We walked in, my nervous date and I, to the venue of the Tuvan throat singers' concert after a warm beverage. Ominously it said "free
seating" and and also "sold out" on the poster outside. Sure enough the room was packed and we barely found two seats in a corner.
The ensemble of four walked in, took its bow, and sat in chairs replendent in silk dels, clearly adorned with Mongol motifs and launched into the prayer song and then a heavy throat singing number.I wondered if anyone else had packed a stick of dynamite to blast themselves out if necessary. (I am sure you have googled and youtubed throat singing by now)
As always,I looked around at my fellow audience. A mied crowd, local, expat, young, old, kids. I wonder what brought them all here,
for my motivation was clear. A lot of keen looks, arms folded, leaning forward; many slouched like me; several scratchig their ears; some
whispering, some even giggling.
Soon, regular, that is non-throat, songs followed, explained by the one English speaker: one about a sweetheart, another about a horse
- way many more songs about horses than sweethearts, might I add, a camel, ancestors, the Altai, the mother river.
The flute sounded hauntingly melodious, almost exactly like a northern Indian flute. The improviser (we found later) of the group knocked
something onto another apparatus tied to his knee to create trotting noises, while shaking what looked like a cassock - I learned at the
Q&A that the former were made with real horse hooves and the latter was a bull's scrotum filled with sheep bones. All males in the
audience cringed at that point in the post-concert information session, needless to say. The horsehead lute and a snakeskin banjo completed the ensemble.
I gradually realized, with mild alarm, that my neighbor (not the date, but on the other side) seemed to have a severe case of Parkinson's.
Surreptitiously I glanced but she seemed too young. Perhaps a very large and unpredictable nervous tick? Her arms were after all clasped
tight around her that of her date, who vaguely looked like a balkan war criminal. Perhaps flashbacks from a previous life as a large bird,
cocking its neck back and forth to regurgitate for the little ones? I realized later she was just "grooving." Apparently her sense of rhythm
was on permanent vacation.
The numbers turned out quite enjoyable, with occasional bouts of throat singing which were, ahem, interesting. Just like the ability to
cartwheel or touch one's nose with the tip of one's tongue - no doubt requiring genes, skill and practise but of dubious aesthetical value,
at least to the untrained and unaccustomed.
Post concert, I raised some hackles when I asked to compare Tuvan throat singing, and its broader culture and language, with those of
Mongols. It turned out Tuvans are Turkic, or at least they speak Turkic, though they share Tibetan Buddhism and shamanism with the
Mongols. Vigorous defence of the Tuvan origin of throat singing ensued. The lead singer demonstrated both types, the Mongol version disparagingly, and exulted at the superiority of the Tuvan version. I slunk into my seat.
Someone asked "how do you do it?", the dumbest question of the evening. The performers sincerely explained it was not formally
learned, but something the horsemen learned by observing their elders and peers and trying out. I thought a simple analogy - whistling. You
hear, see, try and presto! I feel compelled to share that I can wolf-whistle melodies using any pair of fingers of either hand. Yes, I am
full of surprises, just like an innocent-looking rash.
A dinner, drink and interesting conversation led to an awkward farewell. I demand that there be a UN convention on whether to lean
over and plant just one air-kiss on the cheek or two. It is all so confusing.
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