#kargyraa

[queercomposerkarlsson]

This piece takes you on at trip through central Siberia, from the throat-singing peoples and beautiful mountains in the south to the arctic tundra and deep shamanic traditions of the north.

This was my biggest project of 2023. I wrote this piece and an essay as my final degree project in composition, all about Siberian indigenousgroups and their music.

The essay (in Swedish) can be found here:

https://urn.kb.se/resolve?urn=urn:nbn:se:oru:diva-106984

#classicalmusic #contemporarymusic #composition #originalcomposition #music #orchestra #orchestralmusic #symphonyorchestra #chamberorchestra #siberia #indigenous #indigenoussiberia #altai #tuva #nganasan #throatsinging #khoomei #kargyraa #sygyt #shaman #shamanism #contrabassoon #bassclarinet #piccolo #youtube #Youtube

[just-otter-thoughts]

I JUST MANAGED TO SING KARGYRAA FOR LIKE TWO SECONDS???

I WAS DOING SYGYT AND I THINK I DID SOME MORE WEIRD CLOSURE AND THE SUBHARMONIC JUST HAPPENED!!! I WISH I WERE RECORDING

#throat singing #sygyt #kargyraa

[bluetapes]

blue forty-five: Soft-Bodied Humans x Abysmal Growls of Despair

Neck-snapping beats and pulverising, searching drones create a musical space that sometimes verges on a sort of industrial doom-gqom.

Check it out

#blue tapes #experimental music #tapes #abstract #cassettes #ambient #cyanotype #drone #noise #bandcamp #doom #throat singing #kargyraa

[fennessyofficial]

Sainkho Namtchylak is an experimental music artist known for her unique vocal style, especially in throat singing. Her diverse musical repertoire ranges from avant-garde jazz to electronic and traditional Tuvan music.

In Sainkho's music, you'll encounter a captivating ethnic allure. Her mastery of Mongolian throat singing techniques, including khoomei (throat singing), kargyraa (vocal fry), and sygyt (whistling), delivers a mesmerizing auditory journey!

#SainkhoNamtchylak #Experience the healing power of Sainkho Namtchylak's music! #Fennessy #Donuti5 #turntable #vinylrecord #musicsharing #In Sainkho's music #including khoomei (throat singing) #kargyraa (vocal fry) #and sygyt (whistling)

[max1461]

God I love the really growly shit. The real kargyraa kargyraa.

#myweirdmusictasteposting #Youtube

[heyhopperart]

🖤 Kargyraa throat singing 🖤

#shan yu #Tsetseg #Villain kids #Villain children #mulan 1998 #disney villain #disney fanart #shan yu x mulan #the huns #oc #heyhopperart

[rivet77]

do you have opinions on spiritbox?

also do you have any advice on how to get started and practice metal vocals?

Spiritbox is decent! Not my favorite band, but I can see the appeal, and I really liked Holy Roller & Blessed Be back when they came out.

As for metal vocals, I would recommend making sure you have a solid foundation when it comes to clean singing. Breath support & control, sustaining notes, warm-up routines, and becoming *very* familiar with the mechanics and anatomy of your mouth and throat. Once you have that down, I would start looking into one of two schools (you can do both eventually they're just slightly different): false cord, or fry screaming.

Experiment with tongue placement, mouth movement, etc and don't be afraid to make silly noises. You will look and even sound silly, it's kind of inevitable. Make a goal to be able to do ONE scream consistently and in a RELAXED fashion. Like, not much above talking volume. Screams don't need to be loud, you shouldn't need to push really hard, and if you experience any pain take a break and approach it differently.

The strain, anger, and loudness you perceive on the faces and necks of metal vocalists is almost all a performance. That, and vocal effects/mixing do a lot of heavy lifting. So be kind to yourself, practice a little every day, be patient, and you'll get there! (Also drink a LOT of water lol)

If you want a specific place to start, this may sound weird, but try to learn kargyraa throat singing. It gets you used to activating your false cords and has helped me immensely with my vocal quality.

#metalcore #metal screaming #screaming #metal vocals #vocals #advice #music #recording #metal #deathcore

[irithnova]

@hwsasiaweek

Mongolia: Music+Instruments/"These ghosts of old desire".

Also on AO3!

I attempted to mix the two prompts together lol idk how well it turned out though.

He fastened the final clasp of his ceremonial deel, stepping back slightly to get a better look of his full appearance. The fluttering chatter of the excited guests from outside fell flat against the door, leaving Mongolia in almost perfect solitude in the dimly lit, but homely dressing room.

Gingerly adjusting his fur hat, his vision was glittered with the brilliant colours of his garment. The light - though subtle, captured the delicate glimmer of the golden thread against the sheeny blue silk. It cast an intricate floral design, meticulously and expertly woven, reminiscent of the yellow poppies that would sprout upwards towards the blue sky during the height of his country's summer.

A black velvet trim - though a stark contrast, complemented the regal outfit, and Mongolia himself was in awe of the beauty of the fabric. He turned his body every so often to observe how the dainty patterns and colours seemingly glowed when they caught the light.

He finally shifted his gaze. The Mongol swiftly walked over to where he propped his morin khuur, lacquered and lustrous, and tenderly traced his finger against the curvature of the carved horse head, trailing it down to feel the angular outline of the carved ulzii symbol against his flesh.

It's been a while since he's given a performance like this. But he had no qualms about his ability.

This is an art that he's perfected.

There was one thing though. One thing - one song, that caused a twinge of apprehension to ache in the depths of his stomach when he thought about it. An old tune…

Ah.

He glanced at the clock. It was time.

Picking up his instrument, he made a tentative tread towards the door, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness of the room, and walked out.

________________________________________

The chatter dampened as Mongolia made his way on stage, the audience's eyes now planted on him in eager anticipation. 

He caught a glimpse of a few of the nations who were peppered throughout the crowd, all of them on a diplomatic visit. Upon seeing South Korea's wide grin, he fought the urge to smile back. Instead, he turned to face behind himself, giving a small nod and smile to the musicians who already took their places.

All of them were clothed in a sumptuous, silky white. The headpieces that were sat on top of the woman performers framed their faces prettily, strings of pearls hanging like decorative curtains past their cheekbones. They were all seated with their respective instruments, broad yatga with its silver strings beneath one, the slim, elongated flute of the tsuur in the hands of another. It was all coming together.

Mongolia perched himself upon the chair placed for him in front of the other performers. His morin khuur sat comfortably in his lap as he dragged his bow against the string, his cured fingers fluently finding their rightful positions against it as he began his first song, purely in the kargyraa register. For now.

The air was filled with the sound of his deep, guttural voice. It was almost as if he was growling. The Mongol could feel the deep vibrations oscillating intensely through his throat and chest, and noticed how the sheer volume of his voice caught some people off-guard.

Of course, throat singing is ideally performed amongst the wide open plains, with nothing acting as an obstacle to the sound for miles. It sounded a hell of a lot louder when performed indoors, even if it was in a hall.

Song after song came, diverse in their sounds and topics but all as equally as mesmerising as the other. However, he did not just sing in kargyraa. But khoomei and sygyt too, khoomei being slightly softer compared to kargyraa. He relaxed his abdomen as he sang, lessening the tension in his larynx, mouth contorting itself in every which way to manipulate the melodies that danced from his throat.

The way the sound whirled throughout the great hall was evocative of how the wind passes through cobbles of large stone on the steppe, the sounds not dissimilar. After all, the original intent of throat singing was to imitate nature.

His sygyt, though, was truly something to behold.

He manipulated the shape of his mouth once more, sealing his tongue around his gums, behind the teeth, leaving a small opening near the right side of his molars. His mouth positioned itself effortlessly to accommodate this style. The tension built and fell in his throat as he fluidly switched from khoomei to sygyt and back again, the vibrations even reaching his sinuses when he'd switch to sygyt.

The audience sat firmly in their seats, utterly enchanted by the alien whistling noise being emitted from the man's mouth. They watched intently at the way he'd hold a linear sygyt note with ease, eyes scrunched shut and brows knitted together. They listened in astonishment at how he could rapidly ripple his voice, matching the quickened speed of which he played his morin khuur, imitating the steady rhythm of a horse on a speedy trot.

Like the sound of a family of birds gliding freely across the blue sky, his harmonious voice, too, travelled freely throughout the hall. The shrill but soft sound fell gracefully against the ears of the audience.

After finishing the penultimate song, he turned his head to catch his breath, the audience's boisterous applause dimmed by the sick feeling in his stomach he felt before he came on stage.

He silently cursed himself for choosing this song to be his final - Ertnii Saikhan. A tune that - though cheerful, caused his heart to ache and swell with bitter, painful nostalgia.

At the time, it felt like a good idea. Surely he was over it by now, right? Plus it couldn't all just be throat singing, the Mongolian long song is also a beautiful art. Ertnii Saikhan seemed like a great choice at the time, but now, he wasn't so sure.

As he opened his mouth to give his final performance, his piercing voice ringing throughout the hall, he remembered a time, long ago. A time when this powerful song was just a gentle, muted hum, lulling a squirming child to sleep.

He remembered how small he used to be, how he was weightless in the cradle of his arms. The way his fragile fingers peaked curiously from beneath the layers of fur, instinctually finding something to grab on to. He remembered how the gentle, glowing light from the sun fell through the tonoo of his ger, casting its pleasant warmth across the child's face, his dark eyes shifting to a subtle, golden hue.

He was a glowfly amongst the vastness of the forest, a star amongst the boundless black sky.

His son.

He gave a final drag of his bow against his fiddle, executing the last note as his voice fizzled out, drowned by the loud praise of the crowd. He didn't realise it at first, but his eyes were glassy with warm wetness, gravity threatening it's fall.

Turning away from the crowd, he stood up and gave a meek bow before gesturing for the other musicians to stand and receive their praise.

He swiftly made his way off of the stage, eyes downcast, unable to deal with being haunted by the ghosts of old desire.

End notes:

Deel - (From UNESCO) Deel is traditional Mongol clothing consisting of a caftan-like long garment, sash, belt, hat and boots. Every ethnic group has created and developed its own unique style, design and decorations, embodying specific features of their culture, origins and historic background.

Morin Khuur - Mongolian horse head fiddle

Ulzii/Ulzii symbol - Buddhist endless knot symbol that's widely used in Mongolia

Yatga - (Wikipedia) traditional plucked zither of Mongolia

Tsuur - (Wikipedia) end-blown flute of varying lengths that is common among Inner Asian pastoralists

Kargyraa, Khoomei and sygyt are different registers of throat signing, kargyraa being the lowest and sygyt being the highest, khoomei being kind of a middle ground. Khoomei is also used as a generic word to describe throat singing amongst Mongolians. Honestly go and check it out for yourself, I can't describe in words how great it sounds (even though I tried to in this fic lmao).

Mongolian long song - (Wikipedia) The long song is one of the central elements of the traditional music of Mongolia. This genre is called "Long song" not only because the songs are long, but also because each syllable of text is extended for a long duration. A four-minute song may only consist of ten words

Ertnii Saikhan - A Mongolian long song. Some researchers speculate that this was the first hymn of the Mongol empire, which is why I chose this song.

Ger - Traditional Mongolian home, a portable, round tent covered and insulated with skins or felt.

Tonoo - The upper ring/roof of the ger, which allows air to circulate through the tent, supported by two pillars (bagana). When cooking, the felt is taken off of the tonoo to allow the smoke out. When it's cold, the felt is put over the tonoo again to keep the heat in.

#Hwsasiaweek #Aph mongolia #Hws mongolia #Hetalia mongolia #Hetalia #hetalia world twinkle #hetalia world stars #hetalia world series #aph south korea #hws south korea #hetalia south korea #aph golden horde #hws golden horde #Hetalia golden horde

[urukuduk]

got tagged by @foxoftheasterisk: “rules: spell out your url with song titles, then tag as many people as there are letters in your url.”

usseewa [Ado. I listen to a lotta her stuff when writin' fanfiction, and her debut single is high on th' list after th' Bon-Odo remix of Odo, and her cover of Bocca della Verità]

rocket roll [the Phenomenauts. Love me some sci-fi rockabilly]

una matika de ruda [traditional Sefardi song. So una djudia orgolyosa!]

kuso breakin' nō breakin' lily [Maximum the Hormone. They might be better-known fer the Death Note anime themes, but this is my favrit song of theirs after Buiikikaesu. It's super-cheery soundin' with Nao's peppy vocals on the incredibly fucked up lyrics about an old woman's body crappin' out on her]

un'incantesimo dischiuso tra i petali del tempo [Cristina D'Avena, th' Italian dub opening to the Slayers. I first heard it as a teenager usin' file-sharing software t'find anything and everything related to my favrit anime at th' time, and it was stuck in my head for over two decades since]

dance with me johnny [the Mollys, a disbanded folk group that my mom got me inta. They've got a kinda Celtic Mexican Polka thing goin' on]

unpronounceable [They Might be Giants, natch]

kiaa-khem [Yat-Kha, an awesome Tuvan rock band whose lead vocalist throws in a lotta kargyraa throat-singin']

guess i'll tag... @fraylin @dzhukhe @faxedstar @ayellowbirds and @neveyleh cuz they're my headmates, and @kobold-royalty @transpanda-1 and @dragonprincesalt

[gothprentiss]

the devil went down to quantico pt3 (1.5k words)

set post demonology, premise is prentiss is actually possessed at the end of it, inspired by the exorcist; [pt 1 (prologue) | pt 2 (prentiss pov)]

reid pov, first of a 2 parter. jumping forward here to possession manifesting in bau.

“You? You? You?” The voice was terrible. It rasped and pitched, and wound around him; it seemed to emanate from everywhere but the quaking form before him.

From the years 1977 to 1979 Janet Hodgson produced a convincingly sepulchral voice, likely from the vestibular folds of her larynx, as evidence of poltergeist activity … Like kargyraa or heavy metal growls … the effect is guttural, ruptive vocality, the simultaneous production of two vocal pitches, and no lasting dysphonia …

He thought if he told himself this enough it would take on the feeling of truth. Even less plausible was how she knew he was there, staring her down through the reciprocal mirror: profiling only looked clairvoyant to those who weren't in the know. It relied on patterns and order. Everything was disorder now, unknowable: he feinted right and she jolted with him, leaned mockingly forward when he stepped back.

“You, exorcist? Godless, lifeless, purposeless— you, exorcist?”

That almost scans, he thought miserably. It had a sense of meter because of how it racked through her body, stressed syllables spasming along her outstretched arms and upturned palms. He thought back, god, years now, to Emily poking his cheek on the jet, her characteristic mischievous dryness: so lifelike. Demons, he thought, were supposed to speak out loud the things you couldn't speak, or hadn't: dark secrets, unconfessed sins. This sounded more like the beginning of a half-baked profile. Married to the work, as it were; goes home alone; lives an empty, rationalistic life, finds only minor, smug joys in it. And so it would go. Mommy issues, daddy issues, the good doctor a bundle of half-exposed neuroses waiting, ripe, for Emily’s bare teeth to plunge into them.

“You're a wicked piece of shit! You want your father dead, you want your mother dead— are you pretending this isn't real so you can pretend you're not full of rotten SIN?”

He said nothing. The ideas didn't hurt, not really— in some dark night of the soul he knew he might one day walk through, he might well level the same accusations at himself. But there was a sting to it, the sting of a furtive, peripheral glance, an appraising, judging eye. A whisper in the hallway, its syllables blurred but still discernible as his own name.

Demonic possession, he thought, was a diagnosis borne of desperate, needful hope. It was the hope that the ones you loved could not see you as you were, and were empty of the vastness of cruelty in the world. A mother thought, I should never fear my child, Q.E.D. ... Its corollary hope was that they were only right because of cosmic intervention. Without demonic intervention, the world you confronted was arbitrary and malicious: right under the surface of things, welling up through fractures and fissures, was meaninglessness, which was the same as evil.

Emily stood up, and her head tilted as she regarded the reciprocal mirror which— again— she should not have been able to see through. And it tilted further, degree by degree, to an angle that seemed to teeter on the edge of biological possibility. Her arms trembled, shoulders juddering up and down, like she might explode into a thousand pieces of defective clockwork. Like there was a second ghost in the machine, jamming it. She stepped forward in slow, odd lurches, until she was inches away. He fought the urge to take another step back. The lines of her face seemed alien, even as they were so painfully familiar. She was deathly pallid, as if carved from stone, an impression reinforced by the unnatural stillness of her usually animated features. When she spoke, nothing moved but her mouth.

“Ah. I see. Too smart for this, aren't you, Doctor? It's just a profile, isn't it, Doctor? Just vocal effects, just a collection of half-remembered facts and deductions, just psychosis circling the drain of this vapid little mind's worst suspicions. If that's true, you win, boy. Something very nasty and small in you is vindicated, isn't it?”

 He said nothing.

Two knuckles of Emily’s right hand rapped on the glass. “I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE…”

The sound of heels slapping irregularly on linoleum interrupted the impasse. Penelope, winded, flushed red with panic and exertion, holding in her hand a thin binder covered in—

“Is that duct tape?”

“Ye— yeah. Story for later, if there is a later. It's the 50s Roman Ritual, Latin and English—”

Reid took it from her hand, and leafed through it. It was only the exorcism ritual, printed in lurid black and red on printer paper, with a series of early modern-looking woodcuts, dubiously demonic, interspersed throughout. The duct tape binder was also red and black, like the ritual needed a mall goth twist. He knew, roughly, the structure, and less roughly the symptoms— sudden fluency in unknown languages, impossible knowledge and clairvoyance, preternatural faculties of mind and body, and then, plurima concurrunt, they built a case. The problem was that the symptoms are highly publicized. If one were to, say, experience a delusion of possession, then the only limit to its believability would be the psychotic's own faculties, and knowledge of the appropriate literature. A vivid imagination could do a lot with The Exorcist alone. Emily's mind, he thought miserably, had probably more faculties at its disposal than religious mania typically got to play with.

“Why do you have this? Is it legitimate?” He asked because it felt like an appropriate question. It was unimaginable that it mattered. Vatican authorization would, but that had never been an option, and scarcely worth thinking. Otherwise the rite was largely impromptu and malleable, its efficacy less dependent on particular ritual structures than on the personal and institutional support of the exorcist. He remembered Father Silvano performing the rite in English, as if the possessed themselves were listening. Some concession to the families, maybe, or guilty refusal to profane the more traditional form of the rite with murder.

Maybe those racking shudders moving Emily's shoulder blades like tectonic plates were stifled demonic laughter. Again, he rehearsed the logic: it's psychogenic nonepileptic seizures. It's stress. It's the setting; like Anneliese Michel, the confluence of psychological crisis and Catholic belief breeding the delusion of possession. Hysterical strength. What Freud would call the death drive. Emily's breadth of knowledge to deploy; profiles, languages, past cases— and anything else they didn't know about her. The Catholic upbringing never came up before this. He wasn't even sure she did believe, but nonbelief had never been a true barrier to religious mania.

“Some of my witchier friends were into that dark hand path stuff? I— um— I don't know how accurate it is, I think it was pre-Vatican II because extra Catholic? I only had it here because Kevin was— well, I already said later, it doesn't matter. It's just the only thing I have on hand that I think could be useful at all—”

Reid nodded grimly. The wildness in Garcia's eyes was no doubt a mirror of his own— here they were, in a place beyond order, following whatever logic they could scavenge. Later, he knew, he would feel that he hadn't been himself during all this, and that none of them had. The idiom was acting like a man possessed. The idea of it was manic excitement, but they were all running cool. Garcia's shoulders were set with a grim determination he knew he'd never seen in her before. She was flushed and skittering through the halls, speaking out of tempo with her racing mind, but her bearing was solid, her posture almost regal. The same must have been true for him— the lancing tension in his neck was also keeping it higher. His hands were clammy but they were still.

We're rising to the challenge, he thought, and immediately rejected the idea. It was fairytale nonsense, from the same universe of fictionality as the idea of demonic possession.

Campbell, he reminded himself, has been rightly discredited.

But inexorably in his mind, parallel to that knowledge, was the structure of the hero's journey. This their supernatural assistance (divine?); to come, the first threshold. The door to the interview room seemed to burn in his mind.

Rarely did he have to remind himself so urgently to be rational. The hero's journey was a trial of the self; it brought the hero to rights with his cosmic system. That evil was vanquished and order restored was largely secondary. It's bullshit. You're being stupid.

Garcia spoke, breaking his mounting frustration. "Is anyone— you know. Seriously going to do an exorcism?”

"No, I— no. Rossi’s getting her a doctor. We can't feed the delusion.”

Penelope rested a shaking, clammy hand on his wrist. "Right. Yeah. Um— what’s going to happen?”

Emily suddenly and dreadfully stilled.

Coarse and hollow, the voice came again: “Come up, Reid! Come up, you fearful jesuit!”

“What?”

Reid blinked, furrowed his eyes. There— on Emily’s bookshelf. Under a tall, cream-colored candle in amber glass: Joyce’s Ulysses. A copy of Dubliners leaning against the candle, its spine creased, colors chipped off.

#i'll post the other half later i'm basically just dropping these as i remember them lol #fic #again caveat i'm posting this bc it's seasonal and i'm never gonna finish this / if i did it would need some serious overhauling #so wcyd #q*fic

[mjrtaurus]

Been learning Kargyraa to freak out my hyper-religious grandmother.

It's fun.

[just-otter-thoughts]

Gunk in my vocal folds my khoomei sounds like khovu kargyraa :(

#throat singing #khoomei #khovu kargyraa

[bluetapes]

Nice review of the brand new Soft-Bodied Humans EP up at GonzoKaraoke.

Click here to read more.

Check out the sonics over here:

#blue tapes #experimental music #tapes #abstract #cassettes #ambient #cyanotype #drone #noise #bandcamp #doom #death metal #kargyraa #throat singing #post punk #grime

[genghisyajj]

personally i think delay lama should be able to sing kargyraa or perhaps sygyt

[sjrbs]

从心底深处而发的声音… #图瓦族人居住在群山高原，呼麦大多数是模仿大自然中的声音，人类用模仿来对抗恐惧。Kargyraa模仿的就是辽阔自然中风吹过山坳和骆驼牦牛的叫声。

从心底深处而发的声音… #图瓦族人居住在群山高原，呼麦大多数是模仿大自然中的声音，人类用模仿来对抗恐惧。Kargyraa模仿的就是辽阔自然中风吹过山坳和骆驼牦牛的叫声。

从心底深处而发的声音…#图瓦族人居住在群山高原，呼麦大多数是模仿大自然中的声音，人类用模仿来对抗恐惧。Kargyraa模仿的就是辽阔自然中风吹过山坳和骆驼牦牛的叫声。 pic.twitter.com/0gZE1iSO6U— 禅是禅非 (@cansuicanfei) September 8, 2022

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[9-wing-1]

Kargyraa Kegdiresh

#my view #digital art #kargyraa #tuvan throat singing