If you want to go to a concert in Kharkiv these days, you have to know who to ask.
In Ukraine's second city, just 40 kilometres from the Russian border, mass gatherings have been banned since the start of Russia's full-scale invasion.
Most cultural events that do take place are not advertised to make sure they do not get shelled.
But after two years of near-silence, the Kharkiv National Opera and Ballet is about to burst back into sound - underground.
"We want to bring life back to Kharkiv, including cultural life," the theatre's general director, Ihor Touluzov, explains. "Demand for any kind of cultural event here is really high."
The bunker theatre is being prepared beneath the main auditorium, down several flights of stairs.
It has no dress circle, chandeliers or champagne - and a lot of grey concrete. But follow the sound of music and it leads to a raised stage with spotlights and rows of seats.
Most importantly, there's a company of singers, dancers and musicians desperate to perform before a proper audience again.
"We really miss our big hall, the feeling of being on a big stage with lots of people watching," violinist Natalia Babarok explains.
The artists have only been able to use the main stage upstairs a handful of times since February 2022, because it is not safe.
The giant fire curtain is firmly down with scattered props and bits of scenery abandoned on stage behind it: a throne, a bicycle and racks of bright-coloured costumes.
In the first weeks after the full-scale invasion, when Russian troops were closest and the shelling most intense, a missile landed near to the theatre.
Chunks of stone were torn from the side of the building and windows blown out. The roof caught fire several times, but staff managed to extinguish the flames before they took hold.
The risk to life remains even now, long after the Russian troops were forced back from the city limits.
"A rocket can hit here from Belgorod in Russia in 45 seconds. It's really not safe to have a lot of people in one place," the director explains.
Just over a month ago, a barrage of Russian missiles hit residential areas of the city, killing 11 people.
Seven more civilians died in early February when an oil depot was struck in a drone attack and fire tore down their street. Three of those killed were young children.
When the main theatre closed in February 2022, Volodymyr Kozlov did not stop singing.
Thousands of Kharkiv residents were living on the metro then, staying underground away from the explosions.
So Volodymyr and a group of fellow artists would tour the stations, performing three concerts a day, a mixture of classical music and popular tunes.
When he was not singing, Volodymyr was helping to evacuate residents from the areas under heaviest fire or delivering food and other supplies.
"It was impossible to stop, because if you did then the thoughts [of danger] would enter your head, and you couldn't let them," the baritone explains.
We met during a recent rehearsal for the company's first big production in the basement theatre.
Volodymyr is performing alongside his wife, Yulia Forsyuk, a soprano soloist who plays the lead role in the Ukrainian opera, Natalka Poltavka.
The couple moved to Slovakia briefly at the start of the war, when the whole company was invited there to continue working in exile.
But Volodymyr and Yulia couldn't settle abroad.
Back home, the singing couple began travelling to play for Ukrainian troops on the frontline.
Volodymyr remembers one of their first trips: "When we arrived in Shchastye we were told: 'Give your concert, but by six o'clock you can't be here.' Then at five to six, the mortars began coming in."
He acts out the story as he speaks, arms waving energetically.
"We heard the whistle, jumped into our bus and sped off along the battered road at 140 kilometres an hour!"
Yulia remembers the trips as rewarding as well as nerve-wracking. She had not known in advance where exactly they were going. "When we got there, they were shooting just a kilometre and a half away!"
Their repertoire was mostly pop and variety numbers with some folk music: "Something fun," as the soprano describes it.
"We were able to lift the troops' mood a bit, the soldiers even danced a little with us and they cried during some sad songs."
Now the pair are rehearsing to perform for Kharkiv residents again, safely beneath the city streets.
But it's not just the surroundings and acoustics that are different.
More than half of the company are still in Slovakia; one man was killed fighting on the frontline and several more have been mobilised; others are scattered as refugees.
For those who have stayed in Kharkiv, everything is being adjusted to their reduced new reality.
"Our director adapts the score to feel like everyone's still there," Natalia Babarok describes the changes for the orchestra.
"My husband plays the trombone, but he's told to play the bassoon and the horn parts too. As a violinist, I might also play the part of the flute. You have to play for yourself, and for someone else."
The company are already putting on secret concerts, advertised only by word of mouth and for small audiences.
They are waiting for final clearance from the Kharkiv military administration to begin staging larger-scale productions. There has been an increase in Russian missile attacks lately, which might explain the continuing caution of the authorities.
When the theatre does finally throw open its underground doors to a wider public, they will notice another change.
"We refuse to play Russian works now," general director Ihor Touluzov says. "It's a difficult issue but during the war, it's the right decision."
Even the greatest Russian composers - Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov - have all been eliminated from the theatre repertoire, about 40% of what the company used to perform.
"Every action, every event connected with the Russians is perceived with pain," the director explains. "Right now, I realise there can be no compromise."
The director has great faith in the power of culture: he hopes reopening the theatre, even a subterranean stage, will help entice people home. He wants to show that life - like the show - goes on.
"We love our city and we want our citizens to come back from other cities and abroad."
The artists are impatient for that moment.
"Of course, when serious shelling starts again, the good mood goes," Yulia says. "But our work is what saves us. And [it saves] our audience, who are so happy that we can at least show them something."
Her husband agrees.
"Everything was grey before, and there was no future," Volodymyr says. "Now a rainbow has appeared on the horizon."
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