Ingrida
Alonderė

Vilnius City Municipal Choir Jauna Muzika.
Yes—VILNIUS. CITY. MUNICIPAL. CHOIR.

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Not “jauna muzika,” not “Vilnius Jauna Muzika,” not “that choir with Augustinas,” but an official city ensemble—which, more often than we would like, is not introduced as such.

So, taking this opportunity, I solemnly declare:
we are the Vilnius City Municipal Choir.
Very official. With registration.

And now—to the evening.

4 December 2025, St Catherine’s Church, Vilnius.
Michael Gordon — Travel Guide to Nicaragua.

The audience—from music critics to members of Parliament, from cultural figures to people who had perhaps, for the first time in their lives, dared to attend contemporary music.

And everyone was… silent.

Such moments are rare for us—usually, our audience breathes loudly, lives, moves, tries to participate.
But this time—stilled.

This time, I had a rare privilege:
to organise nothing, fix nothing, rearrange nothing—just… observe.

And, to be honest, it was a very good experience.

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Me, biased? Yes. VERY biased.

I am the director of the choir.

I tried to pretend to be a professional observer.
I tried to maintain musicological distance.
I tried to control myself and not count how many times my heart fell out of rhythm.

I failed.

This was one of those concerts where you sit and think:
how beautiful it is to be biased.

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The choir

They looked—and sounded—beautiful.

And yes, I say this fully consciously—not only as a director, but as someone who has been watching this ensemble for years and still cannot quite understand how they manage to enter, breathe, and sustain together with such precision.

Especially when the music is not a pop song, but a one-hour autobiographical migration epic with post-minimalist rhythmic shifts.

Yes—that is what we might call a “fairy tale for adults.”

The choir breathed as one body.
They were calm where the music demanded calm—and truly radiant where the text delivered its historical blows to the heart.

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Gleb Pyšniak — the moment when the cello begins to breathe

When Gleb began to play, there was a sense in the hall that something more than a cello solo was about to happen.

It felt as though he and Jauna Muzika were old companions, having already completed more than one musical journey together. No competition, no “I am the star”—just an organic, almost intuitive shared breathing.

There was a moment when it felt as if the cello was truly speaking with the choir.

And the choir answered.

A kind of imagined duet that can only exist when everyone is present not for effect, but for essence.

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Conductor — Vaclovas Augustinas

As always—impeccable.

The kind of conductor who does not demand attention.
He simply makes everyone else shine.

If I were unbiased, I would praise him.

But since I am very biased, I will say it directly:

his presence at the podium is a quiet miracle.

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Visuals — Laurie Olinder

This visual language suits St Catherine’s Church—darkness, light, passing family photographs, the movement of time.

The images were so engaging that at moments I thought the audience might ask for “another season.”

But no—everyone remained serious, focused, contemplative.
Or perhaps simply very hungry for a strong visual experience.

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Lighting

At times, it was slightly too dark.

Perhaps intentional.
Perhaps Advent.
Perhaps a strategy to prevent applause at the wrong moments.

But the darkness worked—it did not allow escape from the music.

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The music — questions that remain after the concert

Gordon has a talent for asking questions that cannot be avoided:

Who are we?
What do ideologies do to people?
What happens when family history becomes a document rather than a life?
Do we shape our destiny, or are we always being pushed by something beyond us?

The choir did not just sing these questions—they carried them.

This would not be easy even for seasoned professionals.

And yet—they carried it with calm.

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Ending: my biased epilogue

After the concert, we spoke with the team and the creators about music, stories, and that particular choral breath.

And I realised one thing:

I love this choir very much.

And I am not going to pretend otherwise.

This is not a review.
This is gratitude.
And a very biased sense of pride in being part of this journey.

Gratitude for the invisible, yet essential work.

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From the birth of the visual concept, communication with the video artist, technical solutions, the creation of the opening video, to securing additional funding and bringing Michael Gordon himself to Vilnius—this was extensive, complex, and very quietly executed work.

For that—sincere gratitude.

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Concerts like this happen when many people do more than what is written in their job descriptions.

Good night.