For those of you who can’t get enough of Eurovision, there is also the Junior Eurovision, where all the budding stars of tomorrow get a chance to display their talents for all of Europe to see. Snobby music fans (like me) turn their noses at such a spectacle, at times calling it, in the best case, “heavy on the cheese” and, in the worst case, exploitation.

Not to say there isn’t talent at these competitions. These are trained (if a wee bit young) musical artists, though the material that they are given is often of a lesser nature. Case in point: Dzintars Čīča, singing prodigy from Sabile, Latvia. Born in January 1993, this singing wunderkind has achieved much already, including participating in the 2003 Junior Eurovision contest, where he earned ninth place. With all his talent, you would figure that a better album could be put together to show off his talents.

The album Nāc un dziedi was released in November 2003 after his appearance in Children’s Eurovision. The album includes one of Čīča’s original compositions, “Tu esi vasara,” as well as his interpretations of a number of different songs.

Nobody is disputing his talent. This kid has an amazing voice. It is just too bad that he is saddled with material that in my opinion is not suited for him (or anybody, really).

“Tu esi vasara” is one of the best songs on the album, but it becomes immediately clear what is going to happen—all the music sounds heavily synthesized, and it seems that there aren’t even any “live” musicians besides Čīča (at least none are listed in the sparse liner notes). It makes it seem that Čīča is simply just singing karaoke, which is a shame. “Tu esi vasara” would be a much better song if there was an actual band, or even just a guitarist, not this unnatural synthetic stuff.

Most of the rest of the songs are taken from the Raimonds Pauls repertoire. You get versions of “Sikspārņa Fledermauša šūpuldziesma,” “Mežrozīte” and “Mēma dziesma,” among others. Nothing wrong with the songs at all, but the life and vitality in the music that was in the originals is replaced with mechanical backing tracks. In fact, the backing track for “Mežrozīte” sounds suspiciously like the group Bet bet’s version of this song from a few years back.

Also on the album is a version of “O sole mio,” once again demonstrating that Čīča has a phenomenal voice, but one would have wished for an actual orchestra or some kind of accompanist.

The entire album seems a bit rushed as well, as if the producers just pulled whatever Pauls standards they had available and let Čīča sing along. And I am not sure who the intended audience is for this compact disc. I wouldn’t call it inappropriate for children, but I can’t see young kids getting into this. Nary a folk song is to be heard here. Even the liner notes seem rushed, including only the lyrics for only two songs (“Tu esi vasara” and the Guntars Račs-penned tune “Nāc un dziedi”) and some pictures. Among those is the (presumably) unintentionally funny picture of Čīča and friends adopting the hats-on-backwards, baggy-clothing look.

Perhaps Čīča’s next album will be a bit more organic than this one. He’s got the voice, now put him together with some actual musicians and let’s see what happens.

The white crow of Iveta Melnika’s memoir is an outcast: an ugly duckling among the swans, a white crow among the black. This is how the teenaged Melnika perceives herself: ugly, shy, and despised by her peers. Tale of the White Crow tells the story of her coming-of-age in the turbulent period of Latvia’s independence from the Soviet Union.

Although Tale of the White Crow is subtitled “Coming of Age in Post-Soviet Latvia,” Melnika’s painful journey through adolescence begins before Independence, while Latvia is firmly under Soviet rule. Melnika is conscious of the inequities of life under the Soviets: though everyone is supposedly equal, families who are well-connected or who have relatives in the West enjoy a superior lifestyle. Meanwhile, Melnika’s family struggles along in one room of a communal apartment. Her father cannot work because of a severe heart condition and Melnika’s white crow status at school is exacerbated by her family’s poverty.

Change begins slowly, with a few people wearing badges of the Latvian flag. Political events are filtered through Melnika’s teenaged consciousness: “I had to stand for hours in the hot sun, listening to boring talks, and watched some weird people putting the flowers at the foot of the Freedom Monument.” Gradually, she becomes more interested. Deeply moved by the human chain holding hands across the Baltics (on Brīvības Street there were “so many that they had to stand three, four deep”), Melnika joins a pilgrimage of thousands to commemorate Latvians lost in the mass deportations of the 1940s. Should the Russians invade again, she doesn’t expect the West to intervene. “And why should they care? …Pampered by their good fortune, they are unable to comprehend our desperate, even ridiculous fight for survival as a nation with its own language and cultural values.”

Melnika’s adolescence is rocky but not untypical. She thinks she is ugly and repulsive, that others hate and mock her. Sometimes she wonders if she isn’t crazy. “Maybe if I had jeans my classmates would look differently at me.” Her own jeans are undesirable Polish knock-offs. Or if only she had a boyfriend! Melnika craves the change of status that such a commodity would bestow on an ugly duckling like herself. She doesn’t even aspire to turn into a swan, she says, but would settle for becoming a decent duck.

Her grandmother has taught her to believe in God, to whom, she says, looks don’t matter. “Yeah, not to Him,” Melnika comments, “but they definitely matter to people, and very very much, by the way.” Her hunger for love and belonging leads Melnika to join the Church of Christ, which is aggressively evangelizing in post-Soviet Russia and eastern Europe. Her parents disapprove, afraid that the church is a cult that preys on young people. Melnika tries hard not to believe this, though she has her own misgivings. The church leadership demands unquestioning obedience: “Do you know why Satan is in hell? It’s because he is proud and rebellious. Just like you are now.”

After years of repression, Latvia is vulnerable to the tactics of American cults, and to corruption. Unbridled capitalism exacts a savage toll from Latvian society. The result is immense suffering, and nostalgia for the meagre certainties of Soviet times. Former inequalities seem slight in view of the widening gulf between rich and poor. While the elderly starve or commit suicide, Rīga’s streets are clogged with luxury cars. Gangsters buy huge flats downtown and spend their evenings in expensive discos and restaurants.

Iveta too has her disco period, a time of emptiness and searching that leaves her even lonelier than before. Afterwards she is as depressed as she has ever been, still without the love she longs for and outside the church where she found, at least briefly, a sense of community. However, she manages to obtain an education and stay afloat. As she points out after one typically disastrous social encounter, she must learn from these experiences for they will help to prepare her for the future: “If I manage to get through this, I am one step closer to the big life now.”

Tale of the White Crow came into being because of a chance meeting of the author and David Pichaske, the publisher, while the latter was teaching in Rīga on a Fulbright fellowship. (The book actually was printed in Mongolia, another of Pichaske’s foreign assignments.) Part of the book’s considerable charm derives from its idiosyncratic idiom, which the author wished to “normalize” as her English language skills became more sophisticated. Happily, Pichaske argued for the original and to some extent prevailed. His photographs of Latvia are included.

A German-influenced word in Latvian describes this compact disc well: lustīgs. Basically, it means “fun.” Gonam gona (The Shepherd Has Had Enough) by Laimas muzykanti is a combination of pumped-up Latgallian songs and tender, other-worldly melodies, with a winter solstice song added at the end for good measure.

It’s real folk music, but updated by the addition of bass and percussion on nearly every track. The quick folk-rock accompaniment got to me a little by the end of the CD, but there was enough variety in the middle to break it up. A synthesizer is also used, mostly as tasteful background for the quieter songs. All in all, I enjoyed the CD.

Artūrs Uškāns, who plays about nine instruments on this CD, is the head man behind Laimas muzykanti (Laima’s musicians). Another name that some may recognize is the young Kristīne Kārkle, who plays violin and lends her distinctive, wonderful voice to the group.

The CD begins with a Cajun-flavored song about a young man telling a girl to get ready to marry him, and it is followed by another fun wedding song. But then comes the girl’s point of view: ambivalence and even sorrow about marriage. Luckily, it sounds like she needn’t have worried, because in the next song, “Toli dzeivoj,” the young man vows to never love another. Then she sings a song about singing, and then it’s his turn to tell how well he gets along with her mother. Next, the fragile and tender sound of “Kur gaismeņa” is deceptive: the girl has made up her mind to get married despite her young age. Men’s voices add a nice harmony, and the result is almost like a choral arrangement. But, of course, the girl is nevertheless sad to leave her home, as heard in “Spūža saule.”

By the 10th song, with its rock beat and risque lyrics, I assumed we must be back at the wedding festivities. “Not more grunting a la UPE’s Alus dziesmas CD,” I thought, upon hearing the 12th song. But a look at its title—“Dzārojeņš” (Drunkard)—and it made perfect sense. In the next-to-last song, “Sasukoju bāru zyrgu,” a girl snubs a guy, and he says he’ll find another girl elsewhere. Is the wedding off? Is this about another couple? Or am I just reading too much into this CD? In any case, the CD ends with a winter solstice song, an odd ending to a collection of mostly wedding and love songs. But it does sound good with the folk-rock accompaniment.

The small Latgallian-Latvian glossary at the back of the liner notes helps decipher the texts. But other than that there are no additional explanatory notes, nor is there anything written in English. And, by the way, the photographs of the shepherd and her charges are great!