Russia

Mamo Anastasya Prihodko

"Я дождём девичьи слезы разолью..."

Eurovision might not be a matter of national pride for the majority of people who watch it, or even for some who take part, but it invariably is for the host country. Whatever it ends up being a PR exercise in - from mending fences to attracting long-term foreign investment - it is a chance for the previous year's winner to outdo the last lot, propagate cultural cliches in a cheesy and lighthearted way and and generally say "look at us, aren't we great/better than you expected". They also usually come up with a home entry that sees local singing and songwriting talent produce something indicative of the country, if not in their native language then at least in the international one. It comes as something of a surprise then to find 2009 hosts Russia, who redefine what it means to be nationalistic, choosing Mamo to represent them in Moscow - a song written by a Georgian and an Estonian and sung by a Ukrainian. In Ukrainian.

Well, half-Ukrainian. Of course, what all this does represent - in a way I'm happy to admit I would never have expected Russia to allow - is the multicultural hotchpotch the modern nation has become, thanks, for want of a better word, to Soviet intermingling. It would be like last year's Serbian entry having been written by a Swedish composer (who else) and a Swiss lyricist and performed by a singer from Kosovo partly in Albanian. Or not, since that's the irony of Mamo: whoever wrote it, it's one of the most quintessentially Russian Russian entries in a long time, and completely representative of what the country's music industry does so well. That is, take mediocre and frequently unattractive talent, school them in melodrama and the heart-rending ways of 'gala' television and write songs for them that both politely and sycophantically pale in comparison to the Alla Pugachova numbers they aspire to be.

Everything about Mamo is contrived, from its victory in the national final (coincidentally heavy on the Women's Day advertising) to its tragic interpreter, Anastasya Prihodko. Anyone who was privileged to hear Albanian singer Frederik Ndoci speak at his press conferences in Helsinki in 2007 about the pain of history - his own and that of his nation - will see through the catharsis of spurious sentiment accompanying Mamo instantly, however thick it's layered on. Whether it's true or not is immaterial: the Russian (and clearly also Ukrainian) love of drama twists it out of all proportion, leaving little room for sympathy. Not that Russia lacks an audience at Eurovision, but this year they find themselves no better off than they were with Yulia Savicheva or Natalia Podolskaya in 2004 and 2005 in terms of known names or songs with obvious widespread appeal. As hosts they should generate enough self-promotion to counter this effect, and even under the 50/50 system a left-side-of-scoreboard finish should be within their reach. They start with a good 100-point lead, after all.

Besides, if Mamo comes and goes and passes everyone by in all but their most fervent of supporting states, Russia can always resort to that other aspect of their national psyche: the argument that everybody is against them and that no one understands or appreciates what the country has done or ever will do. It wouldn't occur to them that with an entry like Mamo the only understanding and appreciation they're going to get is from those who already do. (That, needless to say, being the point.) Ms Prihodko and her tale of woe are Russia in miniature, with all of the angst, nostalgia, fake emotion and duality that entails. Ticking all of these boxes as it does, it is sure to do the hosts proud.