If you’re Latvian and grew up in the United States or Canada, perhaps you can remember all the times people thought you said you speak Latin rather than Latvian. After all, everyone’s heard of Latin. It’s Latvian that’s the obscure language, right? It’s for all those times we wish we’d had an album like Odi Et Amo to serve as a comeback to our errant acquaintances. “Here,” you could have said. “Listen to this. It’s a bunch of Latvians singing in Latin. Just to confuse you even more.”

And that’s what Odi Et Amo is: a bunch of Latvians singing in Latin. But this is no ordinary bunch. Its producer, singer and musician Uģis Prauliņš working with the well-known and respected Rīga Dome Boys Choir.

The 13 tracks on this album take the choir, directed by Mārtiņš Klišāns, in a new direction. These aren’t the sweet and thoughtful compositions often performed by the choir. Rather, Prauliņš takes spiritual texts and with his musical arrangements moves the listener through a range of emotions, from reflection to anger, perhaps even to fear.

The album’s title track, “Odi Et Amo” (I Hate and Love), is taken from a short work by the Roman poet Gaius Valerius Catullus, who died about 50 years before the birth of Jesus Christ. The poem speaks of the conflict within one’s soul and sets the tone for the rest of the album:

Odi et amo, Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et exrucior.
(I hate and love. And if you ask me why,
I have no answer, but I discern, can feel,
my senses rooted in eternal torture.)

Three compositions on the album are based on verses from the Biblia Vulgata, the biblical translation by Eusebius Hieronymus, the Balkan-born linguist, scientist and philosopher who lived from about 340 to 450 and who at one point was headed down a path that could have seen him chosen pope.

It is one of these compositions, “Quare Fremuerunt Gentes,” that is the most surprising. The track begins with men’s voices intoning the title only to suddenly have the boys launch into a rap, accompanied by heavy, driving guitar and bass chords. The piece, based on Psalms 2 and 74, even has the boys screaming, something they probably couldn’t get away with in the Rīga Dome Church. Played loud, this track also is perhaps the most unsettling on the album … as art should be.

It is followed by the almost Enya-sounding homily “O Beata Trinitas,” a proper piece with which to settle one’s nerves.

In addition to the Biblia Vulgata, Prauliņš drew from other historical material, some by well-known literary or religious figures, some not. For example, “Ad Dianam” presents fragments from a work by English poet Thomas Campion (1567-1620), who used the character of Diana to praise Queen Elizabeth. “Pangue Lingua” comes from a hymn by 13th century theologian and philosopher St. Thomas Aquinas. And the “Chorus Novae Ierusalem” is from an Easter hymn, penned by Bishop Fulbert of Chartres, sung during the Crusades.

One favorite on this album is “Qui Creavit Coelum,” a song originating in the Nunnery of St. Mary in Chester about God’s creation of the world. As the choir sings the refrain, “Lully, lully, lu,” you almost have to smile, something that’s otherwise difficult given the seriousness of the rest of this album.

Besides the choir and Prauliņš, who provides narration and vocals as well as performing on keyboards, samplers, the kokle and the fiddle, a number of other musicians and vocalists helped out on this project. They include Armands Alksnis and Arnolds Kārklis on guitars, Arvīds Klišāns on French horn, and Aigars Godiņš, Edgars Janovs, Māra Kalniņa and Mārtiņš Klišāns on vocals. Kalnina, who also performed with the folk group Ilgi, was killed in an automobile accident in late August, just a few months after this album was released.

In conversations we’ve had with people who have listened to this album, it has been suggested that with the proper exposure, Odi Et Amo could raise Latvia’s stock in the music world. Certainly, the fact that it’s in Latin—and not Latvian—opens the album to a wider audience, at least intellectually. We have to agree that it’s worth the effort.

This is the third recording in the Latvian Folk Music Collection by UPE Recording Co., and, like the first two (Pagānu gadagrāmata and Latviešu danči), is a very nice one indeed. Biruta Ozoliņa sings songs of her native Latgale (the eastern part of Latvia), accompanied by the kokle, which is a stringed folk instrument similar to a zither, played throughout the eastern Baltic region.

This recording is very traditional compared to the first in the series, Pagānu gadagrāmata, except for a couple of modern-sounding chords here and there.

Ozoliņa is best known as a former member of the folk group Iļģi, and in this group her high, light voice nicely complemented Ilga Reizniece’s distinctive lower and fuller voice. Alone on this recording, though, something almost seems to be missing. The liner notes say that Ozoliņa no longer performs, but now only sings alone and for herself. If you sing for yourself, you will, of course, sing the songs that you like. There’s no question about what type of songs Ozoliņa likes! They are all calm and gentle, with beautiful melodies. Bolta eimu is a very contemplative recording. It is not a performance, but rather a meditation. Some more critical ears might even call it background music.

Because the songs’ lyrics (all except one, “Zvīdzi zvīdzi sērmais zirdzeņ”) are from a young woman’s point of view—dealing with various aspects of courtship and marriage—they fit nicely with Ozoliņa’s voice. Her voice is amazingly clean, clear, light, simple and almost fragile. The songs are also very simple, and in this simplicity, I believe, is all the beauty of Latvian folk music.

All of the songs are in the Latgalian dialect, which might take some getting used to if you speak Latvian. Latvian speakers who have little experience with it may find some of the words hard to understand. For those who don’t speak Latvian, the one-line English translations in the liner notes may make the songs sound overly simple or trivial. Unfortunately, this is all too common a problem in translating folk songs in general. As a result, the translations cannot convey the complexities and poetry of the traditional texts—the cultural context, symbolism, mythological parallels, and deeper meanings of many texts are lost.

My husband’s only comment about this compact disc was that it all sounded the same. He says that about most of my folk recordings, but for once I had to agree with him. Maybe what’s missing is variety. All of the tracks sound very similar. One song, “Zyna Dīvs, zyna Laima,” is sung a capella, but in my opinion there could have been more, since Ozoliņa’s voice stands well enough on its own. In another song she uses a considerably lower tone, which is also a nice change. The four tracks recorded in 1998-99 (“Jau sauleite aizalaide,” “Apleik kolne saule tak,” “Treis mōzeņas mežā gōja,” and “Muns bōleņš karā gōja,” with the rest from 1987-92) have a slightly different sound to them, but not enough to be called “variety.”

My own taste in Latvian folk songs leans toward the calmer, more melancholic melodies, and there are plenty on this recording. (In Latvian music, a minor key does not necessarily indicate a sad song. This seems to be common in Eastern European folk music.) I don’t mind a whole recording of the same type of music—especially because I like it—but I know people who will complain.

Some might find the lack of variety in Bolta eimu boring, but for connoisseurs of the calm, melancholic melodies and Latgalian dialect this is a wonderful recording. As for me, it is a treat to have a whole CD devoted to Ozoliņa and “her” type of songs.