The band from suburban Sydney that toured in the Soviet Union

It was an album of traditional folk music originating from the Finno-Ugric regions of Estonia and Ingria but deconstructed and reimagined with drum machines and synthesisers. “One could paraphrase the page of stuff that came with this CD and appear to be an expert on ancient Runic song but it's lost,” the reviewer reveals. “Not that it matters, because this will appeal more to techno fans than to folkies.”

The album in question was from Kiri-uu, a small choir sung by the children of refugees who fled the Baltic regions of Europe from the invading Soviets at the dawn of WWII and settled in the suburbs of Sydney. Based on the works of the great Estonian composer Veljo Tormis, Kiri-uu brought a touch of punk to culturally significant folk songs, which the band’s founding member Olev Muska was introduced to in 1970 as a first-generation Australian.

“We were known for being troublemakers and just annoying people by being rebellious,” Muska says of his reputation within the Australian-Estonian community.  “I'm a practical person. I'm thinking, well, we live here [in Australia]. We're not living over there. [The music] has got to make sense to who I am as a person right here, right now,” he says.

In a rite of passage familiar to many young first-generation Australians, Muska felt the need to break with tradition. Those culture customs, well, “they were really a bit naff, you know, I thought some of this stuff is daggy as all fuck,” he says. He started out singing in blues and rock bands but it wasn’t long before he realised that when he sang in Estonian, it felt far more natural. “I didn't feel like I was fighting it,” he says. 

In 1986, Muska and his friend Kaija Ann Meister formed a choir of fellow expatriates dedicated to reimagining the compositions of their beloved Veljo Tormis. It seems appropriate that the On The Street reviewer lost the record notes – Muska says he’s not entirely interested in the folklore and he doesn’t expect the listener to be either. “I thought particularly to an Australian audience, what the fuck would they know about these lyrics and all the lyrics are pretty ordinary anyway.” 

“I’m not interested in narrative at all,” Muska says. “I’m more interested in the way that the language sounds rather than the stories actually being told.” That’s reassuring to know because on first listen to Kiri-uu you might struggle to understand what you’re hearing. The foreign and haunting choral melodies paired with Muska’s ambient synthesis are an acquired taste. It demands a patient listen but it’s not without its rewards. Their song ‘Tšimmairuudiralla’, a proto-techno grail, caught the attention of Ziggy Devriendt (Nosedrip) and Fergus Clarke who reissued a selection of Kiri-uu songs on their label STROOM.TV in 2021. Japanese DJ Mori-Ra added a taste of 90s tribal in this crowd pleasing edit.  

Olev Muska (right) and Kiri-uu members meet composer Veljo Tormis (centre).

Muska’s recontextualised renditions were not primarily concerned with a continuation of national identity, a defining feature of folk music, even though they were heard that way by people from the motherland. Following the release of their debut album in 1988, the choir were well received in packed concert halls during a tour of Soviet Estonia the following year where they got the opportunity to meet Veljo Tormis himself.

“The reception we got in Estonia was fantastic. I mean, it was a hugely emotional time. You know, there was a lot of anxiety in the country about whether they'd be able to establish their freedom because the tanks were rolling in and when we're traveling around the country, there were long colonnades of military vehicles coming in from Russia and so the whole place was on the edge.”

Kiri-uu arrived at a pinnacle moment in Estonian history known as the Singing Revolution, a four year period where the Soviet occupiers were met with one of the most successful, peaceful mass protests in history, centred around a celebration of nation identity through song. Just one month before their arrival, in an event known as the Baltic Way, approximately two million people had formed a human chain of resistance spanning 675 kilometres across Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. 

“And here we are, little Sydney people born in Sydney and playing the traditional stuff in a way that was really of quite a high quality because we rehearsed for six months, two nights a week and the group were singing as if it was one voice. It was really disciplined. And just the color with the electronics and the costumes and things would have been quite a surprise. So we gained some notoriety over there.” 

The homecoming affected Muska emotionally for a long time after they returned to Sydney. So much so that it changed his outlook on his career in advertising as an art director. “I could never take that stuff seriously because there was this depth of cultural background that I'd been infused with and I felt I had to explore that because that was my very essence and my soul. So, you know, this other stuff about career and making a buck paled into insignificance next to that kind of a calling.”

A map of Kiri-uu's tour around Soviet Estonia in 1989

Kiri-uu’s music is not the kind that is usually made in Australia, as the Rolling Stone noted in a 1989 album review. “We tend to be too conversative and too unimaginative to deliver such unusual sounds and to experiment in such radical and unorthodox ways,” it said. A quick scroll through the current ARIA Top 50 Singles charts reveals that statement to be as true now as it was back then. But at the heart of it, what Muska is asking us to do isn’t that radical at all. Muska wants us to just listen to the music. Forget trying to derive meaning, “It’s more about the sound and colour.” 

‘Estonian Notes - Ukraine Emergency Appeal’ is an album by Olev Muska available on Bandcamp with all proceeds being donated to UNICEF Australia Ukraine Emergency Appeal: https://olevmuska.bandcamp.com