“The work Sun-flower is based on the poem Ah! Sun-flower by the 18th–19th century English poet William Blake. While the title could be translated into Estonian as ‘Päevalill’, a more precise translation based on Blake’s poem would be ‘Päikese lill’ (Flower of the Sun). The work is dedicated to Mikk Üleoja and the Estonian National Male Choir.”

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire,
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

*

Jonas Tarm: “Birds of Ukraine is based on the traditional Ukrainian folk song “Ви галочки, ви чорнопірочки” (“Vy halochky, vy chornopirochky” / “You jackdaws, you black-feathered ones”), a recruit song that dates back to the 18th–19th centuries when young men were conscripted into military service and separated from their families and homeland. In this song, the birds become imagined messengers, embodying the soldiers’ longing to return home while facing the duty to protect their homeland.

“Ви галочки, ви чорнопірочки” was first recorded and documented by Iryna Danyleiko.

Birds of Ukraine preserves the recognizable folk melody while placing it in a new context: the men’s voices move through different sonic textures, expressing their longing for home and loved ones.

Birds of Ukraine is dedicated to Ukrainian Defenders: to those who protect Ukraine’s people, land, and culture in every way.”

From cossack recruit song 
Ви галочки, ви чорнопірочки (“Vy halochky, vy chornopirochky”)
“You jackdaws, you black-feathered ones”

Bobrovytsia, Chernihiv region
Original version recorded by Iryna Danyleiko
Translated by Zoya Shepko

You jackdaws, you black-feathered ones,
Rise up, oh into the mountains,
Oh, you, our brave young recruits,
Come back home,
Oh, you, our brave young recruits,
Come back home.

Oh, we would gladly climb the mountain,
But the fog is pressing down.
Oh, we would gladly return home,
But the commander will not let us.

Oh, just like a warrior, oh just like warriors,
The warrior’s mother…
Come back home.
Oh, just like a warrior, oh just like warriors,
The warrior’s mother,
She’d like to go with us brave young men,
And fight in the army,
She’d like to go with us brave young men,
And fight in the army.

Come back home,
Oh, we would gladly come back home.

*

Ülo Krigul: “…I recall that early on in David Lynch’s Lost Highway, one of the protagonists says something to the effect of: “I don’t like recordings because I want to remember things the way they actually were.”

…I’ve heard somewhere that neurologists claim that when we recall something, our brain mechanics don’t lead us back to the original event where the memory was formed, but rather to the moment when we last recalled it.

…if I remember correctly, at least. These claims above could be easily verified. But what would that really change? How much of a difference is there between a memory and an image of the imagination? Is it even possible to remember wrongly?

By all accounts, thinking is a byproduct of the brain’s primary activity. If my memory does not deceive me. Deception, after all, is a willful act. Why would my memory want to deceive me? There must be a good reason for it to need to suitably (re?)shape my perceptions of reality. In English, there is a perhaps linguistically more precise idiom: if my memory serves me well. This expresses the assumption that memory serves me in the best possible way. One should trust that we remember exactly as much and in such a way as is useful at the moment. Perhaps forgetting is simply a form of remembering; a cleansing agent that helps to set the focus in our present perception.

A recording is one form of memory. An “objective” memory, so to speak. A document, a preservation. An agreement that this is how it was. At the same time, a recording inherently seems to want to negate the dynamic nature of memory by remaining objectively the same forever—infinitely repeatable. But does it remain so? Is a recording—this so-called objective memory—not just a picture that, upon unfolding every time, creates our perception anew, modulating it according to our needs and possibilities?

The vividness of memory pushes aside the fixed framing of a recording. Yet, they share one important commonality—the prerequisite for both is that something has happened. A memory can only appear when we pause for a moment and look back briefly. With that pause, we have already stopped time and formulated some finished form.

I recall that Jan Kaus has written somewhere about places in the urban space that no longer exist in physical reality, but which are somehow even more real in the imagination exactly as we originally knew and remembered them. For example, I am sitting here in the Philharmonia hall on these new blue chairs. However, the chairs in this hall are actually still those brown ones for me, some of which have now made their way to Kanuti Gildi SAAL. And another part to the former Tallinn Music High School hall in Kivimäe. Similarly, with my eyes closed, I can perceive the backstage areas of this hall exactly as they were 40 years ago. But specifically with my eyes closed. Walking through there with my eyes open still triggers a certain perceptual shift—the backstage isn’t actually filled with blue smoke, buttoned leather sofas, a creaking staircase, and a red needlefelt carpet on the floor.

Song has been considered one of the most ancient data carriers. Both the creation stories of the time and practical tips for dealing with life are recorded in them. A significant part of my personal music history is recorded in the songs of RAM (the Estonian National Male Choir). In a sense, I am a son of the RAM men; my father was a lifelong singer in RAM. I was born between those lines. I hung around my father’s rehearsals and sometimes on concert tours. Uncle Klau, Tupsu, Uibotomm, Uncle Rästas, Arengukunn, and other types who were clearly larger-than-life back then and have now become mythological, were all around me. I found my voice together with them. Once, I remember, even Ernesaks visited a rehearsal. I think.

Due to a slightly absurd linguistic coincidence, the abbreviation ‘RAM’ (random access memory) denotes operative memory in information technology—a type of data storage with fast accessibility that dissipates quickly when power is lost. When translated to the human organism, this could perhaps be compared, with certain reservations, to short-term memory. These are not the image banks stored on our so-called hard drive, but rather, for example, names or titles that don’t come to mind at the necessary moment because the “current” has started to fluctuate. What kind of impulses are sent up from the basement of permanent memory to the desktop of short-term memory depends, in turn, on the surrounding perceived environment.

As an even more absurd linguistic parallel, one can point to the file extension .ram, which stands for ‘Real Audio Metadata’. A file type that was once used as a kind of roadmap to help a music playback program find and launch the required audio file.

For tonight’s musical “memory game,” I have taken those same male choir songs that I have remembered. Audio files from my biological hard drive. Or rather, just fragments of them. Memory is “malleable”—only individual chords and fragments of motifs remain of the songs, floating around on waves of perception. On one hand, it is extremely personal material, yet the repertoire is well-known and likely triggers the memory cards of other listeners as well.

The musical material is divided for performance between a “live” male choir and recordings of the same choir from decades ago. To play back the latter, EEMA (the Estonian Electronic Music Ensemble) uses various era-specific audio carriers, from vinyl to silicon. Song and tape meet.

One more circumstance that I find interesting. Actually, this is an old story for me, from 2008 or so. It was also performed at the Estonian Music Days (EMP) back then. At that time, it was accompanied by video and was significantly longer. Now, in putting together this new version, I proceeded from the claim that when we remember something, we move not to the original experience, but to where we last recalled that original experience. Thus, the version performed now became a recollection of the previous performance. Which, in turn, was a recollection of the original experiences of the time.

I dedicate this recollection to my father, an old RAM man.

PS. I don’t remember ever writing such a long annotation for one of my works. But perhaps I have…”

*

Taavi Kerikmäe: “For the members of the Estonian Electronic Music Society Ensemble, Tormis’s music holds a very significant place. EMA does not seek to make arrangements of Tormis’s music—rather, we attempt to write over it, with deference and respect. It is a kind of electronic palimpsest.

For this concert with the Estonian National Male Choir, EMA has chosen analog technological musical instruments. In EMA’s view, analog synthesizers—with their slightly coarse yet honestly and directly expressed soundscapes—blend well with the traditional heritage that served as the raw material for Tormis and his music.

EMA seeks to provide its own electronic contribution to these powerful choral songs by Tormis.