A primer on Latvian folk instruments

Although it is always the kokle that first comes to mind when talking about Latvian folk instruments, it is by far not the only one. Here, a brief overview of Latvian musical instruments.

Percussion instruments

Worldwide, percussion instruments are considered the oldest instruments. Most characteristic of the Latvian percussion instruments is the trideksnis (rattle stick), a short wooden handle with small metal pieces attached in rows around one end of the handle. The player shakes the trideksnis like a rattle or hits the handle against his or her other palm, which causes the metal pieces to jingle. Large rattle sticks, called velna bungas (literally, "devil’s drum"), are about 4 feet to 5 feet long and are struck against the floor. The eglīte, or bell tree, is a small spruce tree with the top branches folded down and tied to the center stem, with all sorts of bells, trinkets and decorations attached.

Although there is virtually no archaeological evidence of drums (bungas) in Latvia, it is known from the oral tradition and from historical writings that they were used as signal instruments—to signal a wedding party’s arrival, for example—and also played to accompany dance music.

Bells (zvani) had both a musical and a practical purpose (for example, to keep track of cows) and, though sometimes made of metal, were more commonly made of wood, which was much more plentiful in Latvia. Other percussion instruments include the triangle (trijstūris), buzzer (dūcenis), washboard (robdēlis), tambourine (sietiņš or bubins), and vargans, or Jew’s harp.

Wind instruments

The simplest and oldest of the wind instruments were the whistles (svilpes), which had at most one or two sound holes. They were made of bone, horn, shells, animal teeth, bark and clay. A specialty of Latgale to this day are clay whistles in the form of horses, birds and dragons (svilpaunieki). Stabules (recorders, reeds, flutes) have several sound holes and are made of bark, reeds or bone, but most often of wood. Both svilpes and stabules were favorite playthings of shepherds.

The ganu rags (literally, "shepherds’ horn") is basically a modified stabule. It is made of wood, but with an animal horn attached to enhance the sound. This clarinet-like instrument produces sound with a single reed. Unfortunately it is not heard all that often today. The somas dūkas or dūdas (bagpipe) has been played in Latvia since about the 16th century. It was usually made of sheep’s or goat’s skin, but sometimes even of seal’s or dog’s skin. The bagpipe was and still is a popular instrument, especially for dance and wedding music.

In Latvian, a horn or trumpet made of wood or bark is called a taure, while one made of actual horn is called a rags. Both were considered shepherds’ and young men’s instruments, played to pass the time in the fields, to signal the beginning and end of work, or when lots of noise was needed, such as during wedding celebrations and certain holidays.

Stringed instruments

The stringed instruments are generally more recent. Spēles and pūšļa vijole are primitive instruments that are hardly used anymore. Spēles looks like a hunting bow that is either plucked or a second bow is pulled across the string to produce sound. The player can bend the frame to change its pitch. Pūšļa vijole (literally, "bladder fiddle") is basically a string attached to a wooden base with a blown-up animal bladder acting as a resonator between the base and string. Again, sound is produced by pulling a bow across the string.

The ģīga (trough-fiddle) has a mysterious past—no one really knows where the instrument or its name came from or how old it is. It’s assumed that it is probably related to a similar instrument that was popular in Sweden in the mid-19th century. Also called vienstīdzis or divstīdzis (one-string or two-string), the ģīga is a long, rectangular (about 2 feet to 3 feet long, and 4 inches to 6 inches wide) hollow wooden box with one or two strings attached to the top. It is played horizontally on a table or lap, or less often held vertically, and played with a bow.

And the kokle… That best known of Latvian folk instruments and idyllic symbol of Latvian folk music. Its gentle strums evoke golden memories for most older Latvians, and it is not rare to find a kokle displayed on a prominent shelf in living rooms.

Although a very old instrument, the kokle is still played a lot and holds a special place of honor among Latvians, as well as Lithuanians (kankles), Estonians (kannele) and Finns (kantele). The zither-like instrument is a whittled-out wooden box with a thin wooden cover with sounding holes, often cut in beautiful patterns. Strings are strung across the top of the box in a ray form, that is, strung almost parallel to each other, but closer together on one end, wider apart on the other end. Each string is tuned to a different note in the scale. The oldest kokles have five strings, later versions up to 17 or even 23 strings. Modern "concert" kokles span three octaves and are able to play in all keys. The kokle is usually held in the player’s lap or set on a table, but sometimes it is hung around the player’s neck. Modern concert versions of the kokle are so huge that they must be placed on a stand in front of the player. With the left hand the player silences the strings he or she does not want to hear, while the right hand strums the remaining strings, forming the appropriate chords. Players sometimes also pick separate strings to accentuate melodies. The kokle was and is still used for all sorts of music and purposes.

Modern instruments

The accordion (akordeons), button-accordion (garmoška), violin (vijole), the cītara (chord-zither or dulcimer) or cimbole (cimbalom) are some of the more modern instruments that have made their way from other cultures into Latvian folk music and have found there a very welcome home. Both the accordion and the violin are heavily used to accompany Latvian songs and dances. The cītara is a mid-19th century introduction to Latvian folk music and has taken on a very prominent role in most rural ensembles (lauku kapelas), particularly in the eastern half of the country. The cimbole—similar to the cītara, it is trapezoid in shape and is played with two wooden mallets—is most often found in the southeast corner of Latvia near Belarus and is very similar to the Belorussian national folk instrument.

Now you’ll be able to recognize and know more about what you’re hearing the next time you pull out that folk recording!

Readjusting the school merry-go-round

Why jump on the Latvian school merry-go-round? In a some parts of the United States, Canada and Australia, as well as a few cities in the United Kingdom and Sweden, kids of Latvian descent—several hundred, maybe, in total—still attend Latvian Saturday or Sunday schools to learn the language and culture of their parents and grandparents.

Why? Their parents—who were, for the most part, born outside Latvia in the 1950s to the 1970s—still consider this a priority and are prepared to make the commitment of devoting their childrens’ (and their own) days off to this cause.

But why? Each parent has an individual answer to this question. The collective reason, however, is no longer a united one. Latvia is now a free country. Anyone of Latvian descent is now free to move to Latvia and raise their children there. No one will stop you. But many of us still remain in the countries where we were born, yet we want to raise our kids with the language and culture of our forefathers.

Gone are the days when stepping on the "Latvian carousel" was carried out as a duty to the homeland that was oppressed by the Soviets, when learning the language and culture was a "natural" thing: most of your friends and relatives were Latvian, and teaching the kids about their parents’ homeland seemed logical and important.

This present generation of parents now sending their children to Latvian school was born in the United States, Canada, Australia, the United Kingdoom, Germany or Sweden. For many, their Latvian identity was a small part of their whole persona. They were raised with the values of their country of birth. They, on the whole, spent most of their time with friends from their local school and, later on, their work community. They have married either local non-Latvians or have spouses of Latvian descent but who also were not born in Latvia.

Yet, some of these devoted 30- and 40-something Latvians around the world still wish to continue to devote part of their weekends to Latvian activities. The strange sense of "duty" is still there, but in varying degrees, of course. What is this duty to? Sometimes to their parents. They feel they would have let their kids’ grandparents down if they don’t make some sort of attempt at sending them to school. Some hope the school will teach them something because it’s difficult at home. Often, if their spouse does not speak the language, their children feel more comfortable and find it much easier speaking the language of the country of their birth. Others want to pass on the language and culture of their forefathers to their children. And still others can’t imagine not sending them to Latvian school because that’s what they had to do, so that’s what their kids are going to have to do, too!

After all, Latvian is not a language that parents would naturally choose as one that could be beneficial to their child and come in handy when travelling or for doing business in their future career. Nor is it considered as one of the classical languages, like Latin or ancient Greek.

What, then, should these children be learning at Latvian school, bearing in mind that we’re talking about a few (at the most four) hours per week?

The old school of teaching says we should teach Latvian grammar, literature, geography, history, and a smattering of folklore (songs, dancing, traditions).

Is this sort of a curriculum still relevant to second- and third-generation Latvian children born and living outside Latvia? Is the same style of teaching that we were brought up with on Saturday or Sunday mornings still an effective way of teaching the language and culture?

I would argue that the curriculum should reflect the changed perception of Latvia held by the parents, pupils and those teaching the language.

What is these kids’ perception of Latvia? They don’t have parents (or even grandparents) who can share with them their experiences of life in "Ulmaņa Latvija" (Latvia when it was led by Kārlis Ulmanis in the 1930s) and in their minds be able to conjure up the romantic or sentimental longing for a "fatherland." The parents and grandparents of this generation of children have a more objective view of Latvia based on either personal trips to Latvia in the past 10 years or news about life in Latvia today gleaned from printed and online media, as well as other travellers. And if there is a small group of grandparents who were children in Latvia before they emigrated during the Second World War and who still remember the Latvia of the 1930s, then more often than not, they have visited Latvia in the past decade and have a realistic view of Latvia today.

This current generation going through Latvian schools outside Latvia is:

  • vastly different to previous generations in terms of upbringing, expectations, knowledge about their Latvian heritage and the Latvian language, and blood nationality (many of these children are born into families where one parent is not Latvian). This means that merely using the textbooks used by Latvian children 20 or 30 years ago would not be the most effective way of teaching this subject.
  • vastly different to the generation of schoolchildren currently going through the education system in Latvia. This means that the educational methods employed in Latvia today cannot be simply transferred to the schools that are teaching the language and culture outside Latvia. And merely buying textbooks used in Latvia and presuming that these by themselves will solve all teaching problems would not suffice.

What to do?

First, teach the language (ideally, where resources permit, at two separate levels: to those who already speak Latvian in a home environment and to those who do not), incorporating the wide variety of resources available from Latvia today: books, magazines, newspapers, audio tapes, CDs, videos and anything else that teachers can utilise to make their lessons more interesting. A wealth of resources is available. It only takes a bit of organising to get them sent to your city. The literary classics should be taught to the children, bearing in mind their understanding of the language. If their understanding is limited it would be much more beneficial to create an interest in the written word by introducing other, more easily digestible literature, rather than forcing them to read works that will only create resentment within the children.

Second, teach the culture. This is an integral part of the process of learning to identify oneself as a Latvian. Give the children an understanding about the rich cultural traditions that they have inherited from their ancestors—folksongs, folkdances, festivals, traditions—and teach them to admire the uniqueness of this culture. This part of their education should be a particularly "fun" part. Most of the folklore can be taught in a hands-on way to really bring home the concepts and understand that the folklore was all tied in with the lifestyle and world view of their ancestors.

Third, teach the history. An important part of being Latvian is understanding what Latvians have gone through in the past, knowledge that can help one understand Latvia’s current trials and tribulations. The history should be taught, if possible, not through textbooks, but through literature, art, videos, personal documents and oral history.

Fourth, create opportunities for children to participate in activities where the whole school takes part. By feeling that they are part of a whole community, not just a single class or just their family, they hopefully will grow to enjoy the experiences they have had with "the Latvians," not just base their judgment on the classroom experience. Latvian summer camps play a major role in this process.

And, fifth, create opportunities for children to visit Latvia, if only for short periods of time. This will consolidate all they have learnt, and meeting with Latvians from Latvia (particularly children) would make the "Latvian experience" much more tangible and give a greater sense of purpose to the learning process.

Emphasis should be placed on learning everything in a fun way. Don’t forget that at their weekday schools children are taught subjects with a wide variety of audiovisual materials. Why not make use of every possible Latvian resource you can lay your hands on to make the learning process memorable and fun? Unfortunately, it’s not possible to use Latvian computer games as resources as they are hard to come by. However, teachers could alert their pupils to the fact that the Internet opens the door to hundreds of Latvian Web sites, some of which would be quite interesting to the children. Why not make use of the Internet as the basis for a research project? The kids would be surprised and delighted with what they can find!

I must stress that this is my personal opinion, based on my experiences within the Latvian community in Australia. I have attended Latvian Saturday school from age four to matriculation level. And I now have a five-year-old daughter who has just started attending Latvian school on a weekly basis on Saturday afternoons.

What is your view? Do you agree with this? Or do you have any other suggestions? What was your experience in the Latvian language schools of the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s and even 1990s? Are you currently teaching in a Latvian school outside Latvia? Do you have any teaching tips or successful methods you would like to share with others? By pooling our ideas together and learning from each other we can find better solutions to age-old problems and make our trip on the merry-go-round a bit smoother.

Daina Gross is editor of Latvians Online. An Australian-Latvian she is also a migration researcher at the University of Latvia, PhD from the University of Sussex, formerly a member of the board of the World Federation of Free Latvians, author and translator/ editor/ proofreader from Latvian into English of an eclectic mix of publications of different genres.

During Jāņi, we’re in for a very long night

In Latvia it’s easy to do. The night there is only a few hours long. But here where I live, even though the night is definitely shorter this time of year, it’s still dark for a good seven hours. Add on to that the fact that Jāņi celebrations here usually begin soon after dinner and it makes for a really long night: “You mean I’m supposed to stay awake for the whole thing?!” I’ll admit, I haven’t been able to do it for several years now.

According to Latvian tradition, those who sleep on Midsummer night (Jāņi) are doomed to sleep the whole summer—in other words, be lazy. Still to this day Jāņi is the biggest celebration of the year for Latvians, leaving in its shadow even Christmas. Originally a fertility festival, Jāņi marks the longest day and the shortest night of the year: the summer solstice. Astronomically speaking, the solstice usually falls on the 21st of June, but Latvians tend to celebrate on the night from June 23rd to the 24th. The 24th is the “names day” of all men named Jānis, hence Jāņi. The celebration is often called Līgosvētki (the 23rd is the “names day” for Līga), although Jāņi (Jāņudiena, Jāņunakts) is the older and therefore more traditional name, even though the proper name Jānis itself is most likely not Latvian in origin.

Latvians traditionally spent an awful lot of time preparing for Jāņi: cleaning, cooking, finishing farmwork, fixing up the yard, weeding the garden, washing clothes, decorating, brewing beer, etc. Think how crazy Americans become after Thanksgiving.

Once Jāņi arrived people often went from farm to farm, visiting neighbors and friends, singing and bringing with them good luck for the fields and cattle. Grass supposedly grows better in those places where līgotāji (those who sing “līgo,”  the typical refrain of Jāņi songs) have gone. That’s why they tried to walk past all of the fields. The hosts offered caraway cheese, pīrāgi and beer. A barrel full of tar was set on a pole and lit. Next to that blazed the bonfire. The fires were kept burning all night long so they would bring a good harvest to the fields and good health to the people. It was thought that the fields would be prosperous as far as the light from the fires shone, and that’s why hills were the optimal place for a Jāņi celebration, because the light shone farther from the higher elevation.

People still light bonfires and barrels of tar, eat cheese, pīrāgi and beer, and spend the night dancing and singing, laughing and visiting. The songs still often become teasing, obnoxious and risque, but no one takes lasting offence—it is a friendly and socially acceptable way to air grievances about others: “Pēteris is a lazy good-for-nothing!” “Kārlis has a long nose!” “Uldis lost his wife tonight!” “The girls are foolish for not letting me kiss them!” “Mārīte is round as a barrel!” etc. Every once in a while a young couple might wander off, supposedly in search of the mythical fern blossom. Of course, ferns don’t bloom, but who says you can’t look for it anyway!

Because all of nature is in full bloom at this time of year, flowers and grasses play a big part in the festivities. Many people carry tall grasses in their arms. Everything, including cattle and keyholes, is decorated with garlands, flowers and grasses. Jāņi is the best time of year to collect medicinal herbs—they’re said to be strongest then. All of the men and boys wear huge wreaths of oak leaves on their heads (the oak is the male symbol), while all women and girls wear wreaths of flowers. Because at other times during the year wreaths were traditionally worn only by unmarried women (married women wore scarves), no one knows at Jāņi just who is married and who isn’t; this tradition undoubtedly reminds us that Jāņi originated as a fertility festival. Does the Latvian birthrate really jump in late March, nine months after Jāņi? So I’ve heard.

Friends ask why we keep those dried flowers and leaves hung on our front door all year long. Those are our Jāņi wreaths from last summer, and we will throw them on this year’s Jāņi bonfire in order to get rid of the past year’s troubles and to start this year anew.

Because solstices were considered magical times, girls would sometimes do small rituals right at midnight to try to find out whom and when they would marry. Dew collected early the next morning was considered medicinal for humans, would ensure plentiful milk if given to cows, and would even repel flies if rubbed on barn ceilings. Jāņi night was also a prime time for witches’ activities, both good and evil.

Jāņi songs are often everybody’s favorites. With more than 2,000 melody variations, there are more songs for Jāņi than any other Latvian holiday. They do not have set texts, but singers are expected to improvise texts as the festivities go along. The typical refrain is “līgo,” and the songs have a lot of repetition, so that everybody can join in the singing. It is appropriate to start singing Jāņi songs a few weeks before the festival, and maybe a week or so afterwards, but they are out of place any other time of year.

You’re sure to find a Jāņi celebration almost anywhere there are a handful of Latvians. Some resemble the traditional festivities, down to the teasing songs and decorated keyholes. Others, both in Latvia and elsewhere, are unfortunately more like keg parties and rock music festivals. But at least you can find the obligatory bonfire pretty much anywhere. And, of course, beer. Probably that mild yellow caraway cheese, too.

So, find out about the Jāņi celebrations in your area, and go out next week to celebrate this ancient holiday!

Midsummer bonfire

A bonfire is an essential part of a Jāņi celebration, whether in Latvia or in the diaspora, such as this one in Wisconsin in 1999. (Photo by Andris Straumanis)