In the early 20th century Columbia Phonograph Co. entered the vast Russian market. The Americans were among the first to introduce “talking machines” on the banks of the Neva, and their shop was always packed, with sales growing so rapidly that the future seemed nothing but bright.

The company’s chief representative in Russia, K. Yu. Shpan, spent his days in his luxurious office on Kazanskaya Square thinking about ways to expand the business—and the opportunity came quickly.

In the run-up to Christmas of 1901, Saint Petersburg and other major Russian cities were facing an acute shortage of gramophones, the must-have gadget of the season. Columbia, which until then had produced only phonographs and wax cylinders, decided to seize the moment. Eager to use the stock of parts already in its warehouses, the enterprising Yankees hastily designed a new machine. But the device turned out to be so poorly engineered that within a month it was practically unusable.

Its worst flaw was the deafening clatter of the gears, which drowned out the music while the record played. Many retailers, who had stocked up expecting a Christmas boom, took heavy losses when the “gramophones”—delivered late, no less—proved unsellable. Mass returns followed, and Columbia found itself fighting lawsuits in the commercial courts. One expert testifying in the noisy trial remarked: “These machines are so bad that even the tavern-keepers—people who aren’t exactly known for their refined tastes—are complaining about them.”

This disastrous “advertising” nearly sank the business. After counting their losses, the company urgently redesigned the machines. Soon, Columbia was shipping products of the highest quality to Russia, fighting fiercely to restore the honor of its brand. Aggressive advertising for the improved, whisper-quiet gramophone—now fitted with fiber wheels—produced an unexpected side effect: a new lawsuit.

This time, the company itself was the defendant. The reason? In Europe, even back then, not just inventions but nameswere patented. The word “gramophone” belonged to the Gramophone Company, so Columbia had to come up with a new, original name for its machines. Thus, the Graphophone was born.

In February 1903, a high-level delegation arrived in Saint Petersburg to assess the opportunities of the Russian market. The group included company president Mr. Easton, the directors of the Berlin and London offices, Mr. Bradt and Mr. Dorian, and engineer Mr. Cabes. They made good on an old promise to record the voices of Russian singers and orchestras.

The Columbia executives also toured the warehouse of their main competitor in Russia, the Gramophone Company, and were astonished at the scale of its operations. They expressed their admiration in glowing terms to the local manager, Hippolyt Pavlovich Rapgof. From there, the delegation traveled to Moscow to inspect the local trade in gramophones. They returned home across the Atlantic in high spirits.

Soon after, the first 188 wax masters with Russian repertoire were shipped to America for mass production.

Columbia pressed its first Russian discs in the United States, at its main factory in Bridgeport, Connecticut. This plant processed the wax originals sent in from the Berlin, Paris, and London branches—and now, from Saint Petersburg as well. Everything was done with characteristic American speed and efficiency.

By summer, discs with the first Russian recordings were on sale. But music lovers were in for a disappointment. The sound quality of the records left much to be desired, and the company had made a fatal mistake in repertoire selection: instead of analyzing the market, they catered to the performers’ whims. The result was a flop.

The search for someone to blame didn’t take long. In January, K. Yu. Shpan was removed from his post, replaced by A. B. Kromelin, one of the directors of the Berlin branch.

The new director was a hard man with a harsh style. In 1904, the journal Gramophone and Phonograph wrote:

“It is unlikely that Columbia will succeed in Russia. The reason lies in the company’s insistence on cash-only sales, coupled with extremely restrictive terms for dealers.”

The company organized another recording session, this time with some of the biggest stars of the era—I. Ershov, A. Davydov, A. Vyaltseva, and M. Figner—but the technical results were again disappointing. And by then, the artists had already been paid hefty fees.

Kromelin flew into a rage, but to no avail. Soon after, he was recalled from Russia, closing the first, rocky chapter of Columbia’s story in the empire.

Russian Columbia – The Turning Point

With Charles Hopkins now at the helm—an energetic man well-versed in the gramophone trade—many music lovers hoped Columbia would finally reach its full potential and compete head-to-head with the Gramophone Company.

Hopkins wasted no time. Soon, Russian customers were offered a new generation of Graphophones, representing the cutting edge of technology. These machines were completely silent and equipped with powerful springs that allowed a single wind to play up to 15 standard 10-inch records. The price was steep—150 rubles—but demand was enormous. By contrast, Columbia’s records were quite affordable: 75 kopecks for a small disc and 1.5 rubles for a “grand.” At first, all records were single-sided.

Despite the company’s previous setbacks, Hopkins convinced headquarters in New York to organize another recording session. At the end of 1904, new sessions were held in Moscow and St. Petersburg, featuring popular city performers like Max, Bogdanovich, Seversky, and others. But the company’s bad luck in Russia persisted, and the attempt again failed to produce commercial success.

Back in America, management realized a change of strategy was needed. They decided to place their bet on local talent. Their choice fell on Alexander Markovich Trivas, a well-known figure in St. Petersburg’s artistic and business circles. Trivas had begun his musical career at V. I. Rebikov & Co., a company that had once competed with the Americans.

Soon after Trivas assumed his new role, Columbia introduced concert records with double-sided recordings, priced at 2.5 rubles. The innovation was warmly received. As the magazine Light and Sound wrote:

“A single record can now contain a complete musical piece without cuts—a very important feature.”

This was a bold move in the battle with the Gramophone Company, whose single-sided discs were only 50 kopecks cheaper. The market heated up: for the first time, music lovers had real choice.

In July 1906, Columbia launched another major recording session in its St. Petersburg studio. From America came engineer Mr. Johnson, bringing with him a special collection of custom diaphragms designed to match the individual timbres of different voices. He had already achieved remarkable results with this method during sessions in Italy, and the same magic worked in Russia.

Along with these technical upgrades, Columbia also shifted its repertoire strategy. Recognizing that gramophones in Russia were most popular among the middle classes, the company emphasized choral works and folk songs. The political upheaval of 1905 also left its mark: the company released songs with satirical undertones and even coded revolutionary themes disguised within familiar classical melodies, celebrating the idea of freedom.

This time, the vocal sessions were a triumph. Ignoring the established hierarchy of stars and their lofty fees, Trivas selected fresh, beautiful voices. In Columbia’s announcement to customers, the company noted:

“What shines on stage sometimes fades on the record.”

Among those invited to record were future luminaries: opera singer Sklyarova, concert vocalist Taubiy, tenors Bolshakov, Tsvetkov, and Medvedev, baritone Vavich, and bass Shvets. This session marked a turning point, finally breaking the chain of earlier failures.

For Columbia, 1906 was a landmark year in many ways. In August, the company opened a new record factory in London, intended to serve all its European branches, including Russia. With a daily output capacity of 100,000 records, the new plant dramatically reduced order turnaround times compared to the Bridgeport, Connecticut factory across the Atlantic. This new capability became a powerful advantage in Columbia’s battle for the Russian market.

The company quickly expanded its St. Petersburg operations, renting a large warehouse on Aptekarsky Lane. For retail, it leased a prestigious shop on Nevsky Prospect—formerly the “Brothers Eliseev” store—between Bolshaya Morskaya and the Moika. In these newly refurbished and luxurious rooms, customers found every possible convenience: elegant displays of Graphophones in every model and price range, listening booths, and catalog consultations.

At the same time, Columbia pursued new recording contracts and began standardizing its agreements with artists. These contracts were fascinating for their formality. After signing, the performer would read a declaration aloud, which was recorded on a phonograph cylinder as an audio supplement to the signed contract.

Trivas, meanwhile, found a way to immortalize himself in Columbia’s catalog. “Abusing his official position,” as some joked, he recorded his own “Gramophone Waltz” for piano, performed by P. Gross, followed later by an orchestral transcription. One critic quipped:

“I don’t know if it’s easy to dance to, but it’s certainly a pleasure to listen to.”

By this time, Columbia’s global reputation was formidable. The company boasted numerous honors from world expositions: the Grand Prix in Paris (1900), the Double Grand Prix in St. Louis (1904), and another Grand Prix in Milan (1906). Employing around 9,000 workers—a massive number for the era—Columbia operated one of the largest recording enterprises in the world. A network of over 100 offices represented the company’s interests in major cities on every continent.

Among Columbia’s key consultants was none other than Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor of wireless telegraphy. He had full access to the company’s best laboratories, where he worked on innovations such as the “velvet record,” a technology that promised to revolutionize the recording industry.

The launch of the new “velvet record” was preceded by a loud, exuberant advertising campaign. The press gushed with excitement:

“Marconi’s records are indestructible. They remain perfectly playable even after being trampled by horses or run over by automobiles.”

In the company’s Cleveland store, a special machine was set up in the display window, endlessly bending and straightening a record to demonstrate its flexibility and strength. The record wouldn’t shatter when dropped—a marvel at the time! But its greatest asset was the sound: soft, natural, free of harsh noise. That’s how the name Velvet Tone was born.

Marconi also introduced numerous improvements to the Graphophone itself. Its Art Nouveau exterior was elegant and refined, and most models now featured a dust guard to protect the spindle and internal mechanism. Mechanisms were available with one, two, or even three springs, allowing a single wind to play anywhere from two to ten full-sized records. Another innovation was a volume control: by turning a small screw on the diaphragm—even during playback—listeners could tighten or loosen the mica membrane, amplifying or softening the sound to create special effects.

All these innovations fueled enormous interest in the American machines. Even in those years, the phrase “Made in America” inspired awe in the average Russian consumer.

Success in Recordings

Columbia’s successes in recording drew many popular performers of the era into its St. Petersburg studio. In 1906, the famous actor and singer L. M. Sibiryakov began collaborating with the company.

Still, competing with the Gramophone Company, which dominated the Russian market, was no easy task. To attract buyers, the Americans tried everything. They were the first to reissue their most popular recordings on new double-sided discs. Priced at two rubles, these discs offered “two records in one,” as advertisements eagerly pointed out, giving customers extra value for just a modest added cost.

Alongside Russian composers, Columbia also released recordings of leading international artists. Many Russian music lovers first heard the renowned baritone Taurino Parvis thanks to Columbia, which held exclusive rights to record his voice.

The company also brought to Russia many novelties first tested on American audiences. One particularly popular genre was so-called “descriptive music.” These programmatic pieces were simpler and easier for the general public to understand. Titles like The Forge in the Forest, The Storming of Port Arthur, and especially The San Francisco Earthquake, performed by a military band, became instant favorites. The last one made a dramatic impression: even the least musically trained listener could follow the “story” as they heard the galloping of fire engines, shouted commands, desperate cries, and, at the climax, the solemn chords of a funeral march.

To help customers, the company began including short descriptions in catalogs and advertisements. One listing in the “Orchestral Recordings” section read:

“The Last Day of Freedom” – a conscript’s farewell song.

A sad song of a recruit bidding farewell to his family, which has recently grown popular thanks to famous opera singer Alexander Davydov performing it in concert. Due to high demand, we have recorded it for orchestra.

Recording Milestones

By 1908, high-quality recordings had become Columbia’s signature, and audiences expected nothing less. That year, Dobrovolskaya, a coloratura soprano from the Moscow Opera, dazzled listeners with her flawless technique. Even in the most challenging pieces for mechanical recording, her voice came through warm and confident, full of emotional intimacy.

Company veterans like Sibiryakov, Orlov, and Davydov delighted fans with fresh releases. And a new voice made its debut: Veprinsky, a little-known singer from the Russian Opera. His tone was so exquisite that Chaliapin himself, after hearing the recordings, gave it the highest praise.

The studio also welcomed folk performers. One of the first to appear on Columbia records was the “Lapotniki Choir”(known for mixing song and spoken word), led by Nikiforov, with comic hits like Tfu-ty, Nu-ty and Hurdy-Murdy. And then there were the “zhaleishchiki”—the traditional Russian village mournful singers—whose recordings sounded exactly as they would have in a distant countryside hut, echoing “the voice of old Russia.”

Reviews of Columbia records remained as biting as ever—though now the criticism targeted the performers, not the quality of the recordings. One review, for instance, remarked:

“Listening to Don Juan’s Serenade as sung by Mr. Filipov, one can’t help but imagine not a fiery young Spaniard, but an aging bureaucrat—likely with a bit of a belly.”

Commenting on the tempo of another recording, the song The Sun Rises and Sets, the same critic complained it was “far too slow,” adding dryly that:

“Only someone who’s actually served time in prison could sing this song properly.”

As Columbia’s catalog grew more diverse, it seemed the company should have felt more secure in the Russian market. But its fate was already sealed. In St. Petersburg, pirate factories such as Melodifon and Tonofon were openly copying other companies’ records. Yes—piracy and intellectual property theft were alive and well even then! And, of course, Columbia’s most successful recordings were among the first to be pirated.

Desperate to protect itself from such brazen and ruinous competition, the company petitioned the chairman of the State Duma, asking for legislative protection of its rights. But the Russian Empire was still far from being a rule-of-law state, and nothing came of it.

Meanwhile, new competitors were emerging. In Warsaw, Syrena Record opened its own plant, and by 1910, the Metropol Record factory was up and running in Aprelevka. Russian entrepreneurs competed aggressively on price, flooding the market with new records.

The Americans simply couldn’t keep pace with these young sharks of the gramophone world. While Columbia thrived in markets around the globe, in Russia its fortunes visibly faded, and before long, operations collapsed entirely. In 1911, company director Paulik shut down all business in St. Petersburg, marking the end of Columbia’s first Russian chapter.

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© 2006. Alexander Vladimirovich Tikhonov. “A Victim of Musical Piracy. The Operation They Called “Counterfeit.”

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