The power of violins and rose petals: The Eurovision Song Contest as an arena of European crisis

The meaning of ‘crisis’

‘Crisis’ is arguably one of the most central buzzwords in historical scholarship; whether it also represents a central analytical approach appears more questionable. It was the eminent nineteenth-century Swiss historian Jacob Burckhardt in his Weltgeschichtliche Betrachtungen (entitled Force and Freedom: Reflections on History in English) who defined the term by its classical meaning of ‘accelerated processes’ that disrupted a condition that could be perceived as a norm (2000: 463). Ever since, there have been plenty of attempts to give the word a more precise meaning. The specific attraction for historians is that the ‘term offers a narrative structure that reduces a complex world to a binary opposition and a temporal sequence of normalcy, disruption and return to stability’ (Graf and Jarausch, 2017: 6). Accordingly, as Gad Yair shows in his excellent recent survey, a growing body of serious scholarship analyses the ESC as a ‘necessary seismograph for revealing deeply rooted cultural traumas and national humiliations . . . under what seem to be ephemeral aspirations of political unity’ (Yair, 2018: 13). Most often, the idea of crisis in the context of the ESC is used with reference to regional conflicts and issues that have an impact on the event and vice versa (see Heller, 2007, on Russia; or Danero Iglesias, 2015, on Moldova’s ‘identity crisis’). Only Dean Vuletic, author of the first and so far the only comprehensive academic study of the ESC, is an exception, locating the Moscow event within the global financial crisis as well as the European debt or financial crisis in a chapter called ‘The Value of Eurovision’, in which he discusses the costs of hosting and participating in Eurovision, but without conceptualizing the term in any more specific way (2018: 163–4, 182–5). However, since Koselleck’s masterful 1973 study Kritik und Krise (Critique and Crisis), awareness has increased among historians that ‘crisis’ is not an objective label: rather, certain contemporaries and historical observers perceive a situation as crisis-laden, and employ a rhetoric of crisis to conceptualize and propagate their interpretation. Thus, based on the suggestions of Graf and Jarausch (2017: 15–16), this paper examines the ways in which historical actors have utilized the notion of crisis with regard to the Eurovision Song Contest, how they have done so (or omitted to do so), and their intentions in doing so.

Accordingly, this paper explores the development of the actual show, based on existing audio and video recordings, as well as selected aspects of the respective media coverage. This analysis exhibits three particularly striking features in the history of the Contest and the role of crises therein, also highlighting the differing nature of these ‘crises’. Firstly, the ESC was created in the context of a post-catastrophic Europe, as one of various means of allowing for peaceful collaboration between former enemies, belligerent and neutral states, while also coping with the realities of the ensuing Cold War and profound change within the media landscape. It appears that the presentation of a manageable world was tantamount to success, which meant that crises were not articulated around the ESC, despite clearly being present. Secondly, by the 1980s and early 1990s, the Western European project had become a great success, culminating in the reunification of the continent after the Cold War, transforming exceptional efforts in the aftermath of death and destruction into a self-evident reality of general stability and widespread prosperity. This, together with changes in the media landscape, meant that the format of this peaceful competition of nations was declining in importance. In this context, perceptions of crisis played a crucial role in raising interest in the event once again, even though the actual changes made to address the perceived crisis were only part of a process of constant adaptation within the organization of the contest. The voting (and hence participation of the audience) is of particular significance here. Thirdly, the paper revisits the aforementioned show in Moscow in 2009, analysing the specific message being formulated by the show as a whole and its reception at the height of the ongoing global financial crisis, considering which part appealed to the European audience the most, as expressed by the tele-voting results. This analysis shows that it is not enough to look at an individual piece of music alone, but that one needs to take into consideration the music, the lyrics and the staging alongside the show at large, as well as the general context and reception for a proper representation of the event. These three approaches, taken together, suggest that ‘crisis’ is less an objective state than a rhetorical strategy to communicate one’s perceptions of the time. Seen through this lens, I illuminate the significance of the Eurovision Song Contest as an arena for European affairs.

Burying conflict under rose petals: Lugano 1956

A perception of crisis is arguably the mother of all institutions (Koselleck, 1973). The various European institutions seem not to be an exception. Specifically, the moral and physical bankruptcy of Germany due to the crimes of the Third Reich, but also the end of European hegemony due to the Second World War and the subsequent process of decolonization that Europe had to face, led to a growing need to reorient and rebuild in Europe. The gravest physical damage of the war had been covered up relatively quickly. The trauma incurred by war, displacement and genocide seemed to be best coped with by simple repression. A new, potentially even more devastating conflict seemed to loom large on the horizon in the form of the nuclear rivalry between the two superpowers of the Soviet Union and the USA. The best way to contain such a danger within war-scarred Europe seemed to be the ‘freezing’ of the conflict: by the mid 1950s, the Cold War had become a reality with multiple close-to-war crises even in the centre of the continent, and every move bore the potential for another deadly confrontation. But stabilization also came at a cost, not just in political terms: it resulted in the emerging cultural hegemony of English-language popular culture in Western Europe, or at least a mind-set increasingly influenced by English, and particularly American, ideas of entertainment, not to mention the less subtle influence of the Soviet Union in the East (see, e.g. Judt, 2007: 75–61).

In addition, ‘European’ culture could be perceived as being in crisis by an additional threat: the rapid technological change of the mid-twentieth century. Radio had become the main means of mass communication during the 1930s and 1940s. Following the war, television emerged triumphant as the new mass medium, and was seen early on as a potential danger to social cohesion by fostering a retreat to domestic privacy (Kaelble, 2007: 207–8). Due to high production costs, it appeared a prerogative of the big states, notably Great Britain, France, Italy and the resurgent West Germany. Consequently, its potential for undermining the cultural and political autonomy of the smaller states did not go unnoticed, specifically in Switzerland.

It was Marcel Bezençon, the Director General of the Swiss Broadcasting Corporation (SRG/SSR), who came up with the idea of an exchange body for European broadcasting stations, the European Broadcasting Union (EBU). The aim was primarily to facilitate the exchange of programmes – lowering the costs of production and even allowing smaller radio stations and countries to present a daily programme without producing every minute themselves (Heinrich-Franke, 2016). The technical feasibility of such international exchange had been proved to be manageable with the live broadcast of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain in 1953. Subsequently, various cultural programmes were exchanged, but before long this seemed to be narrowed down to sport alone: the football World Cup in 1954, hosted by Switzerland, was a successful trial, followed by the Winter Olympics in Cortina d’Ampezzo in 1956 (Fickers, 2009). The pattern of sports as a common (Western) European ‘media event’ (Dayan and Katz, 1994; see also Bolin, 2010) emerged, but dissatisfaction was growing. At this point, Bezençon and the EBU programming commission that he led were already working on a format to display the best of a common European culture in the popular format of a variety show with national representatives. Originally, this was conceived as a double feature, containing lyrical, comic and artistic acts, but the latter ideas were promptly abandoned: humour seemed too culture-specific to be risked when experimenting with a new international format. ¹

The project of a show with songs progressed, modelled on the successful Festival della Canzone Italiana. Since its inception after the war in 1951, this festival at the resort town of San Remo had successfully developed into a landmark in the Italian cultural landscape, becoming a place to reassert a common melodic culture, and helping to create a pan-Italian public sphere in the aftermath of the divisions of the war years. Newly composed, but traditionally styled canzoni helped inaugurate a novel national common ground as well as providing cultural reassurance in difficult times (Febbri, 2013, x; Gundle, 2000: 186–90). The Festival was broadcast on national television in 1955, live from the Casino in the ‘town of flowers’ on the Ligurian coast, showcasing a grand stage with flowers, fashion and a full orchestra. Its success demonstrated the visual appeal of such an event beyond a simply musical audience on the radio. For Europe, San Remo was the natural choice as a model. Its European spin-off would emulate it closely, although driven by its own specific requirements. The first location for the Gran Premio Eurovisione 1956 della Canzone Europea, Lugano, was largely picked for financial reasons – the town was host to an excellent entertainment orchestra, La Radiosa, which was non-unionized and thus more affordable than other options. However, the lakeside resort town in Italian-speaking Switzerland, with its turn-of-the-century Teatro Kursaal had enough flair to give the event an air of class – and of neutrality. Under the smart aegis of Bezençon, host country Switzerland had turned from a small participant in the process of technological innovation among much bigger neighbours, to one of the organizers of a Western European public sphere, thus turning a potential crisis of national autonomy into an opportunity to develop considerable soft power.

The format of the event reflected the importance of the equality of countries in the new, post-war Europe: Eurovision was supposed to be perceived as a cultural event only, centred on music, composition and singing. The night in Lugano was introduced as being solely the grand final of a continent-wide competition for ‘the most beautiful European song’, and the explicitly mentioned presence of ten TV stations and 20 radio broadcasters from all over Europe indicated an audience far wider than just the seven participating Western European countries (EBU, 1956). Yet, at the same time, it was designed as a competition between nations. Lohengrin Filipello, the host of the show in Lugano, introduced each song by country, mentioning composer, lyricist and singer only afterwards, and often using national formulations such as ‘flying the Italian colours’. This nationalization of the songs still occurs today, among both the hosts of the show and the commentary of national broadcasters. Even more important, though, is the fact that every participating country carried the same voting weight, regardless of its size. This meant, in 1956, that the seven participating countries were represented by two jurors each in the ‘international jury’. Given the potential for tension, the competition aspect of the Grand Prix came as rather an afterthought to the show, and in Lugano was mollified by the fact that each of the seven participating national radio stations had two entries. Thus, any danger of resentment between winners and losers could be diverted away from the potentially divisive national aspects towards the actual songs.

The emphasis was clearly on having a positive, pan-European evening of culturally valuable entertainment. No confirmed film recording of the event seems to have survived, with the exception of a short recording of the winner’s reprise; the few existing images show the individual singers performing at an elegant black tie event, with the orchestra on stage, framed by extensive flower arrangements (Agliati, 1967: 632–3, images 47 and 48), following the model set at San Remo. In retrospect, this can easily be seen as an idealized chanson-meets-grand-opera tradition, set up to promote European high-class culture, connecting former enemies and neutral actors just 11 years after the end of the Second World War through peaceful competition on the field of culture. The serious mood of many entries supported the respectability of the occasion: the Italian newspaper La Stampa entitled its report of the evening ‘Canzoni tristi’ – ‘sad songs’ (Antonucci, 1956). A friendlier interpretation might have detected an event promoting European high-class culture across boundaries, defending this culture against any threat of American pop and jazz music; such an interpretation would be easily facilitated by the fact that all the songs were sung in the official national languages of the participating countries. In the end, the head of the international jury and eminent composer Rolf Liebermann declared a French-language ballad, ‘Refrain’, sung by Lys Assia for Switzerland, the winner of the evening. All these aspects seemed to confirm the character of a proper and respectable European high-brow cultural experience.

But such a serene view of an antediluvian cultural paradise restored is too simple. Judging by the winners only, the prevailing taste at the Grand Prix Eurovision throughout the early years was nostalgic: beautiful women in elegant dresses or good-looking men in black tie, singing sumptuous ballads, accompanied by the rich sounds of woodwind and strings, played live by orchestras with a classical appearance – this was the old world of yesteryear triumphant. It reflected the spirit of the time: the music of the Lugano contest seemed to mirror the nostalgic and conservative atmosphere of the period. What appears most important from today’s vantage point seemed very distant from that evening in Lugano: in May 1956, Khrushchev’s ‘Secret Speech’ from the previous February had not yet become known outside the inner circles of Soviet leadership (and international intelligence), and the period of thaw in the Eastern Bloc was not yet discernible. The various severe political crises later that year, including the Hungarian uprising and the conflict over Suez, as well as the incipient processes of decolonization, were inconceivable for most Europeans as late as May 1956.

Nevertheless, the musical spectrum offered was more variegated than the ballad that eventually won, with its grand orchestral accompaniment, implies: in particular, one of the two German entries, Freddy Quinn’s ‘So geht es jede Nacht’ was clearly an upbeat, contemporary swing piece, making full use of the orchestra’s brass and drums. Germany’s ambitions to appear cosmopolitan were further underlined by the biographies of its two internally selected participants (Vuletic, 2018: 17–18): the 24-year-old Quinn was the son of an Austrian mother and an American father who had grown up in the United States and in Vienna. His fellow entrant, Walter Andreas Schwarz, presented a Moritat, a song-story of a rather declamatory nature, which was his own composition, musically pitched between the style of a Kurt Weill and a Hans Albers song. The life story of the 42-year-old singer, who, as a Jew, had survived years of imprisonment in a concentration camp, and after the war had begun a career in the service of the BBC, belied any political continuity with the previously disgraced German state. Nevertheless, Schwarz represented (West) Germany, and it was probably not only the Italian correspondent who could not resist drawing parallels with Germany’s Nazi past when commenting on Schwarz’s entry (Antonucci, 1956). This desire to showcase West Germany as a changed, modern, open-minded society would be discernible in many of the subsequent entries to the ESC, even though the modernity of these entries would not be reflected in success with the juries; in Lugano in 1956, the audience’s reaction was audibly polite rather than warm. In subsequent years, Austria and Italy, as well as the United Kingdom, Sweden and others, also failed to pull off victories with more contemporary-sounding, American-inspired pop or jazz music, although they came near a few times. Thus, the ultimate lack of success did not seem to be politically motivated. Rather, in the generally conservative to nostalgic mood of the 1950s, when it came to national representation, the idea of innocence (young women in elegant dresses) and conservative instrumentation (violins) seemed to prevail over a forward-looking modernism (jazz or American-inspired pop music). However, this observation would not be matched by commercial success after the show – Italy in particular, with its San Remo-experienced entries, would regularly provide some of the most commercially successful entries, starting with the international hit of Domenico Modugno’s ‘Volare’ (‘Nel blu’) in 1958. In the competition, the song only reached a disappointing third place. One can argue that, regardless of general tastes and attitudes, within the special framework of the live show and national competition that is Eurovision, it was important to celebrate a return to sound values and grand continental traditions, maybe even deliberately being a bit quaint. Security seemed to be a key desire. Only the countries at the margins of the continent (UK, Scandinavia) and those forced to start anew after their disgrace and defeat (Germany in particular, but to a certain degree also Italy and Austria) could embrace modernity with a higher degree of keenness. And whether one heard a song on the radio as a song tout court, or listened to it as a song by the representative of a particular country, it did not make any difference. The shows themselves were marked by two main trajectories pulling in opposite directions, which are probably typical of coping mechanisms in perceived crises: a celebration of ‘Golden Age’ nostalgia, and conspicuous avant-gardism, representing the desire to move on.

Thus, the fundamental catastrophe underlying the various European projects – the trauma of two world wars and (to a lesser degree) the civilizational rupture of the Shoah – did play a role in the early years of the Grand Prix Eurovision, albeit an invisible one, in the form of a faint, but all-pervasive memory against which this new, televised European cultural tradition emerged. For this purpose, the aforementioned dualism was a necessity: any notion of crisis and conflict was obscured by ‘rose petals and violins’, in order to allow to the devastated states to turn towards the future.

The ‘crisis’ of the contest: stasis and change in the 1990s

Forty years later, the Iron Curtain had fallen, the European continent had overcome enforced division, and the post-war era had come to an end. According to the American political scientist Francis Fukuyama (1992), in this triumph of liberalism and social democratic welfare states, the ‘end of history’ was near. In a sense, the Eurovision Song Contest had reached rock bottom: audiences in the traditional participating countries were declining; and few entries, if any, were played on radio programmes, even in their respective national charts, not to mention the lack of any major impact across Europe. The late 1980s and early-to-mid 1990s were somewhat of a ‘dark age’ for Eurovision. Tellingly, its only lasting contribution to European media history during this era was not a song, but an interval act, and one of a particularly nostalgic nature: when Ireland was hosting the contest for the second time in a row in 1994, Irish broadcaster RTE commissioned a dance piece to showcase an as yet underemployed show concept about the ‘Emerald Island’: Riverdance, the alleged celebration of Irish dance traditions, reimagined through the radically new choreography of Michael Flatley (Singleton, 2013: 150; on this kind of ‘invention of tradition’, see Hobsbawm, 1983). If it had not been for the Irish and their ongoing enthusiasm (albeit waning with every new win in the 1990s), Eurovision might simply have withered away as a former success story that had become superfluous.

This was partially due to the perception of stasis. The format of the contest had changed throughout its existence, but usually only through small and incremental adaptations. Hardly ever was this perceived as a disruption or cultural crisis, deserving much debate. The first Grand Prix Eurovision in Lugano had been enough of a success to stage another one in the following year, when the first duo was allowed to participate. Here, in Frankfurt am Main, the EBU introduced the rule that, as a prize, the winner would host the competition the following year, so the winning Dutch Television station hosted in Hilversum in 1958, and so on, creating a by now decades-old annual tradition, and it was only in a few cases that the winning country was unwilling to take on the honour (and the financial and organizational burden). Only a few rules remained fixed throughout the years in the face of minor alterations: the songs had to be original compositions, they could not be longer than approximately three minutes, and they had to be sung live. Also, each participating country had to broadcast the whole show live, in full, and without interruptions. Each of these rules was tested at times by individual countries, but, by and large, they represent the acquis communautaire of the ESC, and thus convey stability – but also a certain sense of immutability.

One can argue that it was this stability and conservatism that caused the most severe crisis of the ESC in its wider history. After a ‘golden age’ during the two decades from the late 1960s to the mid 1980s, Eurovision, both as show and as musical achievement, had become stagnant, seeming to fall more and more out of sync with the musical taste of the wider public. In 1982, the German singer Nicole achieved great chart success across Europe with a song full of thinly veiled transnational political appeal, an English version of ‘Ein bisschen Frieden’ (‘A Little Peace’), which even topped the UK charts for two weeks. In 1987, the Irish entry Johnny Logan reached number two there. But, by and large, it looked as if Eurovision was losing its lustre. Italy participated only sporadically in the 1990s, withdrawing altogether in 1997. Apart from Ireland (who won four times in five years, not helping the contest with this relative monotony), few Western European countries still seemed to care. For the first time, Eurovision seemed to be in a serious, potentially existential, crisis. However, this is not what happened. There can be no doubt of a widespread dissatisfaction with the Contest’s results, as even the ‘official history’ by John Kennedy O’Connor records in a few instances (2007: 119 (for 1989); 139 (for 1994); and 147 (for 1996)). However, whether it was that the decline was too incremental to warrant the term ‘disruptive’, or that the longstanding, rather aloof, coverage in contemporary print media did not take the problem particularly seriously, many contemporary observers in Western Europe did not perceive the shrinking mass appeal of the contest to be a crisis. This warrants substantially more in-depth research, as arguing with silence is always a tricky thing. However, a search in several print media outlets from Austria, France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland and the United Kingdom from the 1990s indicates that ‘crisis’ was not a term that appeared in this context. Instead the contest met with less and less enthusiasm or interest. In these years, observations prevailed, even from quite friendly authors such as Jan Feddersen in the German newspaper Taz: die tageszeitung, indicating that the ESC ‘continues to move another big step away from its original claim to be a forum for lyricists and composers for light entertainment of quality’ (1996). Forty years after Lugano, Eurovision simply seemed to have run its course, at least for many Western Europeans.

Feddersen’s report from Oslo in 1996 was one of the very few Western European newspaper reports of the mid 1990s to hint that the contest was not all stasis, however. Its appeal was located in its power of participation through identification: ‘For one week, everyone in Oslo is a juror, somehow. Everywhere there is betting, evaluating, shoptalking, judging’ (Feddersen, 1996). The ESC still had the power to stir up passion, identification and enthusiasm, at least locally. Over the following years, this enthusiasm would have a transformative impact on the contest, and subsequently on the outreach of the show.

Its identificatory potential is rooted in the very format of the show, based on national representation through music – but arguably even more so by the process of determining the eventual winner by national votes. Voting and democracy in general are hailed as core values of Europe; however, the process is not without risks. It is in the nature of every competition that it produces losers, and a series of losses might easily create a lack of enthusiasm and, when accumulated, a withering-away of interest. The competitive aspect actually seems to be counter-intuitive to the spirit of the show. As observed above, in Lugano in 1956, the voting had been a very discreet affair: only the winner was announced, and the single international jury remained hidden in a separate room, with the voting process being kept completely secret – and the detailed results hence unknown. ² In fact, for a show that emphasizes that it is all about the composition and the music, it might appear ironic that its voting procedures regularly draw more attention than the actual performances. Certainly, the voting process represents the heart of the show, and is one of its most attractive draws, if not the ultimate one. One of the most telling pieces of evidence for the important role voting plays in Eurovision’s success might be seen in the fact that when, for a few years in the 2000s, the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation (ORF), was not participating in the ESC, the only part of the show broadcast live was the voting, which still drew a respectable number of viewers (Klier, 2009). Indeed, it is this part, with its sympathies and rivalries, rich with history, but also somewhat ritualistic, which arguably represents the most European aspect of the ESC. As much as these voting patterns and alleged voting blocs draw ridicule as well as scholarly interest (see the survey in Yair, 2018: 8–10), they certainly make a staple of every ESC show.

The voting process has been a visible part of the show since the second contest. Since 1957, each country has been represented by individual national juries (in contrast to the single international jury of Lugano). These juries would cast votes for any participant except those from their own country, thus giving everyone a mimetic incentive to do the same and thus to cheer for at least two countries: ‘one’s own’ and the country one would be voting for. This created as a default a very basic, but profound, European inter-nationality. In addition, even though the specifics of the respective national decisions could be at times murky, the fact that the votes are announced individually and publicly created a remarkable tradition of transparency.

The rules for the composition of the juries was changed regularly by the EBU in the attempt to create more attractive outcomes, as was the points system. Within the first 30 years of the ESC, the voting system would be changed six times. Only in 1975, with the introduction of the still-used ten-step scale from one to eight points, then ten, and culminating in the famous ‘douze points’ did the EBU create a system which became so iconic that it has lasted. Generations of Western Europeans thus learned to count to 12 in French, triggered by the ritualized question: ‘May I have your votes, please?’ But as much as this voting ritual, with its climactic ‘douze points’, represents a sort of ‘brand’ message for Eurovision, the consequent stability also created a rather static appearance, particularly at times when there was a widespread consensus regarding the ‘best’ entry of the year – in that case, the process would lose much of its suspense, and thus appeal. The history of voting at Eurovision thus provides a good example that continuous but careful adaptation is key to avoiding complacency, stasis and, in the long run, a withering-away.

Three factors would play a crucial role in major changes that helped to avert such a scenario. Even though all three were seen as crises of sorts, they each demonstrated the ongoing vitality of the format. Not surprisingly, all of them are related to participation and adaptability. The first factor was brought about by wider political developments: with the fall of the Iron Curtain in 1989, countries from the former Eastern bloc were joining the EBU, and thus could also participate in the ESC. Since the 1960s, bloc-free Yugoslavia had participated as the lone socialist country; in other Eastern European countries, the contest could be watched if Western TV was available; but otherwise, the Sopot International Song Festival, as well as the intermediate Intervision show, were supposed to be equivalent, until its suppression with the introduction of martial law in Poland in 1980 (Vuletic, 2018: 101–11). Soon after their first appearance at the ESC starting in 1993, the new member states would embrace the show with vigour, seeing it as a display of their European credentials (in the same way that Germany, Austria and Italy had at the beginning of the competition, and echoed by newcomers such as Spain, Ireland and Israel). While the juries remained rather conservative in their votes – the 1990s saw Ireland winning four times in five years, another indicator of stasis – a changing Eurovision order was dawning: Poland debuted in 1994 with a rousing second place (Edyta Górniak, ‘To nie ja!’), and in Oslo in 1996, the Polish singer Kasia Kowalska was an international favourite with fans: ‘the audience was ecstatic about her rehearsals: nobody else sings more authentically in the contest’ (Feddersen, 1996). Her song ‘Chcę Znać Swój Grzech’ (‘What’s the Meaning?’) ended in a disappointing fifteenth place from the juries, but the new participants were not easily discouraged. They kept sending big names, great talent and soon new ideas too. This would yield success – in the 2000s their success was monumental, with every winner from 2001 to 2009 coming from Eastern or South Eastern Europe.

In the Western European perception, geography replaced tradition. Most striking in this respect was when, at the ESC in Helsinki in 2007, the top half of the scoreboard ended up consisting entirely of Eastern and Eastern Central European countries. As the long-time Eurovision commentator for the BBC, Sir Terry Wogan, memorably put it: ‘We won the Cold War, but we lost Eurovision’ (quoted in Savage, 2007). Even though Turkey (the winner in 2003, and placed fourth in Helsinki), and Greece (the winner in 2005, seventh place in Helsinki) had been NATO members during the Cold War and thus could be considered ‘winners’ as well, they, as well as host country Finland, were countries that had been participants for many years already, though often neglected by Western European juries. Their success in the tele-voting era was now lumped together with the triumphs of much more recent entrants: Estonia in 2001, Latvia in 2002, Ukraine in 2004, Serbia in 2007 and Russia in 2009. This mobilized a whole new discourse of crisis: the more complacent ‘established’ Western European countries started to complain that they were losing out, feeling shut out by the sheer numbers of the newcomers, and expressing concern that their unfair voting for neighbours was an undue hijacking of the contest by an alleged periphery. It was not only for the popular BBC commentator – whose mix of biting witticism with xenophobic undertones became widely copied in Eurovision coverage during these years – that this development represented everything that was wrong with Europe (Fricker, 2013: 66–7; Singleton, 2013: 152), a view that seems to have anticipated a substantial part of the resentment among ‘Middle England’ that ultimately led to the referendum vote in favour of a Brexit from the European Union. ³

In the long run, this perception of crisis triggered a less casual approach to the selection and presentation of the respective national entries from nearly all European countries, and thus created a, by and large, more serious and diverse show. Two landmark events in this reorientation are particularly noteworthy: the German victory in 2010 (Lena Meyer-Landrut, ‘Satellite’), masterminded by the entertainment guru and Eurovision enthusiast Stefan Raab, which showed that one of the original seven countries that participated in Lugano 1956, even one with a lot of historical baggage, did have a chance of winning the ESC in the tele-voting era, if it invested effort and seriousness into its entry. This then in turn triggered the return of both Austria and Italy to the contest. The first-time win of Portugal in 2017 (Salvador Sobral, ‘Amar Pelos Dois’), with a Portuguese-language ballad, not only won the jury vote, but also demonstrated that a high-quality composition and performance, under the right circumstances, did not have to be a flashy show-act to win enthusiasm among tele-voters all over Europe. With this success, Portugal, the last ‘classical’ Eurovision country never to win during the jury era, finally triumphed. ⁴

Arguably, the change in who it is that casts the national votes – the second of the three factors mentioned – was even more profound . Throughout the contest’s history, there was the dilemma between addressing artistic and cultural matters, not to mention identity issues, and staying in touch with the dynamism of radio playlists and record sales. Concerns about this had been debated as early as 1958 in Hilversum, when the juries ‘failed’ to crown the pan-European smash hit of Modugno’s ‘Volare’, and went instead for the much more classic (and sedate) French entry ‘Dors, mon amour’ by André Claveau. The EBU subsequently changed the composition of the juries for the first time: music professionals were replaced by ten lay people from each country. This was in vain: the following year, Modugno returned with another great success (‘Piove’, better known as ‘Ciao, ciao, bambina’), but was once more defeated, this time only ranking in sixth place. The question of a more representative selection of jurors remained an ongoing task. The aforementioned ten-step scale, used since 1975, would become iconic, but the results were still based on the vote of a jury, which was no longer sitting on stage, but invisible, and communicating their results via telephone towards the end of the show. Some critics felt that this lack of transparency might be one major reason for the shrinking appeal of the show, in particular due to the jurors’ apparently predictable views on what a successful entry should sound like. Consequently, after 1996, five countries with advanced technological expertise asked their audience to vote via telephone (thus also opening up new sources of revenue); in the following years, whenever technically feasible, nearly all participating countries would adopt this distinctly more participatory approach, which since 2003 has been mandatory. ⁵

This change in audience participation has had a profound impact on the aesthetics of the contest, fostering diversity of style at an unprecedented scale – the third of the three factors mentioned. This process was already discernible in 1997, but hardly noticed at the time. Suddenly, Turkey – until then widely ignored by the juries despite strong efforts to provide quality since its first participation in 1975 – made it into the top three with a very ethnic-sounding entry (Şebnem Paker with ‘Dinle’). ⁶ The result of Iceland’s Paul Oscar was also notable, and his highly suggestive monologue of an aging rogue in black latex represented more of a performance than a classical song. Innuendo was not a novelty on the Eurovision stage, but this took things to a new level, and was emphasized by the extremely suggestive camera movements. ‘Minn hinsti dans’ (‘My Last Dance’) seemed to repel nearly all juries – but attracted a respectable number of points from the tele-voting countries (Lampropoulos, 2013: 163). Thus, the inclusion of the audience through telephone voting, later via SMS text message, and in the smart phone era via the Eurovision app, certainly created an incentive to watch the show, and strengthened sentiments of belonging to the community of viewers. It also shifted taste, most likely due not just to broader appeal, but also generational change: as could be seen as early as 1997, when the juries were upholding a preference for classical ballads (and possibly a more conservative map of Europe), it was the tele-voters who gave the Turkish entry the extra push to reach the best result for the country in the contest up to that point. After the ‘globalized Celtic sounds’ of the mid 1990s (Singleton, 2013: 149), a new generation of ethnically flavoured music became appealing. Iconic winners in this regard included a whole series of winners in the 2000s, notably Sertab Erener for Turkey with ‘Everyway That I Can’ in 2003, Ruslana for Ukraine with ‘Wild Dances’ in 2004, and Helena Paparizou for Greece with ‘My Number One’ in 2005 (see e.g. Björnberg, 2007; Baker, 2008; Solomon, 2013). However, the trope of winning through (auto-)ethnicization should not be overstressed: after all, Latvia won in 2002 with a Latin-styled pop song (Marie N with ‘I Wanna’), and the chain of successful Scandinavian pop songs in the 2010s can hardly be explained by recourse to ethnicity (contrary to Björnberg, 2013). In addition, the Czech Republic failed disastrously with a hyper-ethnic (albeit tongue-in-cheek) Roma entry in 2009, winning zero points in the semi-final (Gypsy.cz with ‘Aven romale’; on the role of Roma representation at the ESC see Szeman, 2013). More often than not, the musical model of choice was a ‘cosmopolitan hybridity rather than a conscious authenticity’ – and even more so for the hosting country (Bohlman, 2007: 45). For the show at large this meant that with the rise of ethnic pop and its variations, fusions and mixes, there was more musical diversity in the contest, in turn increasing its attractiveness to viewers, even if only because there was more to make fun of.

This newly developed ethnic appeal, however, also came at a cost, in what appears to be a striking case of the law of unintended consequences. Tele-voting changed the prevailing aesthetics of the contest; it also brought about a whole range of new countries winning – between the two Swedish victories in 1999 and 2012, only three winning countries had won the competition before. However, the broader participation of the European public also revived the perception of voting patterns and voting blocs that had occurred in the first years of the tele-voting era. The reason for this is a peculiarity of what might be called ‘the Eurovision model of democracy’: everyone in a participating country who owns a sim card or who has a telephone registered with that nation’s telephone networks has the right to vote, regardless of actual citizenship. Thus, a wider public became aware that diasporas wielded a soft power to be reckoned with. This phenomenon drew attention not only to the power of diasporas from immediately neighbouring countries (e.g. what Russia considers its ‘near abroad’), but also reflected the flows of labour migration across the continent, with particularly noteworthy cases among the diasporas of people from Lithuania, Poland, Portugal, Romania and, until its withdrawal, Turkey.

When suspicion arose that awarding points solely based on tele-votes might give Eastern European countries an undue advantage, and that in some of the smallest participating countries voting fraud might even have occurred, the EBU worked once more on fine-tuning the voting mechanism. After very limited trials with reintroducing the juries initially for the semi-finals, it was in Moscow in 2009 that this partial reversal of the tele-vote-based process was first applied in the grand final as well: in the final, publicly announced points would be a combination of both tele-voting and jury voting (with the option to suppress either one, in case of striking irregularities). The results of this split vote were predictable: those who benefited most from this balancing out of the tele-vote were the less ‘popular’ countries, such as Israel, the UK, France or Denmark; the (relative) losers were diaspora-rich countries, such as Azerbaijan, Turkey, Russia and Greece, an observation that was confirmed in subsequent contests. Still, regardless of the more recent modification, the introduction of tele-voting was a game-changer for the ESC, playing a major role in overcoming stasis. Despite fears in the ‘old’ Europe of being outplayed and outnumbered, most countries took on the challenge, and took it well. The results, however, were seen not only in the dramatic changes of the contest’s aesthetics and winners’ list, but also in the themes that were addressed, albeit within a frame of ‘violins and rose petals’. The voting revolution transformed the Grand Prix Eurovision de la Chanson into a full-blown arena of European affairs.

Violins and crises in the tele-voting era: Moscow 2009

By the 2010s, the ESC broadcast reached a live audience of a hundred million viewers all over Europe; the internet live stream perhaps as much as doubled these figures. It is inevitable that an event with such a broad outreach and such an international appeal should become entangled in larger issues, particularly given its importance for matters of national representation, including pride and humiliation. As we have seen, political tensions and the dark legacies of the past were present at Eurovision from the very beginning, at the rosy shores of Lake Lugano in 1956, although they were only subtly acknowledged and could be easily overlooked. This acquiescence worked for several decades, even with increasing numbers of participating countries. Arguably, the lack of outreach helped: the limited (albeit growing) availability of TV sets, as well as the exclusive voting by juries, kept the stakes low: for instance, when, in 1969, the contest took place in Franco’s Spain, only Austria boycotted it – 15 other countries saw no reason to abstain. Sometimes, pure chance also played a (fortunate) role: in the 1970s, neither the conflict over Northern Ireland nor the participation of Israel triggered anything worse than threats and precautionary measures (Kennedy O’Connor, 2007: 46, 53; Singleton, 2013: 144–5). When, at the end of that decade, Greece and Turkey were unwilling to broadcast each other’s entries, they silently took turns to participate for a few years. ⁷

However, with the broader appeal and strong participatory element, the ESC turned from showcase to a proper arena for the exploration of national, regional, European and even global issues. This offers a certain amount of agency to the audience. During the contest in Belgrade in 2008, regardless of the famed Serbian hospitality, the Albanian entry was greeted with extensive whistling and catcalls because of the conflict over Kosovo. Similar cases have included the reactions to Russia at the contests in 2014 and 2015 in the aftermath of the occupation of Crimea, but also due to the oppressive Russian political stance towards LGBTQI people. Eurovision provides a powerful arena for displays of dissent, be it even in the most classic form of voting: when in 2014 Austria won with a henceforth iconic drag act (‘Rise like a Phoenix’), this was condemned by right-wing politicians in the highest echelons of power in Russia and other post-Soviet countries, and the juries in many Eastern European countries followed suit; however, tele-voters not only all over Europe, but also in Russia, Azerbaijan and Belarus, awarded high marks to Conchita Wurst. What goes all too often unnoticed is the fact that, at least in recent years, in these three countries Eurovision offers the most democratic vote one can have, and accordingly their tele-voting results can have quite some significance.

This kind of political embarrassment is, of course, not in the interests of the EBU. As an organization of public broadcasters, they have to stress the apolitical nature of the show. In times of regional disputes, the display of maps and national symbols such as flags has become a potentially contentious issue, even though flag-waving is an important part of the fan culture and atmosphere. Thus, the flags allowed to be displayed at the competition are strictly regulated. A peculiar case of censorship in this regard was reported recently from the Brexit-torn United Kingdom where, allegedly, the organizing BBC confiscated all flags outside the concert hall for the national selection, and distributed union jacks inside (Read, 2019); the broadcaster cited security concerns, but it is hard not to imagine that they might fear criticism for broadcasting images of European flag-waving Britons. By contrast, the EBU officially allows all national flags as well as the EU flag and the rainbow flag. ⁸

In a way, one might argue that it is quite important to have an event like the ESC serving as an outlet for tensions to be released by demonstratively ignoring unpopular countries, or performatively triumphing over them. In this sense, the EBU is probably well advised to keep a low profile, provided that it does not distort the competition in too flagrant a manner – as frustrating as such quietism might be in the short run. In a worst case scenario, a short-term withdrawal of one party might indeed be the best solution to a regional crisis (as, for instance, in the cases of the withdrawal of Georgia from the 2009 contest in Moscow; Armenia’s absence from Baku in 2012; or Russia’s withdrawal in 2017 from Kyiv). The Russian case might be particularly indicative, as it seemed doubtful whether they really wanted to return following their lacklustre entry in Lisbon in 2018; but the selection of a major star with huge Eurovision appeal (the 2016 third-placed Sergey Lazarev, with a high-profile team) for this year’s contest in Tel Aviv has shown once more how highly Putin’s Russia regards the soft power possibilities of the contest. Thus, even though the ESC is supposedly apolitical, and, as the British example in 2003 shows, not everything is necessarily the result of political machinations, it would be impossible to completely shield such an event from all criticism and controversy. As has been clear since 1956, even silence can have a political dimension. This is not to say that every rose petal and every violin in the history of the contest has had such a political dimension, even though there are good arguments why even a strategy of cuteness may have had more depth at times than it appeared (Winter, 2015). More interesting, however, in the present context, are the ways in which the ESC reflects pan-European or global crises.

Larger social issues found a forum in the contest from early on, confirming its aspiration to be a song contest in the tradition of the social criticism of French chansons, Italian canzone-cantautori and English-language singer-songwriters. Accordingly, topics such as trans-European labour migration (Germany in 1962), the threat of nuclear extermination (Monaco in 1967) or the need for environmental protection (Germany in 1971) were addressed early on, and remained recurrent topics of individual songs.

Certain issues were large and immediate enough to be widely perceived as crises and were addressed in several entries in the same year. However, this did not mean that each of these entries would be equally successful: a preliminary analysis shows that diversity is an important factor in the final outcome, which usually privileges only one entry per topic, and prefers – aside from musical aspects such as the craftsmanship of the composition and the art and talent of the performer – the most hopeful versions, even in times of severe existential crisis. The most striking example of this observation may be the aforementioned song by Nicole in 1982, ‘Ein bisschen Frieden’ (‘A Little Peace’), reflecting the widespread fear in Europe surrounding the recently resumed arms race between the two superpowers. While the blonde, innocent-looking German girl in her white dress with a white guitar prevailed, and became a pan-European number one hit, the worrisome and catastrophic Finnish entry ‘Nuko Pomiin’ (‘Oversleep’), ended hopelessly in the last spot with zero points (Moore, 2006: 116–51). The same observation holds true even for the most positive disruptions in recent European history, the fall of the Iron Curtain, and the subsequent end of the Cold War in the autumn and winter of 1989–90. The following ESC in Zagreb witnessed at least six entries celebrating the ongoing political transformation, not just from the countries bordering the former Iron Curtain such as Austria, Finland and Germany, but also from Ireland and Norway. The clear winner of the night, however, was the Italian Toto Cotugno, with his anthemic ‘Insieme: 1992’. Unlike his competitors, he was not focusing so much on past and present, but rather celebrating the grand expectations connected with the closer European ties embodied in the common European Economic Area. While he was clearly the biggest star on stage that night, he also had one of the most modern-sounding pieces. Afterwards, however, his rock-orchestrated anthem failed to have much success in the pop charts outside Italy. These two contrasting results in the show and the charts emphasize the importance of context: a song might be appealing on the stage of Eurovision, with its national connotations and theatrical visuals, while success as a pure pop audio tune might need different qualities. In contrast to radio playlists and record sales, addressing disruptions on the Eurovision stage clearly has some appeal, and even more so if it is done with a positive tone, providing a sense of agency and optimism.

Accordingly, there can be no doubt who best addressed the zeitgeist onstage in Moscow in 2009. The show was, of course, as splendid as technologically possible – its gigantic stage was the most advanced and sophisticated the world had ever seen, offering not only striking visuals for the opening and interval acts, but also a different character for each of the 42 performances. The host country, Russia, clearly succeeded in demonstrating its capabilities. However, the dire realities of the year were not easily ignored. As stated above, several entries dealt with the issue of crisis in one way or another. Remarkably enough, though, the more blatant ones were less successful: Svetlana Loboda for Ukraine, for example, who turned the rather artistic video of ‘Be my Valentine’, filmed in the style of an early Lady Gaga video, into a high-energy, but shambolic, ‘Anti-Crisis-Girl’ show on stage. More convincing was the Suprematism-inspired ‘Bistra voda’ (‘Clear Water’) by the Bosnia-Herzegovina group Regina; the Israeli star Noa paired with Palestinian Mira Awad for ‘There Must Be Another Way’, which, with its water-themed stage backdrop, implicitly addressed the Middle Eastern conflict by pre-empting the approach of the blue peace movement; and last but not least, the classy Patricia Kaas for France with ‘S’il fallait le faire’, probably the most timeless entry of the year. Their different takes on the issue of crisis confirms the difficulty of giving a coherent and consistent definition of the phenomenon of crisis, as does their less than impressive success: none of these entries reached higher than the respectable middle ranks (achieving twelfth, ninth, sixteenth and eighth place, respectively). Their message of crisis and protest was countered by a similarly striking number of songs full of ostentatious escapism, be it in the form of folksy, ethnic sounds (Armenia in tenth place; Moldova in fourteenth place; and the folk-pop fusion of Portugal in fifteenth), a fascinating blend of soprano and four cellos (Estonia’s magic ‘Rändajad’, or ‘Nomads’ in sixth), or the grand classic showstopper ballad in the form of Jade Ewen’s ‘It’s My Time’, with the composer, Andrew Lloyd Webber himself, at the piano for the UK, ending in fifth place. In this light, it was as if Europe deliberately chose to ignore the dire expectations of the moment for a few hours, immersed in the truly amazing new world of the Moscow stage, with its enormous LED video screens of unprecedented quality. Turkey and Azerbaijan played the ethno-national card, but failed to reach the top spots, being placed fourth and third, respectively. Instead, it was the particularly crisis-ridden Iceland, whose second-place finish was a repetition of its best result in the competition so far, with a bittersweet ballad (‘Is It True?’) sung by an ethereal blonde beauty (Yohanna), and staged in the clouds – for whom escapism reigned triumphant. Or not? Indeed, her hyper-idyllic backdrop could be interpreted as escapism with an ironic twist (in contrast, for instance, to the stunningly realistic mountains and clouds of the Swiss entry, ‘The Highest Heights’, which failed even to qualify for the grand final). The real star of the evening, however, transcended all of these. It was the Norwegian entry by Aleksander Rybak: his high-energy ‘Fairytale’ ticked all possible boxes for success – a catchy tune, a flawless singing performance, and a pitch-perfect stage show (not just with a self-parodying backdrop similar to Iceland, more interestingly realized, but also with a truly breath-taking performance by the Frikar Dance Company), and on top of all of this, the violin solo played live on stage by Rybak himself, in the iconic manner of the romantic genius. All of this fused seamlessly into the intelligent message of the song, embodying the escapist essence of the text, as well as countering this very escapism through its rousing music, appealing to the confusion, hopes and desires of its European voting audience at large. Rybak’s ‘love’ of a ‘fairy tale’ was clearly the perfect embodiment of the political, economic and cultural disruption and confusion of the moment, and the voters rewarded him with a record result of unprecedented scale, an achievement confirmed by his subsequent success in the various pop charts of that year, even in the UK, where he was the most successful continental European entry since Nicole in 1982. He was the true anti-crisis boy of the evening, if not of the year.

Of course, 2009 was a peculiar year. The Whiggish optimism of the 1990s and early 2000s had turned into frenzy on the financial markets, and the unprecedented economic boom had come to a screeching halt – but memories of the failed alternatives of the Cold War era were still fresh enough to eschew calls for simplistic solutions. Even the greatest optimists could no longer ignore that, contrary to Fukuyama’s stance 17 years earlier, history was back.

Circumstances like that do not often occur, however, and in many years, the zeitgeist is much more blurry, if a general observation is possible at all. If there is a trend that can be discerned since the introduction of tele-voting at Eurovision, it is a shift towards new ideas of authenticity. This includes the many entries celebrating (auto-)ethnicization in the 2000s, sometimes using rare, obscure, or even made-up instruments. Salvador Sobral’s winning Portuguese entry in 2017, with its plea for ‘good’ music, might belong in this category too. More common are entries that present empowerment through raising awareness, be it for victims of war (e.g. Serbia’s entry in 2007), of genocidal persecution (Ukraine in 2017), or of domestic violence (Albania in 2012; Hungary in 2014). Even more recent is a return to the plight of refugees and migrants (Romania in 2015; and both Italy and France in 2018). These new ideas about authenticity on that grand European stage also entail the numerous entries of recent years voicing advocacy for the individual experience of minority groups, in particular, that of LGBTQI people (most spectacularly with Conchita Wurst’s winning ‘Rise Like a Phoenix’ for Austria in 2015; for studies on the queering of the ESC in general, see Yair, 2018: 6–8), or alluding to personal trauma and perhaps even depression (Mans Zelmerlöw’s ‘Heroes’ for Sweden in 2015). Netta’s #metoo-inspired victory in 2018 for Israel with ‘Toy’ made it the fifth consecutive winning entry with a cause.

While these developments make the event more immediately relevant, and render even that most common theme of pop music – love – a potentially political matter, they also raise the stakes, as matters of taste can become highly fraught with politics. The cultural wars and perceived crises of the present are here powerfully addressed and negotiated within their orchestral arrangements.

Conclusion

The Eurovision Song Contest is intricately entangled with the history of Europe. Older than the Treaty of Rome, it has been reaching out beyond the boundaries of the members of that political Europe ever since the first contest in the Swiss lakeside resort of Lugano. It has also tried to reach out to ever-wider audiences, thus creating various means of participation and inclusion, and offering a forum to question these means at the same time. Developed in order to foster technological advancement, the ESC quickly turned into an entertainment programme with cultural-political aspirations. It always transcended borders, promoted technological innovation, and created stunning and sometimes iconic visuals. But at the same time, being built on a foundation of competition between national representatives, and reaching a wide audience that is only surpassed by the biggest sporting events, it also tends to attract and escalate tensions. Time and again, its double-edged nature has forced the organizers to adapt the format, and to re-orient their direction. Being one of the longest-running television entertainment programmes worldwide, it has been driven over the years by reactions to a variety of challenges, of a technical as well as a cultural nature. Increasing the participation of the contest was often the answer for success. Still, controversies were inevitable, and many of them were even perceived as crises, regardless of whether they were articulated by a handsome boy with a violin, or a striking lady with a beard. Most of the time, as Chris West put it, the organizers managed to keep the competition ‘democratic without being demotic’ (2017: 302). However, the history of the contest shows the importance of distinguishing between different forms of crisis discourse, as well as emphasizing that passionate rows over cultural issues are preferable to stasis or a detached withering-away, as might have happened in the 1990s.

How much the ESC provides a European public sphere is still open for debate. Sometimes stated, often contested, this has never been analysed on a robust basis of inquiry. What is clear, however, is that the format provides a stage to present and an arena to negotiate major and minor issues, regional conflicts as well as grand ideas – and sometimes even ‘just’ music. Last, but not least, the show’s live nature means that it is inherently open to surprises and last-minute shifts in the final outcome – providing a highly meaningful illumination of the importance of ‘crises’ for Europe.