Liku bēdu zem akmeņa, the newest compact disc in UPE Recording Co.‘s Latvian Folk Music Collection, is a variation on an earlier CD containing the “most beautiful” songs. As the title suggests, the songs on this disc are meant to be music by which to bury your sorrows, music to put you in a good mood.

It is, in fact, very happy music. Most of the songs are also quite well-known among Latvians, so listeners need not become accustomed to rarely heard melodies. The CD begins with “Div’ dzelteni kumeliņi” and the very catchy tune “Es uzkāpu kalniņā.” “Strauja, strauja upe tecēj’” and a Cajun-inspired “Aiz kalniņa dūmi kūp” follow on their heels. The version of “Puiši, puiši, kas tie puiši” reminds me of an American hoe-down. Although in a minor key, “Ķēvīt, mana svilpastīte” is upbeat and hearty, as usual. It is followed by “Tur es dzēru, tur man tika” and “Es nenācu šai vietā,” both very popular drinking songs. “Lobs bej puika myusu Jezups” in the Latgalian dialect is a less common song that borders on a Slavic sound. It tells of Jezups—a good young man, only a little bit short—who proposes to the neighbor girl Madaļonka. Then comes “Bēdu, manu lielu bēdu,” “Visi ciema suņi rēja” and “Tumša, tumša tā eglīte.” The disc ends with the good old standard “Div’ pļaviņas es nopļāvu.”

Some of the songs are played a bit too fast for singing along. Kristīne Kārkle is skilled enough to sing “Strauja, strauja upe tecēj’” with almost no time for a breath between verses, but mere mortal singers may not be able to keep up. Līga Priede’s slightly smoky voice is just as strong as Kārkle’s but prefers the higher ranges. Kārkle and Priede sing on only four songs; brothers Valdis and Māris Muktupāvels’ voices dominate the rest of the CD. Ainars Mielavs and Kristaps Rūķītis also sing, while Māris Muktupāvels and Aleksander (Kep) Dmitrijev provide accompaniment on accordion and an assortment of guitar-type instruments, including banjo and mandolin.

The liner notes provide lyrics for each song, as well as literal translations into English. As would be expected, none of them has a sad ending. Liku bēdu zem akmeņa contains only folk songs, no new compositions. The musicians stay true to the traditional lyrics and melodies, but this is not hard-core folklore. Except for the tender hay-mowing song at the very end, the overall sound of this CD is not unlike that of UPE’s Alus dziesmas minus some of the beer. It’s good, foot-tapping, jolly music. But, even though the musicianship is impeccable and each song in and of itself is very well-arranged, it seems that the disc as a whole lacks a bit of inspiration. I also find that the constant happy tempos and volume of the recording are too much to take in at one sitting. I almost feel like Liku bēdu zem akmeņa is trying too hard to put me in a good mood.

My advice is to listen to two or three songs when you need a fix of happy music. Then set the disc aside until you need another fix, listen to a couple more songs, set the disc aside again, and so on. It is kind of like brief regular dates with your therapist: periodically airing out the sorrows from your mind and burying them under a rock, rather than letting them pile up in your mind for years. That was probably UPE’s intention for this CD all along.

With the release of his sixth or seventh album this spring, prolific Latvian singer-songwriter and philosopher Imants Daksis is finally reaching larger audiences and receiving wider recognition. While the small batches of his previous, more or less self-made, recordings are now hard to come by, Mežs ieiet sevī is a larger undertaking, distributed by Lauska, a relatively new culture management center based in Rīga. This is definitely a good career move for Daksis, but the trade-off is that it might take some of the mystery and underground-ness out of his reputation.

Daksis is younger than you would think—in his mid-20s—and often seems shy in concert. He is serious and concentrates on his music, yet is a master in the art of working an audience. Sometimes he plays softly and gently, but by the very next song he could be shouting in a booming voice.

Needless to say, Mežs ieiet sevī also reflects these two personalities of Imants Daksis. The compact disc begins with “Situ vēju ar koku,” which is less of a song and more of a boastful call or a fragment of spoken word. He continues with the same deep calling voice in “Purvs tevi sauc,” and the listener’s first impression may be of a pretentious singer with an affected voice. But Daksis’ other persona—the gentle folk singer, for lack of a better description—soon takes over. “Es gribu mīlēties ar tevi šonakt” contains touches of the accordion, flutes and kokle. These instruments, accompanied by mandolin and bagpipes in other songs, keep popping up throughout the CD, reminding the listener at times of the folksy side of Jethro Tull (for example, in “Matērijas bilžu grāmata”). Acoustic guitar, though, remains Daksis’ one constant.

Despite flipping back and forth between two voices and two personalities, much of the album sounds moody and intense. One song comments about excessive drinking, another is a call to battle, another an analogy to rape, followed by childhood innocence. The title of the album refers to the thicket of loneliness, trials and rejuvenation that many creative people go through. Heavy stuff, most of it. For example, “Šī deja bij’ smaga, es piekusu drīz, bet kā vienmēr spēks pretstatā nespēkam viz…” {This dance was difficult, I tired soon; but as always, strength glitters in comparison to weakness…), or “Tu esi lidmašīna, es esmu taurenītis; Es tevi ķeru, bet vai tu arī mani redzi?” (You’re an airplane, I’m a butterfly; I catch you, but do you also see me?).

In between the philosophical songs, though, are a few wonderfully absurd gems, with lyrics such as “Pats esi pavārs, pats esi kūka, pats sevi ēd un dod arī citiem – priecājies, ka tu garšo! (You are the baker, you are the cake, you eat yourself and give some to others—be happy that you taste good!).

Although Daksis sometimes performs pretty standard sounding music (for example, “It nekas…”) and even gets air time on Latvian radio, deep down he’s an uninhibited, minor-key, operatic bard who likes holding long notes. The one song in Russian on the CD proves that he also not only feels at home, but really shines in Vladimir Vysotsky’s native language and style.

So Imants Daksis is a bit odd. Maybe too dramatic or “deep” for some, maybe too raw for others. But it seems that most Latvians are proud to call him their own.