One week ago Ulla, Dagmara, Herve and I attended the gala
final performance of the Latvian Song & Dance Festival. The event is held
every 5 years, inspires Olympics-style excitement and fanfare, and is apparently
the largest, loudest expression of Latvian national identity there is. It’s a
massive event by any standard, with something like 15k each of singers and
dancers taking part. I’m told tickets sold out in one or two hours. The crowd
at the Mežaparks amphitheater was huge, international
(many diaspora Latvians came for the festival), and by Latvian standards, quite
jubilant. The forest around the purpose-built, Stalin-era amphitheater is tall
and encircling, strung with lights and full of food stalls & people. A middle-aged
American from Indiana, Mike, engaged us (“does anyone around here speak English?”)
to translate his thanks to the elderly couple who’d sold him his seat. The seat
was a birthday gift from his Latvian girlfriend, who had recently obtained her American
citizenship and owns a small cleaning business in Indianapolis; they were
only able to get one. Mike had attended many of the song & dance
events throughout the week, and spoke about them as a connoisseur.
At exactly 7pm, thousands of people from hundreds of choirs, in a panoply of traditional dress, mounted the amphitheater grandstands in orderly rows and patterns, evoking, from our distance, the shape of ancient Latvian runes. The choirs came from all over Latvia, and many from Latvian diaspora communities. The program was to span 5 hours, with two breaks during which the entire, thousands-strong choir emptied out of the stands and filed past the still-seated audience. The Latvian president spoke, and the German president was in attendance as a state guest. With each song came a new conductor or choirmaster, and one of these was an 100-year old diaspora Latvian who had lived half of his life following World War II in the United States. He conducted his way through the national anthem spryly and with feeling; he had come back to Latvia to die, he said, near “mirror-lakes and forests.” The effect of all those thousands of people singing together is something remarkable & moving, even if the first dozen or so songs on the program were a little downbeat. After the programmed part of the event wrapped up- around midnight- the audience and choirs mingled and drank and sang around the Mežaparks venue until 4am. We left much earlier than that, riding the atypically jam-packed tram back to where the car was parked, getting home just in time to catch Ulla’s and her mother’s favorite song on TV around midnight. Strangely but intriguingly, one of the participating choirs this year was from Japan. Their leader was a young Japanese fellow who had become interested in Latvian culture and song, and had organized a Latvian choir in his home country. In a television interview, he appeared to speak fluent Latvian.
At exactly 7pm, thousands of people from hundreds of choirs, in a panoply of traditional dress, mounted the amphitheater grandstands in orderly rows and patterns, evoking, from our distance, the shape of ancient Latvian runes. The choirs came from all over Latvia, and many from Latvian diaspora communities. The program was to span 5 hours, with two breaks during which the entire, thousands-strong choir emptied out of the stands and filed past the still-seated audience. The Latvian president spoke, and the German president was in attendance as a state guest. With each song came a new conductor or choirmaster, and one of these was an 100-year old diaspora Latvian who had lived half of his life following World War II in the United States. He conducted his way through the national anthem spryly and with feeling; he had come back to Latvia to die, he said, near “mirror-lakes and forests.” The effect of all those thousands of people singing together is something remarkable & moving, even if the first dozen or so songs on the program were a little downbeat. After the programmed part of the event wrapped up- around midnight- the audience and choirs mingled and drank and sang around the Mežaparks venue until 4am. We left much earlier than that, riding the atypically jam-packed tram back to where the car was parked, getting home just in time to catch Ulla’s and her mother’s favorite song on TV around midnight. Strangely but intriguingly, one of the participating choirs this year was from Japan. Their leader was a young Japanese fellow who had become interested in Latvian culture and song, and had organized a Latvian choir in his home country. In a television interview, he appeared to speak fluent Latvian.
It’s been a month since I left the States! I
arrived in Latvia at a very good time. Between Ligo, the Song festival, and the
atypically balmy summer this year, I’ve been very lucky, and feel I’ve had a
good introduction to the country and its culture. Dagmara is a sociologist and
specialist in Latvian identity studies, so I’ve never had to look far for
answers to my many questions! Next time,
I’ll talk about food.
(the last video is of Ulla's favorite song, and definitely worth a watch. It captures the spirit and atmosphere)
(the last video is of Ulla's favorite song, and definitely worth a watch. It captures the spirit and atmosphere)
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