distorted electric guitar, not only sketches the harmonic progression found
throughout the song, but is also the site of further dissonances (Figure 3).
Indeed, the very first interval of the song is that of a diminished fifth (or augmented
fourth, depending on one’s choice of notation), and the closing interval of the section,
leading into the vocals, is the minor second, noted above. Moreover, through the use
Figure 3 “Nebomoreoblaka”—Guitar Riff.

Figure 4 “Zhuzha”—Guitar Line, Intro.
of almost glissando-like, washy, sweeping, and effect-laden electric guitar lines,

counterposed against the harmonic armature with which they are harmonically “at odds,”
a dissonance imbues the song throughout. Such dissonance, as with Aguzarova, is a
component of many songs—for example, in the guitar accompaniment to the song
“Zhuzha,”16 a line heard not only as accompaniment throughout the verses and choruses,
but also, monophonically, as the introduction (Figure 4). Again, dissonant intervals are
found in numerous locations, from the augmented fourth in the first measure, to the
diminished fifth that obtains between the line’s first pitch (A) and its last (E ).17
Certainly dissonance and chord progressions making use of the Phrygian (flat)
second step of the scale are not uncommon in hard rock or metal in the West, styles
not unknown in Russia. However, both styles, and rock in general, are heavily coded as
“masculine” in Russia; not incidentally, there is an even greater paucity of women in
Russian rock and rock-like genres than there is in the West. In fact, the dynamic of
transgressing gender-coded boundaries, vis-à-vis genres, highlights another site of
difference, one apparent with both Aguzarova and Ramazanova. In the case of the
latter, the aesthetic of rock (even hard rock) is in evidence in many songs; Aguzarova,
likewise, makes use of rock aesthetics, albeit often those of an earlier era (for example,
1950s– 60s rock and roll) in such songs as “Zachem rodilsia ty” (“Why Were You
Born”), which makes use of a typical 12-bar blues accompaniment. Additionally,
Ramazanova further transgresses musical boundaries tied to genres via instruments;
she is, in fact, one of the very few female musicians who not only uses the various
sounds of the electric guitar—one often highly distorted and “heavy”—in her songs,
but is also the musician responsible for producing them.
Pol’na’s music with Gosti iz budushchego differs from those of both of the
aforementioned artists, marked by the stylistic attributes of a wide array of
contemporary electro-acoustic styles, including dance, lounge, jazz, drum and bass,
and others. The duo’s18 sound is also marked by extremely high standards of technical
production, making it popular with many of my informants, including those who
were in general dismissive of Russian popular music. What is most idiosyncratic about
Pol’na’s work, however, is her distinctive manner of setting text to melody, specifically,
her practice of setting densely worded lines to metrically and rhythmically rapid
melodies. Both the verse and chorus of the song “Liubi menia po-frantszuskii” (“Love
Me in French”) are exemplary (see Figures 5 and 6).
360 S. Amico
Figure 5 “Liubi menia po-frantszuskii”—Vocal Line, Verse.

Figure 6 “Liubi menia po-frantszuskii”—Vocal Line, Chorus.
In the verse, the melody is predominantly delivered in strings of eighth notes,

syllabically, over a rapid beat of approximately 120 beats per minute (depending upon
the [re]mix).19 In the chorus, the rate of pitch and syllable change becomes more
frequent, due to the addition of sixteenth notes, and the syncopation engendered by
the tied rhythmic values makes the declamation appear even trickier, thus adding to
its apparent speed. A similar type of declamation—one that differs greatly from the
type found in most popsa (a Russian genre roughly analogous to Western pop)20—is
found in the verse of the previously discussed “Begi ot menia,” the vocal line making
use of rapidly sung strings of both eighth and sixteenth notes.
The Voice, Power, and Reciprocity

But difference inheres not only in the ways these musicians manipulate sound and
sound structures conceptually and formally, or the surface of their physiologies and
physiognomies; it also is a constituent of that which weds the conceptual and the
biological, the very timbres of these women’s voices. Ramazanova may deliver her
vocals, depending on the mood of the song, with a wan, ennui-laden, almost
conversational tone, at the bottom of her register, or with great power, at the very top
of her range. The same is true of Aguzarova, whose delivery can run from growls and
shrieks, to a piercing, nasal, chest voice, to an upper register at times quasi-operatic
(as in “Zvezda”). And Pol’na, although not possessing as wide a vocal range as the
other two singers, nonetheless makes use of a highly distinctive, smoky alto, as well as
a thin yet affecting head voice, to great effect. Each of these women is immediately
recognizable for her distinct voice, as well as the ways she chooses to use this voice via
musical expression. But the voice is not simply another marker of difference qua
difference; it is, in fact, the site in which the body becomes audible, an audibility with
repercussions for the entire system of gender and sexuality, both for (female) singer
and (gay male) listener. It may be almost gratuitous to point out the performative
aspects of the performing woman, in relation to gender in general, and the gendering
of music. But further to this, I would highlight the degree to which these women’s
performances—especially performances utilizing difference as a constitutional basis,
this in the context of post-Soviet space—are performative of power, a performativity
exponentially more powerful than other discourses via their recourse to the affective
conduits of both music and the human voice. The voice, as I will show later, is essential
in (at least) theoretically dismantling the current gender-based power structure.

As previously noted, the difference exhibited and voiced by all three of the singers in
question transgresses, in part, the norm of “acceptable” femininity in current-day
Russia, one that is closely tied to the appearance of the female body as defined by the
male “gaze.”21 As a prelude to a discussion of the female star’s relationship to such a
scrutinizing look, it will be instructive to reference the video for Ramazanova’s song
“Arividerchi.”22 The ensuing discussion will illuminate some of the problems inherent
in earlier work on woman as scopic object, which will in turn necessitate a
reassessment not only of the supposed gender and sexual identity and attendant
power of the “gaze’s” bearer, but also of the very positing of the primacy of “text,”
defined in both visual and narrative terms, over the sonic.
Ramazanova’s video, making use of rapid edits, grainy film texture, and a DIY-like
aesthetic, features two main figures: the singer herself and a male swimmer, the latter
clad only in a bathing cap, small, Speedo-like swimsuit, and dark black swimming
goggles. Images of his body are interspersed with those of Ramazanova playing the
guitar in a windowless room with floral wallpaper, as well as various shots of both
pedestrian and automobile traffic. The sexualness of his body is highlighted not only
by the camera’s positioning (close shots of his navel and nipple), but also by the
viscous, greasy substance he smears over his sculpted chest and abdomen; at times, his
hands seem tentatively to caress his own skin. In contrast, Ramazanova is in a long,
dark, boxy jacket, jeans turned up to mid-calf level, and somewhat incongruous high
heels, the contours of her body hidden; her guitar (which she plays) is often the center
of the shot. One of the most conspicuous elements of the visuals is the fact that
Ramazanova’s face is almost always either partially or fully obliterated, at various
times by her hair, shadows, and strings of bamboo-like curtains. Her eyes in some
shots are scribbled over with scrawling black strokes, added in editing, while in others
her head is thrown back so that only her chin is visible. Additionally, her head is
sometimes digitally replaced by a spherical, metallic spiral, or by a mannequin’s head,
or is entirely cropped out of the shot. In fact, the clearest shots of female
physiognomies in the video are seen on a Rubik’s cube-like sphere or a mannequin’s
head, in pieces, or in rapid, black-and-white still photographs, likewise dissected, the
362 S. Amico
strips (noses, eyes, mouths) in rapid motion, traveling horizontally to recreate new
faces from the various components.
The viewer’s most complete and prolonged views of Ramazanova—that is, those in
which her entire body is visible, from feet to (partially obliterated) face—occur with
the entrances of the chorus, the first appearance of which features the words “we will
burn the ships in my port” (“budem korabli v moei gavani zhech’”). While the lyrics
change in subsequent appearances,23 they reference each time a change in physical
and/or geographical status, and are accompanied by an abrupt melodic rise to the
singer’s upper register (a leap of a minor sixth), an attendant increase in dynamics and
change in timbre, and the inclusion of Ramazanova’s guitar as chordal
accompaniment. Toward the end of video, Ramazanova’s face is briefly visible,
slightly out of focus and from a distance, as she advances toward the camera—her
high heels now removed and lying on the floor beside her. The final shot is of her
clothed body, her head entirely out of camera range, the bright yellow electric guitar
hanging from her neck (contrasting rather sharply with the overall subdued, dark
tones of the video) the visual focus of the shot.
In perhaps one of the most seminal texts theorizing the gendered bond of audience
to performer, Mulvey examines the gaze in relation to the spectacular, filmic female.
Relating viewing to the Freudian concepts of voyeurism and fetishism, Mulvey
maintains that both generate pleasure for the male spectator (scopophilia), while
placing him in a position of power over the viewed and potentially dangerous
(e.g. castrating/castrated) female. Subsequent theorists, however, have interrogated
the de facto assumption of a male spectator, as well as the inherent patriarchal bias of
the very theoretical models—semiology and psychoanalysis—enlisted in an attempt
to illuminate such gendered relationships. De Lauretis, for example, finds that such
apparatuses “deny women the status of subjects and producers of culture,” “inevitably
[defining her] in relation to a male subject” (8). And Evans and Gamman also
question the parochial narrowness of such theorization, in an effort not only to
re-gender the structural positions (e.g. male as viewed, female as viewer), but also to
allow a space for the non-heterosexual, non-white, queer subject and object.24
Kaplan, in an attempt to envisage a way in which the patriarchal power of the gaze
might be subverted, finds that to be the bearer of the gaze is, in fact, to be in the male
position, regardless of biological sex. Her search for a way out of this system, past the
role of the woman as the subjugated viewed object, leads her to foreground the role of
mothering—a move that surely poses certain difficulties, not the least of which is, as
Hawkesworth finds, the danger of an unfounded universalizing of gender roles.
However, Kaplan asserts that her aim is not to essentialize the woman as biological
nurturer, but to highlight the fact that “things have been structured to make us forget
the mutual, pleasurable bonding that we all, male and female, enjoyed with our
mothers” (135).25 While perhaps romantic and utopian—not all, obviously, had such
pleasurable states of bonding, nor was the site of pleasurable bonding necessarily
with the mother—her cognizance of this mother/child dyad is especially apropos
of the situation in Russia, where increasing numbers of children are being raised
in single-parent (almost always the mother) households.26 Furthermore, Kaplan

highlights the mutual gaze of mother and infant, “rather than the subject-object kind
that reduces one of the parties to the place of submission” (135).
It is this idea of mutuality that problematizes anterior schematizations of the
relationship of (male, heterosexual) viewer to (female, “asexual”) viewed, an idea
eloquently argued by Flax in her challenge to Lacanian theory. Highlighting the
reciprocity, rather than the domination, in human relationships, she notes that, for
Lacan, the “I” comes into being alone (during the “mirror stage”), and it is an “I” that
is by nature narcissistic, desirous of being desired, and in constant struggle with all
other “non-I’s.” Indeed, the pre-Oedipal here is neither social nor interactive;
“nothing in the primary I pulls it toward cooperative or reciprocal relations with
others outside the self ” (Flax 94). This solipsistic self is further isolated via the
entrance into the realm of the symbolic, one in which the effects of language alienate
the subject from not only her- or himself but others as well. To this somewhat grim
conceptualization, drawing on the work of Winnicott, Flax contrasts an object-
relations view, in which the self comes into being not in isolation, via the image, but
via actual relations to others. As she notes, one of the basic tenets of object-relations
theory is that humans are “object seeking” (where “object” is generally taken to mean
“person”), and in need of real objects (not merely images) that offer a satisfaction of
relating, not simply a relief of tension.27 It is in the context of “good enough
mothering,” and through a series of “graded disillusionments” of the child’s demands,
that the subject comes into being. Here, the “transitional space”28 of the infant is one
of the key arenas in which the I/not I may be realized. The separation, when it occurs,
is not a site of isolation and alienation but, rather, one that is enjoyed (via a sense of
mastery and/or self-sufficiency) and the self is simultaneously separated from but still
related to the (m)Other.
Such a highlighting of relation within the private sphere—rather than
alienation—is highly indicative of Russian social life, as intense, “soulful”
(“dushevnyi”) relationships are—whether in theory or in practice—conceptualized
as being indispensable to one’s existence.29 And it is exactly this idea of subject
formation through relatedness that I increasingly find more convincing, if possessing
less theoretical cachet, due to the vogue of valuing alienation and the concomitant
devaluing of even a whiff of musty, archaic humanism. But to this medium of the
visual, it is essential to add the audible as well; in fact, in many ways, it is the audible
that is paramount. Certainly, before infants can see, even within the womb, they
hear. Sound, then, along with touch, is one of the primary media for
communication, and it is furthermore notable that such communication via the
audible often takes the form of the musical; not only are all manner of lullabies
present in numerous contexts, cross-culturally, but additionally the adoption of a
“musical” speaking voice, one in which the dynamics of pitch, timbre, and rhythm
are exaggerated, is something likewise found across a wide cultural field. Here, also,
the mother relates and responds to the sounds of the child—cries, coos of pleasure,
gurgles—once again underlying the reciprocity of the dyadic relationship. I maintain,
364 S. Amico
then, that it is the (female) vocal and the auditory that recall the original dyad, a
dyad in which mutuality (rather than a unidirectional imposition of power)
obtained. But, while such conceptualization risks the charge of naı̈veté, what is of
importance is not a questioning of the ontological status of either recollected or
original dyad as such, in order to dismiss it as nostalgic, self-mollifying fantasy.
Rather, what is crucial is the understanding that many gay men’s reveling in the
distinctly (symbolic/biological) female voice, and their formation of affective
relationships with the auditory/biological/symbolic feminine, suggests an alternative
narrative of subject formation that does not have as its basis a repudiation of the
feminine (often leading, as Winnicott suggests, to fear-induced cruelty by men
toward women (Flax 108)).
Thus, while the filmic image of the woman is not necessarily mute or immobile—
she may be “acting” (speaking, moving)—and the singing woman is certainly
apprehended via her image as well, the voice, the music, the audible are the sine qua
non of the communication. The audible voice, recalling reciprocity, cannot be
conceptualized or apprehended as “passive” in the same way that the image might be;
the singing woman is, if not more powerful, then an equally powerful interlocutor, one
whose message must be listened to, heard. Of course, this “message” may be
apprehended in all manner of polysemic fashions, and certainly the singing woman
operates within a musical field that has constrained/constructed her articulations.
Indeed, as Shepherd notes, men’s desire to control discourse through dynamics of
privileging the visual over the auditory (for example, written language and written
music seen as somehow superior) is related to not only the musical but the “feminine”
as well; if the visual is seen as the masculine mode of control over the irascible,
affective “feminine” then the singing woman, the audible woman, troubles the
conception of a one-sided power dynamic.30 In this regard, Ramazanova’s video,
examined above, is apropos of just such an inversion of power. Not only is the most
eroticized (and almost nude) body male, thus suggesting all sorts of conceptually
“disorienting” identities for the subject viewer (homosexual male, homo-eroticized
heterosexual male, heterosexual female, hetero-eroticized homosexual female, and
innumerable permutations thereof), but Ramazanova’s visibility within the diegesis is
most pronounced at those very moments when her voice—supported by her
“masculine,” bright yellow guitar, and a text referencing transubstantiation—becomes
most audible.31
The relationship that obtains between the gay Russian male and the female
purveyor of difference, one that has reciprocity as its foundation, engenders a
material symbiosis as well. While it is probably impossible to ascertain
comprehensive figures relating to sexuality and finance—that is, how many gay
men financially “support” female performers, disproportionately to their support of
male performers—at least anecdotally gay men have a strong presence in the fan bases
of numerous female stars in Russia.32 This support benefits not only performer, but
audience as well, as singers such as Ramazanova, Aguzarova, and Pol’na, through
their music, create a shared social space in which gay men—physically, virtually,
or imaginatively (e.g. concert space, internet fan forum, etc.)—collect. Pol’na’s music
was regularly played at the gay clubs I habitually visited in St. Petersburg, as well as
those in Moscow; due to the popularity of her songs, there were many occasions when
more than one track of hers would be played on the same night. Aguzarova’s music,
veering closer to rock, èstrada, and jazz, was not played in such spaces, but it is
notable that her 2004 concert in St. Petersburg was advertised, in part, via the
inclusion of an article on the singer in St. Petersburg’s Kalendar’/TimeOut
magazine—not under the rubrics of “music” or “clubs,” but under the then newly
formed “gay and lesbian” section (Kurchatova). The concert’s audience was
remarkable for the numbers of (apparently) gay men and women present,33 and,
while such a “congregation” of homosexual people would probably be unremarkable
in other urban settings, it was significant in the context of St. Petersburg—a large,
metropolitan center that, unlike American and Western European cities of
comparable size, was comparatively bereft of a visible presence of groups of
homosexual men.34 Although I do not have firsthand data regarding the makeup
of Zemfira’s “physical,” assembled audiences, it is clear from my discussions with my
informants, as well as the singer’s portrayal in both the general and gay (internet)
press, that her fan base comprises appreciable numbers of gay men and lesbians.
Thus, from diffused listeners in disparate spaces, from dance club to concert hall, to
the audiences of such widely promulgated, televised music events such as Fabrika
zvëzd (Star Factory, a Russian American Idol-type competition), gay men have become
visible as audiences—in part—via their attraction to the voiced female; likewise, the
singing female owes her audibility—in part—to such audiences. But both singer and
audience, operating in a larger social sphere, are seen and heard not only by each
other, but by the populace at large as well.
If many gay Russian men are more apt or willing to hear this female voice—
and, based on my research, I believe they are—it is likely a result of numerous
factors. Not only did the vast majority of my informants evince an overwhelming
preference for female singers, both Russian and Western, but they also noted that
women and other gay men made up the majority of their closest social
relationships; conversely, few declared respect either for their actual fathers (and,
in fact, most who were living at home were in a household in which a father was
not present, due to divorce, abandonment, or death) or for “typical” natural’nye
(“natural,” meaning heterosexual) men in general. But it was not only in terms of
friendship or social intercourse that the “feminine” was seen as a site of comity; a
number of the men I knew also noted a closeness to their mothers and/or sisters,
often living with them (fathers often being absent, as noted), and evincing a belief
that it was to such family members that they might envision “coming out.”
Indeed, many felt that their mothers “already knew,” and that such knowledge was
not liable to change their relationship. Finally gay men cathect with female singers
not only because the latter’s sexuality shares, with the former’s, a direction toward
the male as object of desire but, additionally, and specifically in post-Soviet space,
a “fraternity”/“sorority” with those similarly oppressed by patriarchy. I do not
366 S. Amico
mean to present a utopian view of music’s transformational power or an
idealization of diva worship, as certainly such veneration is often at odds with the
sometimes misogynistic parodies of women in the ubiquitous drag shows
presented at many gay, Russian establishments.35 Yet female voices, voices of
power, powerfully different, offer the possibility of reparation for both those who
produce them and their supporters.
While previously suppressed voices and bodies have been allowed a modicum of
freedom in post-Soviet space, the extent to which xenophobia and nationalism thrive
in present-day Russia indicates that difference is still something to be combated.36
Also, the strict adherence to “traditional” gender roles, and often related negative
reactions to “non-traditional orientation,” signal an openness that is still, in many
instances, little more than a door slightly ajar. Although the instruments of repression
have putatively changed (from the “justice” of the juridical arm of the state, to the
“justice” of the skinhead vigilante, for example), the dynamic remains roughly
the same: difference implies danger.37 But danger, consequently, implies power; the
ineffectual or impotent cannot be dangerous. Difference, as such, is indeed a
dangerous form of power for many, one that threatens a rupture with the anterior, the
grasp on which becomes ever weaker with each socio-economic-political challenge
(cf. Kon “Identity Crisis”); conversely, it becomes a site of salubrious power for others
whose very difference has itself rendered them relatively powerless within a rigid
system of conformity. Difference, a correlate of power, wedded to both gender and
sexuality, and performatively working through the musical, the vocal, thus serves as a
site through which transition operates.
Notes
[1] The guide appeared in two separate versions, one for St. Petersburg, the other for Moscow
(“Gei-gid”). The covers of both, appropriately enough, featured same-sex “couples” (one
version male, one female), and a small rainbow flag was printed across the spine of the
magazine.
[2] While there are other female singers/musicians currently active in Russian popular music who
share many of the attributes I will discuss (i.e. Diana Arbenina of Nochnye snaipery and
Svetlana Surganova of Surganova i orkestr), I have chosen these three as representative based
upon their popularity with my gay, male, Russian informants and/or the prevalence of their
music at sites frequented by gay men in Russia’s two major urban centers, St. Petersburg and
Moscow, during 2003 and 2004.
[3] Although not all, many of my informants in fact used the words “gei” or “goluboi” (literally
“light blue,” and a common euphemism for a homosexual man) to describe their sexual
orientation. Almost none were aware of the Western, theoretical meaning of the word “queer,”
most assuming it was another slang term for homosexual.
[4] See also Harstock, who asks, “why is it just at the moment when so many of us who have been
silenced begin to demand the right to name ourselves, to act as subjects rather than objects of
history, that just then the concept of subjecthood becomes problematic?” (qtd in Burns and
LaFrance 7).
[5] Whiteley notes exactly how such a departure from gendered musical norms is instrumental in
the work of Kate Bush. In her view, Bush’s music “can be characterized as both a strategy of
difference and a strategy of defiance, and its otherworldly imagery and neo-gothic sound was,
for years, one of the few alternatives to girl pop” (83).
[6] In Russian, the phrase netraditsionnaia orientatsiia (non-traditional orientation) is a

common euphemism for homosexuality.
[7] Were the object male, the conjugations would be predaval and iskal.
[8] Although not as explicit, references to same-sex erotics are encountered in some of Pol’na’s
other songs. For example, in the first verse of “Liubi menia po-frantsuzskii” (“Love Me in
French”), the gender of the singer’s object of affection is portrayed as indeterminate (“kto ty,
on ili ona?”—“who are you, he or she?”).
[9] The slang for lesbian, in terms of color, is rozovaia (pink). It is notable that such slang is
prominent in the work of openly gay singer Boris Moiseev, whose songs “Golubaia luna”
(“Blue Moon”) and “Golubaia zvezda” (“Blue Star”)—both of which allude more or less
unambiguously to homosexuality—were among his most widely known in recent years.
[10] Such “faux lesbianism” has been used not only by the group t.A.T.u., but by another Russian,
female duo, Re-Flex.
[11] While the soprano register is certainly used by many men in popular musics, a focus on
register alone ignores the importance of timbre. While men may sing “high,” I would argue
that very few are able to approximate the actual sound of a woman’s soprano voice.
[12] See, for example, the critique offered by Burns and LaFrance, especially chapter 1.
[13] These styles include popsa, rok, rèp, tantseval’naia muzyka, shanson, romans, and èstrada.
While the first four are roughly analogous, as their English-sounding names imply, to
Western counterparts (respectively, pop, rock, rap, and dance music), the last three lack
specific correlates to styles currently found within mass-produced and mass-mediated
Anglophone popular musics.
[14] While it is not always clear whether the Russian or Western versions of these instruments are
being played, it is the overall style rather than the specific instrument that is of import for the
general listener.
[15] There are instances where the patterning is not slavishly held to, however. For example, the
break/middle section returns, after the preceding chorus in G minor, to the original tonic of
the song (also G minor), instead of progressing directly to the B minor implied by the pattern
used throughout up until this point.
[16] “Zhuzha,” according to some informants, is probably a diminutive of a proper name;
however, none of them said it was a name they had heard before, and none were sure whether
it might be masculine or feminine, although more suspected the former.
[17] The song also produces a tension based upon the relationship between two tones a minor
second apart, F and F . Although the opening “outline” of the tonic chord uses the latter,
suggesting major, the bass line uses the former, suggesting minor. Additionally, although
I have chosen to analyze the song with a D-minor tonic, this tonic is not firmly established; it
is equally possible to hear the song with alternative tonics.
[18] It was in fact Pol’na who was the personification of the duo for the majority of my informants,
and the one to whom they related. Although Iurii Usachev, the duo’s other member—serving
as composer, arranger, instrumentalist, and producer—is featured in many of the duo’s visual
materials (CD covers, videos, their internet site, magazine articles, etc.), many of these same
men did not even know his name.
[19] The song originally appeared on the 2002 CD Eva in a pared-down, slightly “jazzy” version,
making used of a strummed electric guitar as part of its accompaniment. In the same year,
however, it was released in a “dance” version, with a techno-trance inspired accompaniment,
and with a slightly more rapid beat. The dance version was frequently played in St. Petersburg
at the gay club Kabare.
[20] The term “popsa,” in Russia, may be used in a slightly pejorative manner in order to refer to
any number of things from a pair of shoes to a jacket, suggesting that the item (including a
song) is vulgar, without substance, or nekul’turnyi (uncultured). It is arguable that such
connotations, encompassing variables of class, aesthetic worth, and authenticity (among
others) operate in much that same way in assessments of Western pop.
[21] I am using the term “gaze” tentatively, due mostly to its popularized meaning—an
objectifying, power-laden form of viewing, often theorized as emanating from man (subject),
directed toward woman (object). However, as Evans and Gamman have noted, such a usage
368 S. Amico
is often a drastic oversimplification (when compared with, for example, the Lacanian
conceptualization).
[22] The spelling here reflects a literal transliteration from the Cyrillic.
[23] The second occurrence of the chorus begins with the words “[somebody confused] and set me
on fire, Arrivederci” (“[kto-to sputal ] i podzhëg menia, Arividerchi”); the third and fourth
return to a variation of the first, with the text, “boats in my port/we won’t fly off, but swim.”
[24] See also Drukman on the “gay gaze,” one which he defines, in part, as being characterized by
the possibility of shifting ego identification (gender to gender).
[25] My goal here is not to essentialize “the feminine” as Foster finds is often done by sexual
difference theorists; rather I agree with her contention that “gender is a characteristic of an
interaction, not an individual” (445), taken here to mean that gender is a construct through
which social interactions and relationships are understood and ordered.
[26] Kaplan herself notes that “[o]n the social/historical level, in addition, we are living in a period
in which mothers are increasingly living alone with their children, offering the possibility for
new psychic patterns to emerge” (134). She also suggests that such new patterns are related to
the role of fathers, who may become increasingly involved in childrearing. A 2002 survey
conducted by the Russian Academy of Sciences found that 28% of all children in the Russian
Federation were born to families headed by single mothers (“So Where Are All the Men?”).
[27] The implicit, seemingly neat splits between real/not real or actual/virtual are perhaps sites for
contestation regarding Winnicott’s schematization. An overview of Winnicott, as well as
suggestions for further (and more nuanced) applications of his theories can be found in
Wright.
[28] All three of the terms—“good enough mothering,” “graded disillusionment,” and
“transitional space”—are Winnicott’s, and are discussed in his Playing and Reality.
[29] The extent to which this is simply stereotype, rather than “reality” is, in fact, unimportant, as
the idea of close personal relationships being highly important pervades the thinking of many
Russians—both those who identified as homosexual and those who identified as
heterosexual—with whom I spoke.
[30] Control may also be related more generally to the musical, as well; that the musically affective
is often coded as “feminine” (as opposed to the rationality of the “masculine,” a rationality
that may be posited in the “scientific” study of music—here, scientific meaning both
musicological and sociological), and is often likewise elided, indicates a desire to keep such
dynamics at bay.
[31] Additionally, the visual itself may take on musical properties, via editing and camera angles
suggesting a listening rather than viewing subject (cf. Vernallis).
[32] Certain singers, such as some of the aforementioned “divas” as well as others (e.g. Lolita and
Ruslana, the Ukrainian winner of the 2004 Eurovision Song Contest), are often featured on
gay Russian websites, in both articles and advertisements.
[33] Many of the audience members appeared, to both me and my Russian companion, to be
gay and lesbian. One female couple, for example, could easily be classified as sporting a
Western-style, “butch” appearance—short hair, no make-up, jeans, boots, work shirts—while
my Russian friend pointed out some of the men he considered to be “obviously gay” because
of the “way they walked.” However, there were other same-sex pairs who were less
“stereotypical” in their comportment, yet who nonetheless appeared to be, if not couples,
then most probably homosexual.
[34] It is notable that, while there were “cruising spots” ( pleshki), clubs, saunas, and banii
(public steam baths) popular with gay men, there was not any type of “gay ghetto” in either
St. Petersburg or Moscow, analogous to, for example, either New York City’s Chelsea or Paris’s
Marais district.
[35] The “gay gaze” (see n. 24) should obviously not be seen as inherently salubrious, as
hierarchies of both beauty (“body fascism”) and race are often instrumental in the
valuation/devaluation of certain bodies within “the community.” On the latter, see Obendorf,
who examines the stigmatization of Asian men in gay pornography, something that is
“complicit in propagating negative and damaging racial stereotypes” (172).
[36] See, for example, Kolesnikov, and Tishkov and Olcott. Kon (“Gomofobiia”) explicitly makes
the connection between xenophobia and homophobia.
[37] The recent killing of a male patron of the gay bar Full House in Volgograd—as well as both the
refusal of the police to take the report of the incident seriously and the unquestionably
fabricated eyewitness account (with intimations that it may have been a suicide)—is one of
several examples of the type of violence against gay men and lesbians that continues in Russia
(“V Volgograde”).
Works Cited
Bel’sh, Ol’ga. “Eva Pol’na: ‘Ia pishu i poiu o liubvi s bol’shoi bukvy’” [“Eva Pol’na: ‘I write and sing
about love with a capital letter’”]. Gay.ru, n.d. 27 Aug. 2008. , http://www.gay.ru/lesbi/
people/view/gosti.htm. .
Burns, Lori, and Melisse LaFrance. Disruptive Divas: Feminism, Identity and Popular Music.
New York: Routledge, 2002.
de Lauretis, Teresa. Alice Doesn’t: Feminism, Semiotics, Cinema. Bloomington, IN: Indiana UP, 1987.
Drukman, Steven. “The Gay Gaze, or Why I Want My MTV.” A Queer Romance: Lesbians, Gay Men
and Popular Culture. Ed. Paul Burston and Colin Richardson. London and New York:
Routledge, 1995. 81– 95.
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This article was downloaded by: [Florida International University]

On: 25 December 2014, At: 10:29

Popular Music and Society

Visible Difference, Audible Difference:

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/03007760902985809

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Visible Difference, Audible Difference:

Owing, in part, to Russia’s particularly turbulent political and social history,

ISSN 0300-7766 (print)/ISSN 1740-1712 (online) q 2009 Taylor & Francis

ascribing these to psychiatric or substance-abuse problems, a desire to titillate the

(goluboi—literally, “light blue”).9 Although the adjective may be read as carrying no

progressions based on the circle of fifths; 3) melodies constructed—often in relation

Figure 1 “Ploskogor’e lei”—Vocal Line, Verse.

Figure 2 “Ploskogor’e lei”—Harmonic Structure, Verse.

relationships among the sequential, “horizontal” pitches suggest dissonant

Figure 3 “Nebomoreoblaka”—Guitar Riff.

Figure 4 “Zhuzha”—Guitar Line, Intro.

of almost glissando-like, washy, sweeping, and effect-laden electric guitar lines,

Figure 5 “Liubi menia po-frantszuskii”—Vocal Line, Verse.

Figure 6 “Liubi menia po-frantszuskii”—Vocal Line, Chorus.

In the verse, the melody is predominantly delivered in strings of eighth notes,

The Voice, Power, and Reciprocity

in (at least) theoretically dismantling the current gender-based power structure.

in single-parent (almost always the mother) households.26 Furthermore, Kaplan

[6] In Russian, the phrase netraditsionnaia orientatsiia (non-traditional orientation) is a

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