The compilation album has long been a part of Latvian music history. In earlier years, very few groups were able to record full-length albums. In fact, unless you had the clout (and not to mention the Soviet sympathy) of someone like Raimonds Pauls, putting out an entire album was next to impossible. However, many compilation records were being released during Soviet times, the most well known being the long running Mikrofons yearly release. These would allow many bands that would normally not be able to get their music heard on a record to do just that, even if only one song.

Those days have passed, and now most any band that has a bit of money, a few songs and maybe a moderate amount of talent can release an album—visit your local šlāgermūzikas section to see this in action. So where does this leave the compilations? As record executives in the United States have recently realized, and as their counterparts in Western Europe have long since known, a compilation can be a good marketing tool. Put together a bunch of songs from many different artists on one album and maybe people will buy it for the selection… and then continue to buy albums of specific artists they like.

This idea is not lost on Latvian record executives either. SuperIzlase, released late last year, contains recent hits from the entire spectrum of Latvian artists from three of the major labels—UPE, Platforma and Mikrofona ieraksti. The executives realize that by working together they can promote their own artists with little cost but ideally with high return. Because compact discs in Latvia are expensive, few consumers will throw down their hard-earned money on a CD from which they haven’t heard any songs.

Reviewing such compilations is a difficult task, however, mainly due to the incredibly varied nature of the songs contained on one. Though I like to think of myself as a fairly open-minded music listener, there are certain styles of music that are simply not for me. So instead of critiquing the music contained on this record, I will do my best to describe what I hear and you can make your own informed decision about what you might like.

Many of the songs on this record I had known before even purchasing this record, probably due to the fact that in marketing terms, I fall into the category of “loyal rock fan.” In other words, if I have been a fan of a rock band for a while, and they release a new record, I am likely to purchase it, sound unheard, simply because I am loyal. Established rock groups are well represented on this record, with groups like Līvi (“Mana vienīgā ziņģe”), Prāta Vētra (”Īssavienojums,”  the Latvian version of their Eurovision hit “My Star,” but with different lyrics), Credo (“Dzīvē gadās arī tā”), Labvelīgais tips (“Es nav redzējis Tevi jau sen”), Bet Bet (“Es vaicāju mātei”) and Ainars Mielavs (“Labradors”). Igo also checks in with an uncharacteristically (at least compared to his newer material) hard rocking song, “Cerību laiks”.

Though already well-schooled in the subject of Latvian rock, I did learn a few things from this record, as there were groups that I was unfamiliar with, but enjoyed their songs. These included Tumsa (“Lietus dārzs”), Autobuss debesīs (“Sitiet bungas, mani mīļie”) and The Hobos (“Midnight Lover”). All three of these groups are now on my shopping list for the next time I return to Latvia.

But of course, it is not only rock. Dance and pop make up a bulk of this record as well. The album starts off with the A-Eiropa (or Austrum Eiropa) dance hit “Tuvumā, tālumā.” The group Braithouse contribute their dance song, “So Much Fun,” while Lilita Ozoliņa and Viesturs Dūle offer “Tu mans mīļais čipendeils.”

If “diva pop” (such Mariah Carey or Whitney Houston) is your bag, then you will most likely like Linda Leen and her song “Let’s Go Insane.” She is an amazing singer and has learned how to sing in English remarkably well. Dāmu pops also have a new version of their older song, “Varbūt rīt,” on this record, complete with new dancable beat and thumping bass line. However, I prefer the original version on the Mikrofons 1990 rokaptauja.

“Kiddie” or “bubblegum” pop (such Backstreet Boys or Britney Spears) is also alive and well in Latvia, evidenced by the Gunārs Kalniņš and Kristena duet “Baltā dziesma.” This song also proves the existence of some requirement that every compilation ever released in Latvia has to have a Raimonds Pauls song on it (which is not necessarily a bad thing sometimes).

Songs in a more humorous vein also are here: from Savādi gan there’s “Dzīve ir skaista,” while Reigani, Prata Vētra’s Estonian alter egos, have their song “Tere, tere traktors” (which also includes the lyric, “Bulle, bulle, buldozers”).

The only complaint I have about this release is that we are never told what album these songs can be found on. Knowing that would make shopping for further releases from these artists slightly easier.

Of the very many compilations released in Latvia throughout the years, I would count this as one of the better ones. The range and diversity of the artists makes this a good investment for anyone, even if you don’t know a thing about what music is popular in Latvia these days or are a dyed-in-the-wool, long-time music fan. Thankfully, the music companies got together for this compilation and even promise there will be another SuperIzlase in 2001. If it is as good as this one, then we have something to really look forward to.

Now that the World Wide Web has made it possible for independent musicians and ensembles to internationally promote and sell their music and recordings more easily and effectively, any new release has a great deal of competition for potential buyers’ attention. As Latvian music becomes more recognized and popular on an increasingly crowded world stage, effective presentation of its heritage and artistry is vital in reaching out to listeners.

A recent album from the Latvian youth choir Balsis is musically excellent and well-recorded, but despite its professional appearance and attractive packaging, I wonder if the producers were not entirely certain of their intended audience, or perhaps the idea of marketing to other than Latvian buyers was an afterthought?

Formed in 1987, Balsis have garnered numerous prizes at choral competitions. Their current directors, Agita Ikauniece and Ints Teterovskis, are highly skilled choral professionals who have successfully maintained a high standard in their group’s level of performance, vocal technique and skill. The 40 singers produce a clean, supple sound and the youthfulness of their voices is not excessively shaded to produce an artificially mature sound. Perhaps due to the recording, the sopranos seem a little harsh in louder passages, but elsewhere the group maintains a pleasing blend.

The program is a varied one: 14 Latvian composers from several generations represented by 10 original compositions and six folksong arrangements, and three Estonians and a Lithuanian for good measure.

Some works are very familiar or widely recorded, such as Jānis Cimze’s arrangement of “Raven in the Oak Tree,” Lūcija Garūta’s version of the “Lord’s Prayer,” and Estonian Arvo Part’s setting of the Latin “Magnificat.” Works of several younger composers comprise a substantial portion of the program: Latvian-American Anita Kuprisa’s arrangement of “Sun, Attire Yourself in Silver” has become a Latvian classic on both sides of the Atlantic (with some added vocal effects in this version), and Jānis Lūsēns’ “Latvian Lullaby” is surely destined to become one as well. Other works are less frequently encountered. I was especially taken with Jāzeps Mediņš’ rarely-heard “Summer Evening” and Lithuanian Vytautas Barkauskas’ dazzlingly virtuosic “Kommedia dell arte.”

While there is obvious structure in the ordering of the music (original Latvian compositions followed by other Baltic composers’ works and concluding with folksong arrangements), a lack of contrast in mood during the first half of the program creates an overall effect that could be characterized by some as contemplative and by others as soporific. On the other hand, the concluding folksongs are generally more upbeat and vigorous. More overall variety in the pacing of the program would have been welcome.

Some introduction to the composers would have been helpful in the booklet, too, especially when the bilingual packaging makes this disc more than a commemorative souvenir for a limited audience. Perhaps as an afterthought or supplement, there is a more extended general commentary on the group and this album on the choir’s well-designed Web site, though the English version could be more idiomatic. I also wonder which conductor conducts which piece? Neither the album nor the Web site offers any clue.

More annoying is the listing of composers’ first names with only an initial or abbreviation, and the lack of birthdates for folksong arrangers. Composers deserve to have their full names listed, and respected musicians whose shaping and enhancement of folk melodies and texts is often equivalent to the creation of entirely new compositions shouldn’t be looked upon as second-class musical citizens. There is no good reason for perpetuating such Soviet-era practices, familiar to collectors of old Melodiya LPs.

This is a well-sung, sensitively interpreted program of fine music and these criticisms are not intended as a condemnation of the album—I have no hesitation in recommending it on musical grounds. But skimpy or incomplete information can lead to a lost opportunity to cultivate listeners who might otherwise be enticed into further exploration of Latvian music. Sometimes we Latvians can be our own worst enemies in the way we present ourselves and our artistry to the world at large, which is much more eager and willing to honor and embrace us than we may suspect.

Vella kalpi is my first memory of a Latvian film. I recently saw it again. Unfortunately, it has not aged well. The cinematography is average at best, the sound is tinny, the story overblown and the acting hammy. About the only part of it that doesn’t seem to have aged is Raimonds Pauls soundtrack. Then again, if you aren’t a big fan of Pauls that isn’t much to crow about either. Despite all of that, I still loved it and always will.

You have to understand this film in its context. You have to see it through the eyes of an 8-year-old, sitting in a darkened theater, eyes glued to the screen. An 8-year-old who was growing up in a confusing world not of his own making. Trying to make sense of a contradictory existence that adults only whispered about. I was a Latvian and I lived in Latvia, but I lived in Soviet Latvia. Up to this point my mythology only contained Soviet heroes. They might have spoken Latvian. They might have been Latvian, but at the core they were Soviets. This was the first time I had ever seen Latvian heroes and I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen.

Basically, Vella kalpi is a swashbuckler. The film itself is based on the stories of Rutku Tēvs, but anyone familiar with the many variants of the “Three Musketeers” will recognize the plot. It’s about three young men who, motivated by both circumstance and national pride, rise up to protect Rīga from a foreign invasion. They do this with strength and cunning, exhibiting all of the traits that we consider to be Latvian: hard work, loyalty and a sense of humor.

I am sure that the film was supposed to reinforce the Soviet ideals of being vigilant to bourgeoisie ideals—our heroes are strapping farm lads with simple tastes and simple needs, and all of the villians were either nobility or foreigners—but all I could see was Latvian heroes doing great deeds with a great bit of panache.  This is who I wanted to be when I grew up.

It was my first exposure to Latvian role models outside of my own family. You might think it hyperbole, but you have to understand the total control that the Soviets had over all media. The goal of Soviet media was to produce good Soviets and not good Latvians. Perhaps the most amazing thing is that this movie managed to bypass all of that. While on the surface seems to reinforce Soviet mythology, at its heart it is about Latvian identity and Latvian ideals.