i’ve recently returned from four days in Estonia, where i spent my time exploring the music of two figures, both of whom fall outside the strict definition of “Estonian Composer”.
In the case of Veljo Tormis, it’s the second of those words that’s problematic. That might seem strange; look up his name anywhere and you’ll find him described as a composer. But Tormis himself saw things differently. A pivotal moment in his life came in 1969, when Estonia’s pre-eminent poet, Jaan Kaplinski, published a short essay, ‘Heritage and Heirs’, written as a plea to the Estonian people to remember and reclaim their folksong tradition. He was referring specifically to regilaul, Estonia’s distinct form of traditional verse song, which Kaplinski lamented as differing “so greatly from the music we are accustomed to that by accommodating its melody to European harmony, by performing it in the style of the European school of voice production, nothing remains of it.” Tormis hardly needed much encouragement; folk music had been integral to his outlook from the very beginning. His earliest compositions date from 1948 (when Tormis turned 18), and are all vocal in nature or for folk instrument groups. Almost all of his subsequent instrumental output (which is very small) is either based on arrangements of folk music or one of his own vocal works.
So it seems that when Tormis read Kaplinski’s words, they ignited in him a conflagration of zeal that would become his absolute focus for the remainder of his life (he died in 2017). For him, regilaul was now his purpose: to understand and promulgate it as much as possible. This involved a fundamental shift in self-identity. Thinking of himself as a composer was no longer relevant or appropriate. In his seminal essay Folk Song and Us, published in 1972, he made this clear:
… it’s said that a creation must speak for its creator. My situation is slightly different right now because, given my deepening interest in regilaul, I am more a mediator than a creator … focused less upon my so-called original creations.
For Tormis, the collective was of infinitely greater importance than the individual – hardly surprising, perhaps, being from a nation that had been subjugated so relentlessly in the past, and was at that time forcibly occupied by the Soviet regime. In regilaul, Tormis found what he believed to be the seed of something ancient and vital to Estonian identity, describing it as “our people’s oldest, unique, their most highly evolved and complete creation throughout the centuries, an expression of the people’s creative genius.” He also seemed to regard it as an antidote to – or, perhaps, a hiding place from – his somewhat apocalyptic perceptions of modernity and progress, embodying “the people’s cultural dignity, their internal equilibrium, identification with nature, their sense of generational continuity, and a great deal else which is about to disintegrate due to multifaceted global phenomena.” Yet aside from such irrational fears as these, Tormis’ emphasis remained on national identity, echoing Kaplinski’s assertions:
To a certain extent we have learned and accepted as ours the so-called European culture. … it would be downright strange for us, at the same time, not to be adequately familiar with our own old culture.
As a consequence, Tormis’ output walks a complex line between authenticity and appropriation. On the one hand, his aim was always to make regilaul the focal point, to act as a protector and transparent mediator, regarding it not as material to be used or in any way exploited. Indeed, he actively denounced the practice (including, presumably, some of his own earlier works) of using folk song as material to be utilised and developed in original compositions. For him it was to be honoured as original material to be heard unaltered or distorted; to speak, literally, for itself. Of course, in his seeking to make regilaul the centre of a large number of extensive vocal works, and even describing himself as a ‘mediator’, Tormis was unavoidably getting involved in the way the songs are interpreted, preserved and presented. So he’s a lens through which it’s viewed.
My primary reason for being in Estonia on this occasion was to attend Tormis 95, a two-day festival commemorating the 95th anniversary of his birth. This consisted of two concerts (both performed on each day), which taken together provided significant food for thought, above all due to the way they came across very differently in light of Tormis’ clearly stated views and intentions.
The opening concert was given by the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir, who performed first in the open air in Kõrveaia, the gorgeous rural spot where Tormis was born and lived, around 30 miles east of Tallinn, and in a large converted barn on the charmingly rugged island of Naissaar the following evening. We were treated to an hour-long selection from Tormis’ Naistelaulud [women’s songs] and Meestelaulud [men’s songs], arranged to form a narrative flow that was by turns reflective and amusing, passing through sections such as Childhood, Leaving the Parental Home, Womanhood and Times of Worry.
In practice, it was a rather hypnotic progression through a series of shifting, cycling refrains. Each one was distinct, almost unique, yet at the same time clearly part of the same mode of expression that, over time, felt more and more appropriate. Musically speaking, it could hardly have been more simple, little more than basic melodic phrases and cells. Yet Jaan Kaplinski, back in 1969, had emphasised the secondary status of melody in regilaul: “it seems doubtful whether the tune, melody in the usual sense, has any significance at all”. This sentiment was shared by Tormis, who spoke of regilaul in terms of “its rhythms and the monotony of its melody. […] It may be revealed that, concealed in the monotony of the melodic rhythm, is artistic uniqueness and worth. It may be revealed that the verbal rhythms are very variable and not at all monotonous.”
As such, the words sprang out beyond and in spite of their musical limitations, given a wide variety of dramatic weight, reinforced from time to time by mischievous, playful, boisterous and poignant physical expression. It was, in short, an extended dialogue between women and men, portraying the vicissitudes of life and relationships. Tormis’ own limited role was clear, attempting to present these songs as straightforwardly as possible, giving them the most careful forms of embellishment and accompaniment, largely restricted to gentle harmonic reinforcement. The performance made an extremely strong impact, all the more so as one was overwhelmingly aware of the importance this music has for performers and audience alike.
In addition to the concert, the occasion featured an awards ceremony for the Tormis 95 Singing Contest, in which choirs around the world had submitted videos of their performances of Tormis’ work. Though we only saw short clips, the range of approaches in these responses was surprising and deeply impressive. First prize was taken by Junger Kammerchor Basel, whose performance of Curse Upon Iron (perhaps Tormis’ most famous work) is astonishingly visceral.
A complete contrast came in the evening, in the second concert given primarily by the Tallinn Chamber Orchestra conducted by Valter Soosalu. Here, everything that Tormis seemed to have cared about and strived for was essentially jettisoned, in an evening of artificially sweetened, heavily stylised arrangements of his music. This immediately seemed confusing and counterproductive; hadn’t Tormis done the work already? What more was needed?
As it turned out, quite a lot. Arrangement after arrangement played out – by Soosalu, Bianca Rantala and Tõnu Kõrvits – all of them evidently seeking to sidestep and ignore any notions of authenticity in favour of a more directly crowd-pleasing syrup of purest saccharine. Suddenly, the “monotony” that Tormis had made transparent was utterly opaque; and the simplicity that Tormis had made a strength was a fatal weakness. Movements from his cycle Reminiscentia were rendered like a ghastly form of British Light Music; the Three Flowers and Two Songs on Poems by Ernst Enno came across as bland, basic and frustratingly narrow, while his Two Estonian Runo Songs, performed by Duo Ruut, became an exercise in the most boring tedium. That was bad enough, but as the evening reached its nadir, Kõrvits’ arrangements (as anyone might have expected) leaned the music hard into nauseating levels of cheese and sugar, made more egregious by the overblown, musical-style gestures and melodrama brought to the performance. It was shocking to witness such a complete contrast – such a complete rejection – of what i had experienced in the afternoon. It was literally revolting.
So it seems Tormis’ legacy – in the hands of some people, at least – has been transformed into something very different from what he envisaged. His life’s mission of, at most, mediated authenticity, has been turned into a consumer product. Aestheticized, fetishized and commodified into a kind of vague signifier of “national identity”, becoming a mere brand symbol for Estonia™. The audience’s overwhelmingly positive response to this horrifying display only underlines just how much priorities have fundamentally shifted (if, that is, they were ever fully in sympathy with Tormis’ aims), away from cultural authenticity in favour of opportunistic appropriation and base sentimentality. If that’s the basis for “national identity”, it’s on pretty flimsy foundations. As such, the honour and reverence ostensibly shown toward Tormis in this concert felt entirely superficial. i had expected the Tormis 95 festival to be highly illuminating, and in ways i definitely didn’t expect, that could hardly be more true.
In the case of Olev Muska, he falls outside the strict definition of “Estonian Composer” simply due to being Australian, born to a family of expat Estonian refugees. For decades, his work has been a kind of antithesis and antidote to that of Tormis, responding to various forms of folk music – from around the world, not just Estonia – and, with his own form of (ir)reverence, treating them to a restless, energetic form of folktronic makeover. He and Tormis were long-time acquaintances, and part of the Tormis 95 event included the release of a new book by Muska marking their relationship, intended to “throw light on his special little Australian connection”.
The timing was apposite, as Muska has recently released his latest album, New Estonian Waltzes. While this wasn’t presented at Tormis 95 (i’ll be writing about this album separately, in due course), it made its presence felt, alongside earlier examples of his work, in a performance Muska gave as part of his current tour, in an all-night concert in Tallinn’s HALL nightclub.
In some ways the reaction of everyone in the club seemed to mirror my own first contact with Muska’s music. That had consisted of a rapid progression from something akin to “WTF?”, to becoming increasingly immersed in its irresistible rhythms and melodic patterns, until eventually i was literally laughing out loud and wanting to leap randomly around. In HALL, some people semi-danced in a half-hearted, “where the hell is the downbeat?” kind of way, but for the most part we all simply bathed in the music’s panoply of colours and juddered involuntarily to its rippling rhythms. Where Tormis strove to be hands-off, Muska could hardly be more all over the source material, embellishing it, ramping it up, festooning it with intricate beat patterns, leaping and squelching basslines, multiple strata of jostling pulse configurations, and exultant melodic refrains.
Yet despite his very different approach to “authenticity” from that of Tormis, Muska’s respect is just as unquestionable. The source material is always there, front and centre, fragmented, refracted, pumped up and electrified – often like being caught in the midst of an antique video game – but in a fibrillating soundworld that exists solely to celebrate what it is. It emanates from the same creative outlook, rooted in affection for the qualities and significance of the original. Standing on the darkened dancefloor of HALL surrounded by pulsating beats and retro synth sounds, i was suddenly struck by the kinship of Muska’s and Tormis’ music. Opposite ends of the spectrum, perhaps, but not so far apart.
