It surprised me a bit to see that Dzelzīm dzimu, the latest album in UPE Recording Co.‘s “Latvian Folk Music Collection,” features Vilki (The Wolves), a controversial folklore group that specializes in warrior songs.

Vilki seem to be a group more interested in “doing” rather than “recording”—that is, researching and actually acting out and living the ancient customs and rituals, rather than sitting in a modern recording studio. Vilki concentrate on the past, and not just musically. They’re interested in the whole warrior culture—from the very oldest times to modern times, too—but especially in the culture of about 1,000 years ago, before the forced conversion of Latvians to Christianity. This particular recording focuses on these oldest of Latvian warrior songs from the medieval times and before (no mention of guns and artillery—here it’s only about swords and war horses!)

Notwithstanding this, the result of Vilki’s foray into the studio is powerful. The quality of the songs is high and (it sounds to me) authentic. Every last one of the songs is about war. But even if war isn’t your thing, this is riveting and inspiring music. It’s stark, strong, even chilling. The music does a remarkable job of evoking the power, sadness and uncertainty of war, as well as the excitement of adventure and joyfullness of prancing horses. But luckily, most people who listen to Dzelzīm dzimu are not doing so to get into the mood for going off to war—they’re just listening to good music.

Considering that the subject matter and aura of most of this music are very similar, Vilki have come up with quite a variety of sounds: driving drums, small whistles, a war horn, an assortment of bangles. The listener is taken from the haunting sounds of the first song, “Ko domāji, tu kundziņi,” to the loud bagpipes of “Novītusi tā puķīte,” to the gentle strum of the kokle on “Div’ baloži”; from the intense “Šķiramies, brāleliņi” and mighty “Lustīt mana” to the almost dreamy “Uz tiem laukiem” and sorrowful “Kas tie tādi.”  Inbetween is the relatively bright and spirited “Kaŗavīra līgaviņa.”  One hears the persevering beat of “Zviegtin zviedza” and the subtle bass of the ģīga on the heavyhearted “Māte mani lolodama.” “Cīrulīti, mazputniņi” is a melancholy solo, while “Visi kauli noguruši” and “Sadziedami, mēs bāliņi” are forceful a capella pieces.

The arrangements are simple yet sophisticated. Vilki rely heavily on fifth intervals for vocal harmonies, giving the music an appropriate “primitive” feel, and only in two places did my ears perk up at hearing an unconventional harmony. About half of the songs on Dzelzīm dzimu are already on the 1997 cassette by Vilki, also called Dzelzīm dzimu. But at least it sounds like the old songs have been newly or freshly recorded. The compact disc sounds much more professional than the cassette.

It seems that the fad in folk music is to introduce modern elements and ingredients from other cultures. Vilki, though, have stayed true to the old music. They’ve stuck to traditional instruments, melodies and texts. And it’s well they have. It’s not even appropriate for warrior music to have much accompaniment besides drums, because you don’t take your fancy musical instruments along to war. But despite the bareness of this music, the effect is good. It’s dark and heavy, and in it one truly feels the somber nature of war. This is powerful music—it sent a few good shivers up my back!

Obviously, these songs have powerful lyrics. Powerful in the emotional sense, but also texts that are meant to bring and concentrate strength—magic spells and rituals, if you will. Unfortunately, the English translations in the Dzelzīm dzimu liner notes are poor. For the most part they can be forgiven, but I feel that the translation of “Uz kariņu aiziedams” is not just poor, but wrong (and in this case, not for a lack of knowledge of English). The child in the song is not the soldier’s fiancee’s child by another man, but rather the soldier’s own sister, who has grown into a young woman while he was away at war.

Despite a comment I heard that Dzelzīm dzimu sounds like a funeral dirge, this is a good, strong and powerful recording for those who like very traditional folk music with a primitive sound and natural “oompf.” Those who like to pore over every last word of liner notes, though, may find the English text on Dzelzīm dzimu to be less informative than notes on previous UPE recordings.

After half a century of official disparagement and outright criminalization in the Baltic States, Christmas has returned, with its joyous and hopeful sights, sounds, and traditions. While we in the West continued to celebrate and enrich this heritage during those years, the people of Eastern Europe have only been able to do so again freely in the last decade, since the demise of Communism.

For many years, a major contributor to the choral repertoire for the Christmas season has been the New York Latvian Concert Choir. Since the early 1980s it has commissioned and premiered a new Christmas cantata from a different Latvian composer every year. In 1997 the choir released an album containing five of these works. Now Christmas By the Amber Sea has appeared with two more, by Jānis Lūsēns and Ilze Akerberga, as well as a work by 40-year-old Estonian composer Urmas Sisask.

Sisask’s “Christmas Oratorio” dates from 1992. Lasting just shy of 37 minutes, it is divided into 21 short, vividly contrasting movements setting traditional Latin texts recounting Christ’s birth. With skillful, imaginative writing, it grabs the listener’s attention from the outset. A large ensemble dominated by the sharp, bright colors of recorders, harpsichord, organ and piano is carefully and lucidly scored, with small groups of instruments often used to colorful effect. Choral and solo sections are punctuated by several purely instrumental interludes as the work progresses without any extraneous gestures, keeping the listener’s attention focused throughout. Rhythmic propulsiveness, clear textures and frequent contrasts occasionally bring the music of Carl Orff (of “Carmina Burana” fame) to mind.

An all-Estonian performance of the original version with male chorus was released several years ago on the Antes label. Though both recordings are excellent, the newer one sounds richer and fuller, with female soloists’ diction much clearer. However, sung Latin in neither performance entirely follows international standards, with irritatingly local pronounciation of some sounds.

Ilze Akerberga was born in New York City in 1953 and is a musician who conveys her ideas with great sensitivity and skill. Her “Winter Cantata” is half as long as Sisask’s oratorio, with spare, effective textures in a warm, simple style. Six contrasting movements set words by five Latvian poets, reflecting on the snowy northern winter landscape and the mood of the holiday season, often as seen through the eyes of a child (two movements are sung by a children’s choir). While not directly addressing the birth of Christ, “the overall concept [of the work] suggests the close interaction of God’s world with that of man,” in the words of Kathryn Livingston’s excellent progam notes, and the choice of texts underlines the inextricable associations for Balts between Christmas, the winter season, and the winter solstice. Composed in 1981, this is a loving work of great warmth and sincerity.

Born in 1959 in Liepāja, Latvia, Jānis Lūsēns is the composer of the final work on this album, a 1997 cantata titled “Child of the Stars.” Similar in conception to Akerberga’s cantata, it does not address Christmas directly, but rather reflects on the impressions the holiday evokes at different stages in life, with texts by four different Latvian poets.

While it is a lovely work that begins promisingly, I ultimately found it to be less compelling than the other works on the album. Perhaps those works’ more distinctive profiles invite unfair comparison? I found my attention repeatedly drifting in the middle of the work, though the appearance of the children’s choir in the final section provided welcome contrast and brought the work to a satisfying conclusion.

Performances on this album are vivid, sung and played with verve and enthusiasm. Soloists Antra Bigača, Aira Kuzmicka and Aleksandrs Antonenko are wonderful, and a children’s choir and recorder ensemble, both from Riga, sing and play with professionalism. The New York Latvian Concert Choir, together with two renowned Riga choirs, Gaudeamus and Balsis, produce a rich and clear sound. All these forces as well as the Latvian National Symphony Orchestra are led with passionate commitment by Andrejs Jansons in finely nuanced readings.

A beautifully packaged, well-filled recording with superb graphic design, fine notes and fully translated texts—what more could anyone ask for?