With Elvis Presley’s “All Shook Up” blaring, the camera swept across the surface of the Daugava River and, panning left, revealed the skyline of Rīga’s Old Town. Oh my, I said to myself, to actually see Rī;ga in a Hollywood movie! This was a treat. Too bad the rest of Red Hot wasn’t, well, so hot.

Red Hot was director Paul Haggis’ 1993 take on a fairly familiar story line: teenagers buck authority to do what teenagers want to do. In this case, the setting was Soviet Latvia in 1959. A group of music students discover the forbidden fruit of American rock ‘n’ roll. But the film, as the videotape sleeve suggests, could just as well have been Footloose or The Commitments. In other words, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.

Red Hot begins when a few 45 rpm records are smuggled into the country by Uncle Dmitri (Armin Mueller-Stahl), a seaman. He gives the records to his nephew, Alexi Fradis (Balthazar Getty). The records are ingeniously copied and the music spreads. Before long a quartet of students decides to turn a deserted industrial building into a rehearsal studio. Complicating the story are Alexi’s humble roots and his evolving love affair with Valentina Kirov (Carla Gugino), the privileged daughter of a highly placed but jaded KGB colonel (Donald Sutherland). It’s all just kid stuff until an overambitious KGB underling decides cracking a case of musical anti-Soviet propaganda might lead to his rise in power.

Admittedly, it is interesting to see acted out what scholars of culture in the Soviet era have noted: Western rock music seeped into the U.S.S.R. and was copied onto various media, including X-ray negatives. But beyond that the story is predicatable, the characters are wanting and the historical realism is skin deep.

Although the movie was filmed in Rīga (a number of scenes, such as one apparently filmed inside the National Library of Latvia or of the Dome Church, will bring nods of recognition), there is little that is Latvian about Red Hot. The characters are almost all Russians, although it appears the cast and crew counted few ethnic Russians among them. And about the only Latvians you’ll see are the back-bench actors who portray some of the students, jail guards and so forth. In one brief moment, the camera pans past a group of young musicians practicing the tune to “Tūdaliņ, tagadiņ.”

Careful viewers may catch an anachronistic glimpse of the radio and television tower on Zaķusala, visible as Alexi bicycles across the Daugava. Construction on the tower didn’t begin until 1979, two decades after the Red Hot story supposedly took place.

Still, the film no doubt provided a needed infusion of money and inspiration for local talent when Hollywood came to Rīga. For example, readers of the credits will notice that former émigré and now successful Rīga restaurateur Mārtiņš Ritiņš did the catering. Too bad the story is formulaic.

One odd thing about Red Hot has been its almost Soviet-style way of disappearing from filmographies and video stores. A search of the Web found only cursory information about the movie (one incorrectly categorizing this as a comedy), while few online stores seem to carry the film (one claimed the price was USD 93.65). This might suggest Red Hot is a “sleeper.” It’s not.

In July 1994, Bill Clinton became the first American president to visit an independent Latvia. As he spoke near the Freedom Monument, thousands of Latvians thronged to hear his words. Many more listened on radio or watched on television. Among them was Kevin, then a young midwestern American who had come to Latvia to visit his penpal. Jeff Keenan tells the story of that first visit in his book, The Main.

The following month we traveled to Latvia for the first time. The trip was hectic, requiring visit after visit to new and old relatives, excursions around Rīga and throughout Latvia to places we had only read about, and occasional jaunts to various institutions for business and research purposes. In short, we were busy.

Kevin wasn’t.

His first trip was made specifically to visit his penpal Māra and her family. The Main describes his two weeks with the family and his growing need to “find himself.”

Kevin comes across naive—and I’m trying to use that word objectively, without attaching to it the negativity that we often do. Here he is, a young man of 25 from northeast Iowa who is making his first voyage beyond the Midwest. Even before he’s out of the country, he is apprehensive and amazed by New York, where he has to change planes and airports.

I went to Latvia for the first time with baggage. Besides the overstuffed suitcase, there were three decades of accumulated history, family lore and black-and-white photographs etched in memory. I don’t think I went with a romanticized vision of what Latvia might be like, but I’m sure that what I saw was quite different from what Kevin did.

Kevin, without that baggage, also doesn’t find a romanticized—or even a romantic—Latvia. What he does find is simplicity, so much so that at times it begins to grate the reader: The home in Rīga where he stays is simple. The meals are simple. The people are simple.

But sprinkled through the book are hints that things are not so simple in Latvia:

Amazed by the simplicity he was experiencing, he questioned Mara about her everyday life.

“Everything seems very peaceful here in Latvia,” he said. “Is life always this simple?”

Māra explains about the lack of heat in her family’s apartment, about the loneliness and depression that some people experience. Still, Kevin continues to see Latvia as a peaceful and simple place. Perhaps it is, but The Main begs for Kevin to dig a bit deeper, to seek what the country and the people are really like. He has several opportunities to do so, but is reluctant to ask questions when they may reveal much to him.

At one point in this short book of 110 pages, Kevin puts aside a travel guide, realizing that it provided inadequate preparation for the Latvia he finds. It’s a telling moment, one that shows the effect of being placed in a different culture, even if for a while. Nothing you read is like the real thing.

Keenan’s book about a journey of self-discovery allows us to see Latvia through fresh eyes. I only wish he had looked a bit harder.

The nineties saw a tremendous musical output in Latvia. Free of the oppressive Soviet system and rules, artists and groups were free to play whatever they wanted to and sing whatever lyrics they wanted to. To celebrate this memorable decade, Mikrofona ieraksti has released a compilation of the most popular songs of these years, Desmitgades top dziesmas.

The compact disc as an impressive list of artists, including Līvi, Pērkons, Jauns mēness and even Raimonds Pauls, not to mention a number of others.

Now, if you are like me, you most likely already had most of these songs anyway, but there are a few I had not heard before. Also, it is very convenient to have all these great songs on one CD, providing a great introduction for those who are not as familiar with Latvian music.

Jauns mēness has two songs on the album, the early hits “Piekūns skrien debesīs” and “Kad mēness jūrā krīt” (which is probably my favorite Jauns mēness song of all time). It also shows how Jauns mēness could easily move between a melodic song like “Piekīns” and a hard-driving song like “Mēness.”

Jumprava is represented by its quirky hit “Peldētājs.” Upon first listen of this song many years ago, I could not believe that this could have been a hit, but hearing it now reminds me of its individuality.

One thing that left me a bit confused is that the band Pērkons is represented by the song “Gandrīz tautas dziesma.” Not that I doubt the greatness of this song, but in the liner notes, it is listed as being from 1992 when it originally was released in 1987. I surely will not argue with its inclusion here; it is truly one of the great Latvian rock songs.

Another Latvian folk-rock institution is Bet Bet. The band also get two songs on this collection: “Vakara vējā” and “Kapēc man nav sarkans mersedes.” The former is also one of my favorites, due to the beautiful lyrics and guitar melody that opens the song.

Though most of the songs on the CD are in rock style, pop and dance also put in appearances. The sentimental ballad “Kad man vairs nebūs 16,” performed by Olga and Bāze-7, is a song I had not heard before. I guess it is likeable in its own way, but perhaps a bit heavy on the syrup. Latvian dance duo 100. debija is represented with its version of the Jumprava classic “Vēlreiz.” I think that this is a very excellent reworking of the song. Also included is the slick 2000 hit “Baltā dziesma” by Raimonds Pauls, performed by Gunārs Kalniņš and Kristena. This song is very well produced, but is surely not for me—I skip it every time I listen to the album!

Hard rock fans will also rejoice, since hard rock stalwarts Linga and Līvi are included as well. Linga’s song “Spēle” (which took a few listens before I began to appreciate it) is a great heavy song, with a very catchy chorus. Līvi is represented by the big hit “Piedod man” (again with a simple but memorable chorus) and the appropriately titled “2001.”

Satirists and irreverent commentators Labvēligais tips also get two songs. These are “Alumūnijas cūka” (the original version, not the one from the band’s “best of” collection), and the tale of an out-of-control bus, “Omnibuss” (which has the last minute hacked off, probably due to time constraints).

No Latvian compilation would be complete without the music of Imants Kalniņš. The group Menuets performs “Alvas zaldātiņi” and Jauns mēness performs the hauntingly beautiful “Es redzēju sapnī,” highlighted by the textured keyboard part.

Veteran Latvian singer Igo also gets a song on this collection, “Bet dzīvē viss ir savadāk,” once again showing why he is remains one of the most popular singers.

And, of course, who could forget the biggest Latvian rock band at this time, Prāta Vētra? The band’s megahits “Tavas majas manā azotē” (probably my favorite Prāta Vētra song) and “Brīvdienas nav manas laimīgās dienas” add to the already bright star power of this record.

The liner notes on this record stink, however. You would figure that besides having the music of the 1990s, maybe MICREC could have had some commentary from some of the bands, giving their opinion of the decade. But what we get is two pages of advertisements for gasoline and hardware, among other things. I suppose I can’t complain too much, since it was these companies that made this record possible.

Summarizing all of the 1990s on one CD is an impossible task. However, this collection does an admirable job. Listeners could argue for hours on end about what should have been here, what should not have been here and so on, but if you are looking for a great introduction to Latvian music, look no further.