THE Eurovision Song Contest prides itself on making stars, like the obscure Swedish pop group which became known to the world as Abba. But, whether they realise it or not, the organisers of this year's competition may turn out to be responsible for the mercy killing of an overly long Russian musical career.
Alla Pugacheva, who represented Russia in Dublin on Saturday, has yet to announce her plans, but her fans and critics alike are speculating that the blow of coming 15th may persuade her to retire with dignity after an astonishing career spanning three decades.
Russian television was strangely silent the day after it became clear that Ms Pugacheva, for whom its loyal commentators had predicted almost certain victory, had failed to impress the international jurors. But the viewers, especially the younger ones among them, were less surprised. They have come to regard the veteran singer as a kind of Leonid Brezhnev of the pop world.
Like the rest of Europe, Russia has no shortage of vacuous young musicians it could have sent to represent it in the competition. A group called Na Na (four pretty boys in shiny suits) would have been perfect for the contest. But age before beauty is still the rule in the former Soviet Union. And so Russia, until recently cut off by the Iron Curtain from the joys of Eurovision, sent Alla, its flame haired dinosaur, to sing Prima Donna (or should it be Pre-Madonna?), a song she wrote, evidently about herself.
Ms Pugacheva is in her late 40s. "Tina Turner is even older hut she can get away with it because her voice is not destroyed by smoking and she has great legs," said Sveta, a Moscow teenager, who stayed up late on Saturday night to watch the programme. "But Alla sounded dreadful and she looked like a bag lady in that outfit."
Sveta was referring to the voluminous black costume which the singer chose to hide the folds of her middle aged spread.
It was not always thus. Alla Pugacheva is genuinely talented and has brought pleasure to millions of Russians since she began as a shy young performer in the early 1970s. On Christmas Day 1991, Mikhail Gorbachev's last act as Kremlin leader was to sign a decree awarding her the deserved title of People's Artist of the USSR in recognition of her work.
But her tragedy has been that, like many an overweight and sung out diva before her, she failed to recognise the moment when she should take a graceful bow out. And no one in Russia dared to tell her.
"Alla Pugacheva is my favourite singer," said the ultra nationalist politician, Vladimir Zhirinovsky, another natural showman with a poorly developed sense of the moment when popularity begins to fade.
A few months ago, before the singer applied to take part in the Eurovision Song Contest, I interviewed her at the office complex from which her aides market perfume called "Alla". She was open and friendly (she is not really a dinosaur in the political sense) and told me how she started out working as a piano accompanist for singers.
"They were all so awful, I just knew I could sing better," she said. And for many years, she could.
With hits such as Harlequin and Autumn Kiss, she became the officially accepted face of pop music in the Soviet Union at a time when harder rock musicians were being harassed by the KGB and forced to work underground. "Alla Pugacheva was the sound of my student days," said Valery, a teacher, now 40. "But she peaked in the early 80s."
However, Alla, who drives around Moscow in a white stretch limousine, has fought tooth and claw to remain not only in the limelight but also in an influential music establishment position from which she can determine which young Russian pop singers receive attention and promotion. A whole troupe of Pugacheva clones attempt to sing in her style.
She has made a lengthy television documentary about her life, completely lacking in self criticism. "I am a poor Russian girl. I can't even afford a fur coat, ha ha ha," was a memorable line. And she further tried to revive her flagging career when, in a move worthy of soap opera, she married a man nearly half her age, the crooner Philip Kirkorov, who shows his hairy chest through diaphanous shirts and sings from the repertoire of Tom Jones.
Kirkorov represented Russia at the Eurovision Song Contest last year but did not do well, evidently prompting Russian music managers to believe that success would be guaranteed if the bigger gun, Alla herself, was deployed.
Quite shamelessly, Kirkorov did the commentary on his wife's performance for Russian television on Saturday night.
But the lesson for Russia would seem to be that the whole recipe needs changing. If Eurovision has presided over the death rather than the birth of a star, it could be healthy for Russian pop culture. As for the singer, she has started a business selling fashion boots. It may be a timely new departure.