Galya Bisengalieva - Polygon

A Closer Listen

Sometimes horrible things happen in the world, and the general populace only learns about it much later.  Such is the case with the Semipalatinsk Test Site, also known as The Polygon, in Galya Bisengalieva‘s native Kazakhstan.  This nuclear testing site for the former Soviet Union was active from 1949-1989, exposed 1.5 million people to fallout, and in the time immediately following its closure did little to protect its leftover plutonium from terrorists.  When pressed as to the human impact, the Soviet response was that the area was “uninhabited.”

The darkness of Bisengalieva’s last album, the score to Hold Your Breath: The Ice Dive, is a forerunner of the depths heard here.  The shadows descend in the opening seconds and never fully dissipate.  The violin conveys mournful melodies, akin to whale song in “Alash-kala,” while static charges imitate Geiger counters.  On occasion the sun seem ready to break through, but then another cloud interrupts this momentary hope.  The danger has existed so long, the mutations so many, that some locals now believe they are a “new form of human being.”

The Polygon is two things at once: a musical expose of past and present horrors, and a statement of national pride.  Bisengalieva was born in the capital city in the last days of The Polygon, just before the collapse of the Soviet Union.  While she serves as truth teller, she honors her upbringing.  The irradiated area was considered “the crucible of Kazakh culture,” a haven for poets, novelists and musicians set against a stunning natural backdrop.  The static bursts that run throughout the title track act as an interruption, an invasion, a spoiler of natural beauty.  One wants to remember the mountains and streams; instead, one remembers the birth defects and tumors.

The descending scales of “Chagan” are like the steps Orpheus follows to hell.  Every step leads further from safety and light.  One seems to find relief in “Balapan” as the music develops a pulse, albeit a bit too anemic for nightclubs; then one discovers that both tracks are named after a lake created by a nuclear test.  Muddying the waters, “Balapan” is also the name of a Kazakh children’s show.  Is there no way to untie these knots?

The closing “Degelen” refers to the mountain in which many of the tests took place.  Normally one looks up to the mountains for inspiration, but in this case the mountain means death.  Or does it?  “Degelen” is still the brightest of the album’s pieces.  Finally we understand what the artist hopes to accomplish: that one day, as in days of yore, one will hear these words and once again think of villages, forests, rivers and mountains, rather than the legacy of war.  (Richard Allen)

Pitchfork

Read Matthew Blackwell’s review of the album.