- One joy of paying attention to music in an unfamiliar language is that you may place any interpretation you want on the lyrics.
The opening song on this lp, as an instance, is an epic, pan-worldwide miasma that evokes limitless pics – the strings and organs offer a dense drone that comes instantly out of a Hindustani classical raga.
The full-throated vocal harmonies sound just like the work of a diaphonic Bulgarian choir; the heartbreaking chords bear in mind Yiddish liturgical music. You may be forgiven for imagining that that is some sacred non-secular textual content set to music but, consistent with the interpretation in the cd publication.
It’s absolutely the tale of feckless dad and mom getting under the influence of alcohol on Johnnie walker and locating that their children had been thrown inside the river and eaten with the aid of fish.
It’s considered one of eleven traditional Romany songs on this album; often ancient ballads collected through the musicologist Jana belišová at the same time as touring many of the Roma of Slovakia.
The lyrics tend to be grim memories of beginning and demise, suffering and yearning, exile and persecution. However, the super musical settings increase them into something transcendent and mystical.
Angrusori is a pan-European mission led by Norway’s kitchen orchestra, an improvising ensemble that’s collaborated with a number of the world’s prominent avant-garde musicians through the years. Right here, their featured celebrity is the awesome iva bittová, a Czech violinist, singer, actor, and composer of Hungarian gypsy ancestry, who brings together with her some of imperative Europe’s best Roma musicians.
The gypsy story is considered one of migration – from Gujarat to Andalucia – and the song right here visits many stations alongside that journey. There are giddy tangos, mournful flamenco ballads, and the kind of ecstatic, wordless vocals you partner with qawwali Sufi tune.
There are also ambient recreations of birdsong (oda kale čirikloro), a terrifying sci-fi drone that morphs undeviatingly into a klezmer waltz (nadur le render o centuries), and an ululating a cappella vocal that mutates into a bit of tom waits-style junkyard jazz (rodav me miro dorm). The joyous, upbeat finale job, so Kerala comes as a surprise: black comedy inside the face of misery. “Winter is coming; what will show up to me?” howls the narrator. “my girlfriend doesn’t need me. Neither does my stunning wife.”