Revolutionary Rhythms The Unorthodox Symphony of St Petersburg

Ah, another day in St. Petersburg, only this time amidst the symphony of the Russian Revolution—quite literal, I might add. It seems in this timeline, the world has taken a daring plunge into the realm of musical tuning that could only be described as delightfully dissonant and, if I'm pressed to tell truth, downright precarious.

Here, the common folk and revolutionaries alike march to the beat of Pythagorean Tuning, a delightful relic that usually remains confined to the domain of music theorists and well-intentioned historians in my home timeline. The major difference evident here isn’t the fervor of revolution that sweeps the streets, but rather the curious discordant melodies that echo down the alleys, clattering as loud as the clatter of Bolshevik ideals. The intervals are slightly sharper, and singers and balalaika players alike continually chase that elusive perfect harmony, which bless their souls, is as out of reach as a balanced diet in wartime.

The city, it turns out, practices collective tuning sessions as a form of communal bonding—think kindling the revolutionary spirit with a solid Dorian "Bonfire of the Vanities." You see, they've adopted it as a metaphor for societal change: where the harmonies clash but eventually resolve into an uneasy unity. Naturally, this precarious dance with tuning affects not only music halls but also the way arguments are settled in the Workers' councils. Disagreements over ideal harmonic temperaments build robust debates, resulting in whimsical compromises such as granting factory workers more mandolin breaks to, quote, "return to pitch."

Strangely enough, this tonal shift seems to puncture through more than just the societal soundscape. There is a philosophical bend to everyday life, leaving one amused at how citizens liken the rules of Pythagorean Tuning to decision-making processes. "We might not hit the note of equality sharply, but heavens, we'll reverberate close enough," proclaims a reformist factory worker with a raspy laugh, gesturing towards an out-of-tune piano, its strings whiskered with rust like a beleaguered cat.

I suspect that the shift in tuning might have made Prokofiev’s fidelity to key signature somewhat extravagant, yet the quantum oddity of it all retains his genius, albeit with a sharper flavor. It's perplexing yet resplendent, like curry in the blini.

Moreover, a significant number of engineers have transitioned from traditional industries to the delicate, precarious work of instrument tuning, finding it paradoxically more stable amidst revolution. The government-sponsored tuning guilds, after all, offer better bread rations than those won through engineering munitions. A novel form of utopian society indeed.

And as I drift through this fascinating cacophony, I am struck by a profound lesson: the human spirit rallies resiliently against even the most bizarre of tonal adversities. After all, why court danger in war when one can wage harmonious conflict with pitch and interval?

With each step, the journey continues. They have a peculiar version of violins here—I may as well pick one up for myself, as a souvenir for the road... if only I can stomach the perennially resonant uncertainty.