MOG

Beijing is being torn down. As the Chinese capital readies itself for the Olympics, the reconstruction taking its place is a modern metropolis that might look normal in just about any Western, media-soaked country. Against the backdrop of the slash-and-burn renovations, some of the folks in China aren’t as eager to cast aside their roots — certainly not for the sake of the world’s thirst for Olympic-sized entertainment.

Hanggai, a six-piece Mongolian-style folk band, are bringing their Chinese heritage back into the limelight. Lead singer, Ilchi, a former punk frontman, first founded Hanggai after traveling to his father’s homeland in China’s Inner Mongolia and studying traditional music and vocal techniques there.

So, what exactly does Mongolian folk music sound like? Honestly, it’s surprisingly diverse. There is not one particular niche style that all traditional Mongolian songs are structured around, but rather, a large set of techniques that can be (and are) used in a broad range of sounds, tempos, songs structures, and emotional values.

Each song on Hanggai’s album, for example, represents a different type of songwriting—and each extends far beyond Inner Mongolia. Introducing Hanggai has a lullaby ("Borulai"), a drinking song ("Drinking Song"), a war ballad ("Five Heroes"), a love song ("Haar Hu"), a heartbroken lament ("Flowers"), a tribute to nature ("Four Seasons"), and a handful of other folkloric, storytelling songs.

Hanggai’s vocal techniques have a consistently forceful, gravelly baritone timbre—a style of throat-singing called khoomii. Along with traditional techniques of singing and playing, Hanggai unsurprisingly use traditional Mongolian instruments which include a two-stringed lute called a tobshuur, a horse-hair fiddle called a morin khuur, cymbals, and even something similar to an Australian didgeridoo (what instrument that is, I am not entirely sure) heard in "Yekul Song."

The album begins with the spritely, almost bluegrass finger-plucked notes of "My Banjo and I" over hand-beat drums and sensitive, long-drawn bow strokes of these traditional Mongolian stringed instruments. This style of string-playing is intensely expressionistic; it has a similar effect to the way that classical ballet comes across visually. By the end of the album, the earnest tone of the vocal harmonies and stark, drum-less, stringed percussion of "Four Seasons"—a song of journeys and life cycles—leaves us with a sense of mourning, yet renewal. 

These are certainly no pop songs, and the record might not make for the most dance-worthy house party, but Hanggai’s music holds an important place in our repertoires of cultural identities. Amid all of the scarcely distinguishable new indie trends—power punk bands borrowing from punk bands of old—nu-metal bands recycling and regurgitating glam metal, but with boosted testosterone levels…well, it’s nice to hear folks embracing their roots every now and then. 

As Hanggai rediscover their musical heritage, we are fortunate enough to be able to discover it through them. That, I believe, is a privilege in which we should capitalize.