Though there are many perks to being in a band that’s been around for a long time, there also can be more pressure. Music fans tend to be a cynical bunch, and even though you may have sold boatloads of records in the past, one bad record will turn your fans against you. The pressure comes from how to keep it interesting. The band may have established a sound, but there is a danger of going to the well once too often. Deviate from that sound too much and run the risk of alienating your fans.

Of course, there are some bands out there, be they Latvian or otherwise, that have made a career of making the same album over and over again. And there is a place for that, but very few can get away with it and still maintain fan loyalty.

Another one of the veteran bands of the Latvian rock scene, Credo, in September released its latest album, Viss mainās…

After more than a quarter century of making music, did they keep it interesting? I would say that they did.

I was a bit apprehensive about reviewing this record, since I know nothing of Credo’s history, besides the fact that they have been around for a while, so I wouldn’t have the ability to "show off" my supposedly large knowledge of Latvian music. Before this record, I had heard all of three songs of theirs. "Vecais draugs" (from the Mikrofona 20 popularākās dziesmas collection), "Lietus" (from the Visu laiku labākās latviešu rokbalādes collection), and probably their most famous song, "Zinģe par bailēm" (from the Latviešu roka tautasdziesmas collection). And while I liked the songs, I never had any initiative in finding out more about this band.

That is something that I now regret, considering how much I liked the new record, which was an interesting collection of old sounds, new sounds and unique sounds.

The members of Credo are Guntis Veits (voice, rhythm guitar), Armands Alksnis (guitar), Aivars Vīksna (bass guitar) and Guntars Brečs (percussion). The prolific Latvian lyricist Guntars Račs also lends a hand with words to a few of the songs.

A recurring theme through this album is the idea that although things may change, one has to accept them. Appropriately enough, the album title is Viss mainās… (Everything Changes).

"Vējā" (In the Wind) is the first track and is probably my favorite song on the album. An uptempo tune with a great melody, it is a philosophical song about the changes and the fortunes that wind may bring: "Vēja māte vēja zirgiem, pakavus no laimes kal" (The Wind Mother makes horseshoes from fortune for the wind horses).

The second track, "Dzivē gadās arī tā" (That Happens in Life), sounds like it would be more at home on a Santana record, since it has a Latin feel to it. I think it is a successful experiment, because many times when artists attempt Latin sounding tunes, it comes across sounding forced. But, reflecting the carefree spirit of the album, it comes across very well. The song tells the story of a guy, who while talking to one girl, is looking over her shoulder at two other women. I keep waiting for Carlos Santana to start playing a guitar solo!

Another favorite track is "Septītajās debesīs" (Seventh Heaven), if only because it is a Chuck Berry-style, straight-ahead rock-and-roll song: not many chords, but the kind of song that if you hear it while driving, the gas pedal gets used more frequently.

Actually, I lied earlier. I had heard four songs by Credo prior to hearing this album. The final track "Kā būs, tā būs" (What Will Be, Will Be) originally appeared on the Dziesma 2000 compiliation (though it wasn’t credited to Credo, but just to Guntis Veits). It’s a fitting end to an excellent album, reinforcing the spirit of the album—looking forward without any fear of the future.

Viss mainās… is a solid effort by the band and it has been finding its way into my CD player quite frequently. Though a rock record in spirit, it has enough eclectic influences to make it good listening for any music fan, even those cynical ones who think that the old-timers can’t make relevant music anymore. Fortunately for Credo, even after so many years making albums, they still have enough creativity and to make excellent album.

On the 13th day of February 1991, a life raft is found washed ashore near Ystad in southern Sweden. Inside are the bodies of two men who had been tortured, drugged, shot and set afloat on the Baltic Sea.

For police detective Kurt Wallander, the question of who they are is answered soon enough. Answering the question of why they were killed becomes the challenge.

The challenge is told in Swedish mystery writer Henning Mankell’s The Dogs of Riga, the latest in the Wallander series to be translated into English. Mankell, still little known in North America, is a superstar among many European crime fiction fans. Before Laurie Thompson’s translation of 1992’s Hundarna i Riga, five others books in the Wallander series have been brought to English-speaking audiences.

With the help of police in Rīga, the two dead men are identified as Jānis Leja and Juris Kalns, Mafia criminals in a Latvia that is still under Soviet occupation but slipping away fast.

Soon, Wallander and his colleagues on the Ystad force are visited by Maj. Kārlis Liepa of the Rīga police. Their brief collaboration results in the case—and the bodies—being handed off to the Latvians. Wallander and his colleagues are freed of the nuisance of a double murder that appears to be linked to the Russian Mafia in an era when the Soviet Union still has not crumbled. But when Liepa is murdered the day of his return to Rīga, Wallander finds himself back on the trail, this time in Latvia.

Mankell’s Wallander is one of those anti-cops who appear in so many European crime novels: competent, but self-doubting, skeptical of their place in society and of the role of the state. Wallander also is pestered by personal problems, including a gruff and demanding father and a college-age daughter with whom his relationship is strained. And on top of it, Wallander is doubly lonely, still coming to terms with the fact that his wife has left him and always trying to guess what his late partner, Rydberg, would have done when faced with various roadblocks in an investigation.

Wallander first came to my attention on film. The 1996 thriller White Lioness, based on Mankell’s book of the same title, had Wallander travelling to post-apartheid South Africa to investigate a plot to assassinate Nelson Mandela. Actor Rolf Lassgard’s portrayal of Wallander has molded how I imagine the detective looks and behaves. But it was his subdued love interest—Baiba from Latvia—that has kept me wondering and wanting to learn more.

And in The Dogs of Riga I find my answer. Baiba is Baiba Liepa, the widow of policeman Kārlis. European filmgoers may be familiar with the 1995 Swedish-Danish film Hundarna i Riga, directed by Pelle Berglund, that was partly filmed in Rīga and featured Charlotte Sieling in the role of the Latvian widow.

In The Dogs of Riga, Wallander is brought face-to-face with the uncertainties of life in the Latvia of early 1991. "You have to understand, Inspector Wallander, that you are in a country where nothing is decided," a Latvian police colonel tells the Swedish cop as they drive through Rīga. (Mankell himself, in an afterword, notes that the novel was finished a few months short of the August 1991 coup in Moscow that led most directly to Latvia’s re-emergence as an independent nation.)

The Swedish detective goes to occupied Latvia to help investigate the murder of a cop. "I investigate real crimes that have been committed by real people," Wallander tells a mysterious man named Upītis, in the process admitting his political naivete. But he soon learns that reality is not always what it seems, a characteristic of life under Soviet rule.

The Dogs of Riga is a well-written thriller. The character of Kurt Wallander is more than enough to keep the novel moving ahead, particularly as he strives to make sense of himself and the world around him. For a reader knowledgeable in recent Latvian history, it’s even more fascinating to see an outsider’s view of the calm before the storm, even if some of the situations seem a bit far-fetched.

Having never made much use of CD-ROMs before, much less never having watched a movie on CD-ROM, being asked to review the children’s animation film Neparastie rīdzinieki in this medium was a novelty for me. And not being particular technologically savvy, I did need help to install QuickTime on my computer to be able to watch the movie. Once that was done, however, I was able to sit back and enjoy the 26-minute long animation that was produced in honor of Rīga’s 800th anniversary and was first shown at celebrations this summer.

The film begins with a song and not much action. My first instinct was to think that many American-born children, having been brought up on action-packed and fast-paced movies and games, might find this particular film too slow. I, however, was enchanted.

The main character of the film, the young rooster Justiņš, is absolutely adorable. The little child he befriends is also cute. Together they have an assortment of adventures in "modern-day" Rīga. (One knows that it is the present because Riga’s 800th anniversary is mentioned.)

The film is like many other children’s films, featuring songs interspersed with dialogue. The five songs’ texts are by Pēteris Brūveris and music is by Valts Pūce. The songs are what I would consider very typical for a children’s film. My favorite was the last one, "Lai ir," which includes the lines “Lai ir, lai ir, lai putniem ligzdas ir, lai zvēriem alas ir, lai ļaudīm mājas ir. Lai ir, lai ir, lai visiem mājas ir un visiem savās mājās labi klājas!" (May the birds have nests, may the animals have caves, may the people have homes, may everyone have homes, and may everyone fare well in their homes).

And my favorite part of the film was when Justiņš and the child found themselves under Rīga, where they met the "root elves" of Rīga. These are the little (and very cute) elves who live under Rīga, taking care of the roots on which Rīga is built.

In addition to the film, the CD-ROM can be played as a compact disc on which one hears not only the five songs, but also another six songs written by many Latvian cultural luminaries. "Brīvības iela," for example, is written by Raimonds Pauls and Guntars Račs. "Jūras kalni man arami" is a folk song with musical adaptation by Imants Kalniņš. "Rīgas tilti" is by Zigfrīds Muktupāvels and Račs. The last song, "Dziesma Rīgai" (Song for Riga), is by Jānis Lūsēns and Māra Zalīte. These songs are performed mostly by the children’s chorus Knīpas un knauķi with some help from Muktupāvels and Juris Kulakovs. The film’s songs are peformed by Dace and Valts Pūce and Niks Matejevs.

I know of at least one adult who purchased this as a CD in Latvia this summer and loves the music. I, however, find it much better suited for the taste of children. Not being a big fan of synthesizer music, I was a bit turned off by its heavy use on this recording, particularly in the song "Jūras kalni man arami." Also, many of the songs’ lyrics are very repetitive—great for a young child who wants to sing along, but a bit dull for an adult. For example, in the song "Brīvības iela" it seems the chorus repeats an unending number of times. But, again, I’m sure that many young children would enjoy singing along to these songs.

As with many Latvian CDs today, the packaging is very attractive and the liner notes include all of the lyrics. However, no English translation or explanation is provided.

Overall, I think that both the movie and the music of this CD-ROM would be enjoyed by children in preschool and kindergarten, and maybe a bit older. Neparastie rīdzinieki would make a lovely gift to a Latvian family with young children.