MUSIC AND DANCE REVIEW : Don Cossacks Mix Folk Ritual, Show Biz

How do you like your bylini ? What do you take with your kazatchok ? How high the hopak ?

These are profound ethno-aesthetic questions. The khorovod goes round and round, and where it stops nobody knows.

Well, that’s not quite true. The Don Cossacks know. And they told us in emphatically lusty terms, Tuesday night at the Pantages, where they opened what promises to be a pretty delirious seven-performance run.

Run? Make that leap. Or squatting kick. Or gallop. Or spin. Or flip. Or roar.

The singers and dancers from Rostov do their raucous, picturesque things. They flourish swords and play catch with them. They strut--smirk on face, hands on hips, booted-heels a’clicking.

They guzzle imaginary wine from communal kegs. Ho-ho-ho, and all that.

With nonchalant bravado, they scratch their ears with their toes. In disciplined unison, they execute ancient choreographic rituals, charm shining through the militaristic precision. At one startling point, they suggest that break-dancing may not be quite as modern or as American as we think.

They stage violent gymnastics competitions, with chugging, over-amplified accompaniment provided by balalaika and bayan (that’s an aggravated accordion). Scruffy and fleet, they flirt with the audience, and with each other.

They mime predictable comic routines about funny old grandfathers, about anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-fiercer warriors, and about conveniently mismatched lovers. They re-enact coy courting rituals.

At one juncture, the mustachioed men--terminally swaggering--and the pretty women--chronically docile--switch stereotypical roles. It is cute, cute, cute.

At another juncture, the inevitable flying imps on the roster prove that, in matters of stature at least, less can be more. It is cuter, cuter, cuter.

The official dancers in the ensemble do a little singing, and the official singers do a little dancing. Still, one can always tell which performers come from which camp. The singers are the beefier ones.

And how do they sing?

Remember all those great, massive, resonant, mellifluous Russian choruses, the ones with tenors scaling the stratosphere and basses plunging to the lowest depths? Forget them.

Whether singing of love or death, happy greeting or sad farewell, domestic duty or heroic exploit, the Cossacks emit a loud, straight, piercing, nasal sound. The management assures us that the sound is authentic.

Call it yell -canto.

This company, returning to the States after a 14-year hiatus, puts on quite a show. It certainly isn’t as slick as some quasi-folkloristic endeavors we have seen. It looks like it was made in the Soviet Union, not in Las Vegas. Still, it is slick.

The costumes are lavish. The pacing is propulsive. The production numbers are complex.

The performers do not resemble bona-fide peasants recruited in the fields. At least they don’t look like ringers from the Bolshoi.

Anatoly Kvasov, the current artistic director, has assembled a talented cast and wrapped it in a nice, tough, colorful package. In a classic show-biz crescendo, his grand finale offers a swift bravura orgy that rises to a thumping, whomping send-em-home-cheering climax.

Noisy flows the Don.