★★★★☆
Shopsh is a challenging but rewarding listen that offers a rare, curated glimpse into Circassian vocal music performed by a variety of artists.
As a diaspora Circassian, I grew up listening to Circassian music, be it folk music played on an accordion or pop music straight out of the North Caucasus.
It took me well into my teenage years to discover facets that, to me, felt shunned by modern Circassian musicians, including music played with the schichepshin (‘horse-tail instrument’, the Circassian fiddle), or the melodies led by the qamyl (‘flute’).
One such musical style that eluded me for years was zhiu or yezhiu, the Circassian name for vocal or polyphonic music. It more or less constitutes a genre of its own and has been used as a vessel to pass down oral tradition over the ages.
While modern Circassian pop and traditional music feature zhiu, it is accompanied by other instruments and is treated as more of a complementary addition. Shopsh on the other hand is a compilation that features exclusively vocal music, aside from one track.
In an accompanying essay published by Ored Recordings with their album Shopsh, the label’s co-founder, Bulat Khalilov, says that a big part of zhiu is group singing, with the lead voice carrying the main melody, ‘while the others hold a choral drone or a call-and-response’.
‘Like in many cultures, group singing wasn’t just about music — it was a way to be together, to make a space for cultural and social connection’, he wrote.
Songs I’ve heard in that style were dedicated to mythological figures from the Nart Epics or long-forgotten deities who watched over forests. I think the most well-preserved stories spoke of the Russian conquest of the Caucasus and the subsequent genocide of the Circassians. Many told stories of local heroes and their feats, while others were celebratory and almost ritualistic in nature.
Shopsh is all of this and more; it’s a mostly unadulterated exploration of musical traditions that were sidelined in favour of more digestible music. It is often slow, solemn, and droning.
After all, this kind of singing and music was made to be enjoyed by groups of people who can take part in the performance or the story being told.
That is not to say that I don’t recommend you give this a listen because there is much to appreciate in Shopsh.
The artists featured in the release, both young and old, are deliberate in their delivery of the songs. If you know much about the Circassian language, you probably know that it’s a bit unforgiving. Khalilov aptly describes the language of old songs as ‘tough’ — ‘The phrasing is complex, the phonetics brutal’, he writes.
Ored’s production is also masterful. Khalilov and his fellow co-founder, Timur Kodzoko, have impressively wandered throughout the Caucasus to record songs and music. Sometimes these were recorded at people’s homes; others at dinner parties, or as they are being performed in concert.
Shopsh’s raw production captures every minute detail in the performers’ voices as they sing and chant. This pays off, because many of the voices of many of the leading performers featured here do command a sort of awe.
‘Qaraqashtau Zawa’ as performed by Zaur Nagoy and Jrpjej, Ored’s flagship musical group does sound like it received more treatment than others on the compilation, but it still stands out as a highlight, with Nagoy leading the vocals and chants on the track.
Zamudin Guche (Guchev), a veteran of Circassian music whose praises are often sung by Ored, also makes an appearance on the compilation with his version of the song ‘Nart Shabatynyqo’. This cut is the only one on the release to feature any instrumental music, with Guchev playing the schichepshin as he sings.
Ramazan Daur and Kazbek Nagaroko’s rendition of the same song also stands out, with powerful vocal performance leading the zhiu.
Shopsh also features two other recordings of songs dedicated to Nart heroes — one about Peterez, performed by a group of what sounds like younger performers, and another about Ashemez, performed by Zhiu — the musical ensemble formed by Guchev named after the vocal technique.
This rendition of Ashemez stands out in stark contrast to the one I am most used to, Vladimir Baragunov’s performance. In his essay, Khalilov briefly touches on Baragunov’s work, saying that although he worked with traditional material, he ‘filtered it through academic choirs or orchestras’.
I do prefer Baragunov’s version, but there is something comical about Zhiu’s more upbeat and almost cheerful performance, especially given the subject matter of the story which sees the titular character, Ashemez, trying to ascertain the identity of the man who murdered his father in order to seek revenge against him.
‘Qerbech’, performed by Muhamed Batit & Kavkaz Ensemble, is also worth a listen, going toe-to-toe with Khusen Maremukov’s bigger and louder version.
I’ve mentioned Khalilov’s essay multiple times throughout this article, and that’s primarily because Ored Recordings’ liner notes are an essential part in experiencing the music they release.
In his essay, Khalilov reflects on what he calls a ‘paradox within Circassian music today: how a culture with rich vocal traditions has, in a sense, sidelined its most distinctive feature, the polyphonic vocal technique of zhiu’.
Throughout the essay, Khalilov talks about how Circassian music has evolved and how traditional folk music is experiencing a revival in recent years. However, he notes that modern Circassian music mostly revolves around instruments, shunning zhiu, which he calls ‘the secret ingredient. The thing that gives it a punch’.
He laments polyphonic techniques lost to time, citing research describing zhiu structures that are nowhere near being mainstream (at least as mainstream as Circassian music can get).
‘In some archival recordings, old men harmonise with each other in intricate, almost avant-garde ways. That kind of singing can still be revived. Or at least imagined. Maybe even pushed further’, he writes. ‘But right now? Everyone’s too busy experimenting with synths, guitars, baroque instruments, and FX chains’.
Towards the end of his essay, Khalilov calls Shopsh a ‘gentle shout’ and a ‘reminder that there are still parts of our music that haven’t been explored. That still holds secrets that could spark something new’.
‘Let’s call this a starting point. A reminder that even the quietest voice can carry a tradition forward’, he concludes.
Shopsh is not Ored Recordings’ best release yet, and while it is a challenging listen, it definitely worth experiencing for how it remains so unabashedly true to vocal traditions long-forgotten by Circassian musicians.
I also wholeheartedly recommend you give the essay written by Khalilov on the occasion of Shopsh’s release a read for an insightful introspection on how traditional Circassian music is being revived by younger generations.
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