An attempt to distinguish between ‘alte Musik’, as German musicians used to conceive it, and ‘early music’, as is now the common phrase in English, provides a new – and perhaps better – lens through which to view the old historical schisms of twentieth-century music. The recourse that musical innovators have always had to ancient precedents, as inspiration and as validation, has many variations, and these variations are reliable reflectors of aesthetic attitudes.

In a little study of the orientalist trope denoting sensuality (nega ) in nineteenth-century Russian opera, ‘“Entoiling the Falconet”: Russian Musical Orientalism in Context’ (this journal, 4 [1992], 253–80), I closed by observing that Chaikovsky, one among major Russian composers of his time, seemed immune to the lure of the East, and that his only orientalising numbers were two late and insignificant items: the Arabian Dance in The Nutcracker and the Moorish physician Ibn-Hakia's aria in the one-act opera Iolanta, which shared a double bill with The Nutcracker on their joint premiére during the last year of the composer's life (18/30 December 1892).

This essay originated as a contribution to a symposium organised by the Dallas Opera and Southern Methodist University around the Opera's production of Boro-din's Prince Igor in November 1990. Since many Soviet guests had been invited, the poster and programme book were printed in English and Russian side by side. I found that the word ‘orientalism’ in my title had become tema vostoka – ‘the Eastern theme’ – in translation, even though orientalizm, or more commonly, orientalistika, are perfectly good Russian words (well, Russian words, anyway). It was a sensible precaution. ‘The Eastern theme’ is neutral: from a paper with that phrase in the title one expects inventories, taxonomies, identification of sources, stylistic analysis. ‘Orientalism’ is charged. From a paper with that word in the title one expects semiotics, ideological critique, polemic, perhaps indictment. The translator was quite right to err on the side of innocuousness, rather than saddle me with a viewpoint I might not wish or manage to live up to.

The millennium to which my title refers is that of the Christianisation of Russia, which took place in 988, and which was recently celebrated the world over, not least in newly broad-minded Russia herself. And yet the designation is somewhat imprecise: the millennium was really that of a sovereign's baptism. After considering and rejecting Judaism and Islam (so the legend goes), the Great Prince Vladimir of Kiev embraced the Christian faith and established it as a state religion – the statiest state religion that ever was (or is: the situation has been updated under the Soviets, but not fundamentally changed). The distinction is necessary if the subject of these remarks is to have any meaning at all, and it will also help explain why there is relatively little to say about it.

Ever since the cultural watershed of the 1960s, predictions of the imminent demise of classical music, especially in America, have been rife. Its audience, undermined by the precipitate decline in public music education and decimated by defections to pop (respectable for aspiring intellectuals from the moment rock became British), was assumed to be aging, indeed dying off. Whether as a symptom of this process or as one of its causes, media coverage for classical music steadily and drastically diminished over the 1970s and 1980s (coinciding with the rise of serious pop coverage), as did the number of radio stations that offered it.