Two Rare, Lovely Releases of Kyrgyzstan Music

One of the
strongest images in my mind these last few months–besides the shots of
the planes slashing into the World Trade Center over and over like so many snuff
films–is a photo I saw of an Afghan refugee heading to the Pakistani border
to escape American bombs. He was an old man, skinny and wrinkled and dusty,
leading a few bony animals over a mountain pass. The history of Afghanistan
might have been written on his wrinkled face, but I saw it only as he was being
driven out.

The producer
of these two albums of music from Kyrgyzstan, a small former Soviet satellite
to the northeast of Afghanistan, wisely remarks in his notes that we in the
West seem to take notice of Third World nations only when something terrible
happens there. He might have further noted that the only time we pay attention
to their cultures is when they’re disappearing–as with the Tuvans
in Mongolia, or the Afghans forbidden by the Taliban to play music.

These two CDs
of field and studio recordings, made in 1999 and 2000 by Mark A. Humphrey, are
some of the only albums of music from Kyrgyzstan available and they’re
total gems. Humphrey is an amateur world-music scholar in Santa Monica who stumbled
onto Kyrgyz music by accident but did a first-class, Lomax-worthy job on these
releases. Kyrgyzstan is the "Switzerland of Central Asia," whose mountains
and plains turn up repeatedly here as objects of tearful adoration. The musical
tradition reflects the country’s geographical position–it’s somewhere
between Mongolia and the Persian desert, between Asia and the Middle East, proudly
isolated in the mountains. It’s earthy and humble like all mountain music
from Kentucky to the Andes, but with a whiff of the nomadic Arab spirit. Most
of the music here is solo vocals with accompaniment on the komuz, a plucky mandolin-like
instrument. The singing is simple and natural, unlike the throat gymnastics
of Mongol music. It’s slow, nostalgic and elegiac.

Salamat Sadikova
is a beautiful woman in her 40s who’s absorbed the country’s song
tradition, overcoming social prejudice, which seems to have made her patriotism
stronger. She’s the Kyrgyz Leadbelly. Her songs have titles like "I
Miss You, My Birthplace," "Kyrgyz Land," "My Village in
the Mountain" and "My Magnificent Batken," a song for her hometown.
Mostly she accompanies herself on the komuz, but on one disturbing track on
Shüüdüngüt’s Road (the title is taken from a
long ballad praising Attila the Hun), we’re given the "pop" version
of her song "An Evening in the Village." That means an ugly intrusion
of synthesizers, like a Wal-Mart popping up in the isolated mountains. Fortunately,
on the next track we get the song with just Sadikova’s lullaby voice and
lilting komuz. It’s divine. The performers on the compilation are less
professional than Sadikova, but more fun. One track is a fast run through Mozart’s
Turkish March, performed on the komuz by Baktybek Shatenov and followed by guffaws
from his buddies. I hope I never see them running for cover across some dusty
border.

These two albums
are available from www.kyrgyzmusic.com.