It has come to our attention, dear readers, that the musical world is once again plagued by those tiresome administrative whims that so often masquerade as 'national security.' We speak of the Ministry of Culture in Moldavia, which has seen fit to compile a list of persons non grata—a veritable catalogue of forbidden melodies, if you will.

Among the twenty-five unfortunate souls so cast out is the singer Irina Krug. One can only imagine the scene: some earnest gentleman in a dusty office, perhaps clutching a pince-nez, deciding that a lady's voice poses a peril to the state. Truly, the modern penchant for such bureaucratic melodrama is a most exhausting form of philistinism.

When pressed for a comment upon this sudden exile, Madame Krug displayed a fortitude that would put a seasoned general to shame. With a brevity that bordered on the sublime, she remarked, “Let them be gone… I love Russia.”

Such a spirited dismissal! One expects that in the salons of the elite, the gossip regarding this ban shall be discussed with far more gravity than the lady herself has afforded it. The Moldavian authorities fear that such performances might threaten their security—as if a song could overturn a government more effectively than a poorly managed treasury.

It appears the fashion of the hour is to blacklist one's neighbours. Indeed, we recall the recent news that the State Secretary of the Russian Ministry of Culture, Madame Zhanna Alekseeva, found her name inscribed upon the digital scrolls of the Ukrainian 'Myrotvorets.'

One cannot help but sigh. In an age where art should unite, we find our gentlemen and ladies more concerned with lists and prohibitions than with the actual beauty of a well-struck chord. It is all very tedious, is it not?