They sing about horses through the windy steppe
Many years ago vocals would be the least of my concern. If a singer did a Captain Beefheart, had a two dark or too falsetto voice wouldn't bother me. The instumentation was everything and learning to sing well was not on my agenda. But then I came across the singing known as Xhoomei, or Throat singing as we know it by. Three randomly downloaded mp3's from the likes of Huun-Huur-Tu was the start of a journey that is far from done (if it ever will).
The spiritual homeland of Xhoomei is Tyva. A place that requires a visit to make a learning of Xhoomei complete. Walking the steppes, watching the horses, listening to local favourites. Whenever I put on a record of the older type (like Shu-de or Melodii Tuvi) I transfer myself to a sunny steppe, often those found in the background of photos of Xhoomei singers on the net. My fascination knows few limits, I must admit, but I surely don't know why it clicked the first time I heard throat singing. Most people mock the sound, run in fear or just wonder what it is. I never asked anything. All I am wondering is if my fascination comes from my Finnish roots. Maybe my grandmother's ancestors come from Tyva? Who knows.
Hopefully the trans-siberian railroad goes past Tyva. I'll make an emergency stop, jump off the train and walk with my sandals, the steppe and my home-made instrument resembling a Doshpuluur. The idea of walking all the way to Kyzyl, the capitol of Tyva, was probably one of the lesser smart ideas. My thirst comes kreeping and some birds are silently circulating above my head. Falling on the bare ground convinced that all is lost the last thing I see is the blurry image of a horse with someone on it. I pass out.
The voices outside wakes me up. Is it a yurt or a hut? I can't tell because of my exhaustion. Laughters comes now and breaks up the lively chatter. Maybe it is a form of afterlife, maybe it is the unbelievable: I was saved by a Tuvan who happend to pass by my whereabouts. Someone comes in and speaks to me in a questioning tone. A language more in common with the turkic branch of languages makes little sense to me. The voice lends me some water.
I guess that all I can do at the moment is to thank Huun-Huur-Tu, Sainkho Namtchylak, Yat-kha, and all the other xhoomei masters out there. As long as we mimic nature we understand it more than if we try to tame it. It is too strong of a horse for us to try and put in a stable. Nature have eighteen and a hundred hoves that will stamp the stable down. Not even a fence can keep the roads safe. But it allows us to live on it's back for a while if we promise to be nice.
In the most central of the east, xhoomei is at it's best and in nature it is experienced at it's best. On my next album there will be some beginner xhoomei preformed by me, I hope. At the moment the time I practice it is little to none because I do not want the rest of my family to find out. Most of them mock it. But I've never been this determined to learn something that takes long time to master. See you at the steppe!
The spiritual homeland of Xhoomei is Tyva. A place that requires a visit to make a learning of Xhoomei complete. Walking the steppes, watching the horses, listening to local favourites. Whenever I put on a record of the older type (like Shu-de or Melodii Tuvi) I transfer myself to a sunny steppe, often those found in the background of photos of Xhoomei singers on the net. My fascination knows few limits, I must admit, but I surely don't know why it clicked the first time I heard throat singing. Most people mock the sound, run in fear or just wonder what it is. I never asked anything. All I am wondering is if my fascination comes from my Finnish roots. Maybe my grandmother's ancestors come from Tyva? Who knows.
Hopefully the trans-siberian railroad goes past Tyva. I'll make an emergency stop, jump off the train and walk with my sandals, the steppe and my home-made instrument resembling a Doshpuluur. The idea of walking all the way to Kyzyl, the capitol of Tyva, was probably one of the lesser smart ideas. My thirst comes kreeping and some birds are silently circulating above my head. Falling on the bare ground convinced that all is lost the last thing I see is the blurry image of a horse with someone on it. I pass out.
The voices outside wakes me up. Is it a yurt or a hut? I can't tell because of my exhaustion. Laughters comes now and breaks up the lively chatter. Maybe it is a form of afterlife, maybe it is the unbelievable: I was saved by a Tuvan who happend to pass by my whereabouts. Someone comes in and speaks to me in a questioning tone. A language more in common with the turkic branch of languages makes little sense to me. The voice lends me some water.
I guess that all I can do at the moment is to thank Huun-Huur-Tu, Sainkho Namtchylak, Yat-kha, and all the other xhoomei masters out there. As long as we mimic nature we understand it more than if we try to tame it. It is too strong of a horse for us to try and put in a stable. Nature have eighteen and a hundred hoves that will stamp the stable down. Not even a fence can keep the roads safe. But it allows us to live on it's back for a while if we promise to be nice.
In the most central of the east, xhoomei is at it's best and in nature it is experienced at it's best. On my next album there will be some beginner xhoomei preformed by me, I hope. At the moment the time I practice it is little to none because I do not want the rest of my family to find out. Most of them mock it. But I've never been this determined to learn something that takes long time to master. See you at the steppe!