 This video is brought to you by CuriosityStream. If you want to learn more about music in the Soviet Union, follow the link in the description to get 26% off and watch Red Elvis, the Cold War Cowboy. Following that link also gets you full access to Nebula where you can watch all my videos early and add free. Oh, and if you like this video, maybe think about subscribing? Music runs through the blood of my ancestors. On my mother's side, my family hails from Estonia, a tiny nation on the Baltic Sea. There are around a million Estonians in the world and they are by and large a quiet people who enjoy swimming, sauna, and most of all, song. Estonia has one of the largest collections of traditional folk songs of any nation on earth, and music is such an important part of Estonia's cultural heritage that it's quite possible the nation of Estonia wouldn't exist today, were it not for song. That's because the history of Estonia is a history of occupation. Whether it's by the Teutonic Knights, the Swedish Empire, Nazi Germany, or the Soviet Union, Estonia has been occupied by nearly every neighbor they've got. Through all these occupations, it's the tradition of folk song that kept Estonian culture and language alive. And in the late 1980s, that tradition took on even more cultural significance. Between 1988 and 1991, the nation of Estonia rose up in defiance of the Soviet Union, who had occupied their lands for nearly a half century. This revolution was not accomplished with tanks or guns, but instead with song. If you want to get a sense of what music means to Estonian people, you need look no further than Laudupidu, the Estonian Song Festival. Held every five years, Laudupidu is one of the largest choral festivals in the world. In 2019, the festival featured more than 32,000 performers performing to an audience of more than 80,000 people. And it has a long history too. Laudupidu dates all the way back to 1869. That festival was held to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the emancipation of Estonian serfs. But it was more than just that. The inaugural Laudupidu was part of a wider movement that was happening across Estonia, Arkhamisog, or the Age of Awakening. At the time, Estonia was under occupation by Tsarist Russia. But a group of Estonian intellectuals had started envisioning a different future for their land. They pieced together a national identity based on different pieces of folklore, and Estonia started to conceptualize as a nation. Laudupidu was a cornerstone of this conceptualization. The 1869 festival had 845 participants, but by 1910, 10,000 people were participating in the Song Festival. And in 1918, the National Awakening culminated in Estonia's Declaration of Independence. But this independence was short-lived. Throughout the Second World War, Estonia would be occupied first by the Soviet Union, then by Nazi Germany, then again by the Soviet Union. These occupations were ruthless and brutal, and led to the deportation and execution of thousands of Estonian citizens, my great-grandfather, and great-uncle among them. It was in the days following the Second Soviet occupation that my grandparents fled Estonia. And in their wake, the Iron Curtain would fall. For most of the 20th century, Estonia was under a brutal Soviet occupation. The USSR imposed a policy of Russification. They replaced the Estonian flag and banned citizens from flying it. They deported tens of thousands of Estonians to Siberia and encouraged immigration of Russians with the express goal of eradicating Estonian culture. And yet, Laudupidu persisted. Every five years, Estonians would gather to sing patriotic songs, celebrating their culture, even as the Soviets were trying to erase it. In 1947, the festival ended on a performance of Muisama on Minu Arm, or My Fatherland is My Love, a poem written by Lydia Koidula during Estonia's first National Awakening. The song almost immediately became an unofficial anthem for Estonia, a defiant assertion of independence that would end the Song Festival every year from then on. But these shows of defiance weren't met kindly by the Soviet Union. Recognizing the importance of the Song Festival, Moscow decided to leverage Laudupidu and use it to push their own propaganda. They would force festival singers to perform songs praising Stalin, Lenin, and the Communist experiment. In 1969, on the 100th anniversary of Laudupidu, fearing shows of independence, the Soviets even banned the wearing of traditional folk costumes. But Estonians didn't take this lying down. On the last day of the festival, Estonians began to sing Muisama on Minu Arm, even though the Soviets hadn't planned it. They sang it over and over again, even as the Soviet officials tried to drown them out with a brass band. It was an astounding show of national solidarity, and over the next few decades, Laudupidu would stand as a spark of defiance against tyranny. Then, in the late 1980s, the political landscape of the Soviet Union began to change. Mikhail Gorbachev instituted his perestroika initiative, taking up his slogan of glasnost, or openness. For the first time since the occupation, Estonians had the right to protest the Soviet government. And they got a chance to test these rights in 1987, when protesters came out in droves to voice opposition to plans for a new phosphorite strip mine. This first protest sparked a fire in a generation of Estonian youths, and it reflected in the music. In 1989, a punk band called JMKE started to release protest songs like Teleperestroika, which criticized the Russian regime. But for all the rebellion of rock and roll and punk, it was folk music that truly spurred Estonia's singing revolution. In the late 1980s, as waves of protest were sweeping across the country, a composer named Arlo Matissein set a number of poems from Estonia's National Awakening to music. These songs became known as the Five Patriotic Songs. As overt assertions of Estonian nationalism and independence, these songs helped provide fuel for the budding independence movement. Increasingly, protesters were beginning to push up against the Soviet restrictions and trying to test their luck with freedom of speech. While the Soviets had banned the flying of the Estonian flag, protesters would fly three monocolored banners separately to recreate the flag. And it wouldn't be long before the flag itself was flying all over protests. In June of 1988, Matissein's songs were performed as protest at Tallinn's Night Songs Festival. When the police tried to clear out the crowds, the protesters responded by moving en masse to the National Songgrounds. This kicked off five nights of nonviolent protest and singing. Despite the fact that these National Songgrounds protests were unplanned, nearly 100,000 Estonians came out to participate. That's one in every ten people in the country. During one night of these protests, a motorcyclist drove by waving an Estonian flag. It was the first time in nearly 50 years that the Estonian flag had been displayed openly and freely. The next night, dozens of flags appeared, waving in time with the protest music. Following these events, Heinz Valk wrote an editorial that gave the movement its name, the Singing Revolution. He wrote, A nation who makes its revolution by singing and smiling should be a sublime example to all. With their actions, they have earned the irrefutable right to exist under their blue sky on their hereditary fatherland. I am proud to be a member of such a people. By November of that same year, the Supreme Soviet of Estonia would issue a declaration of sovereignty. It would take another few years and several tense showdowns with the Soviet Union before Estonian independence would truly take hold, but on the 20th of August in 1991, Estonia was free once more. Despite being a tiny nation going up against a global power, Estonia managed to defy their occupation and win their independence, not with violence, but with song. I've been thinking a lot about the Singing Revolution lately for what I can only assume are obvious reasons. Throughout the history of western popular music, there's been this persistent idea that music has the power to create seismic shifts in the world. From Woodstock and the Summer of Love to Rock the Vote to Bob Marley's unification concert, it's an idea that has become essential to our understanding of music today. And many of these movements did change hearts and minds and create a clear cultural shift, but in terms of tangible political change, the results are questionable. The Vietnam War raged for six years after Woodstock, punk rock did little to stop the reign of Ronald Reagan, and even Bob Marley's near-divine performance at the One Love Peace concert couldn't stop the political violence in Jamaica. So then why was Estonia different? The obvious answer is the nature of the socio-political landscape. During the Singing Revolution, the Soviet Union was in a state of collapse and didn't have the resources to clamp down on Estonia like it might have in the past. But I also think that a lot of the success of the Singing Revolution has to do with the kind of music that united the people. It was not a driven youth movement invigorated by the popular music of their day, nor was it a radical group of counter-cultural icons. Instead it was traditional music, folk music, music born from the rich history of the land and transferred through generations to create the nation's culture. The Estonian folk traditions were baked into the very identities of the people that used them to organize, and that gave the music a different sort of power. The music was intrinsically tied to the political goals. But ultimately, despite the name of the Singing Revolution, it wasn't really song that threw back the occupiers. It was people. Song was just the vehicle through which people organized. It was the common thread that showed people who they were and showed them just how many people felt the same way that they did. I think it's very easy to get swept up in the high romanticism of the Singing Revolution. It's a fantastic story that would seem to be concrete proof that music truly can change the world. But in the uncertain times that we live in, I don't think that we should try to find hope in music saving the world. Because at the end of the day, the only thing that can truly change the world is people. People realizing their common goals and organizing around them. And as for music, well, it just gives us a little bit of help along the way. This video really meant a lot to me, so I really want to thank you all so much for watching it. I also really want to thank CuriosityStream and Nebula for making it possible with their support. Nebula is the streaming platform created by and for creators like myself. It's a place where we can create free from the constraints of YouTube, which means we can talk about difficult topics without worrying about demonetization. Nebula also streams at higher quality, pays out at far higher rates than YouTube, and gives a ton of support to creators. If you follow the link in the description, you'll get full access to Nebula for less than 15 bucks a year. That's less than the cost of a single record for thousands of hours of incredible, thoughtful content. And following that link will also give you access to CuriosityStream, where you can watch a wide selection of fantastic documentaries. One of my favorites is Red Elvis, the Cold War cowboy, which tells the story of an American rock and roll singer who defected to the Soviet Union where he became a sensation. And there's thousands more incredible titles where that came from, with new films being added regularly. So head on over to curiositystream.com slash polyphonic to give it a shot today. That gets you 26% off and is also just a really great way to support my channel. Thank you all so much for watching.