Singing in the forest

(VHQN) - Plênh took the guitar, then, half-kneeling, half-sitting, he began to sing. His voice, sometimes a murmur, sometimes soaring, the guitar releasing a slow melody, then a rapid one, at times seemingly about to burst forth, escaping from the small kitchen. A musical monologue, like fire, smoldering, then blazing...

The Co Tu people celebrate their village festival. Photo: Phuong Giang

I went to the mountains. There, I felt like I had wandered into another civilization, another world always full of novelty and surprises. There, the person opposite me, who just moments before had been silently drinking and laughing, suddenly transformed into an artist. A street singer. A storyteller...

By the fireplace

Plênh's house was nestled in the middle of Pơ'rning village. Next to the main house, Plênh built a small stilt house with a kitchen. That was our meeting place whenever we returned to visit him in the Tây Giang highlands.

During his travels to various villages, he quietly recorded, pieced together, and collected everything about the culture of his Co Tu people. Occasionally, he would bring back a gift: a polished buffalo horn trumpet, an abel string instrument, a small drum made of tanned buffalo hide, or clothing made from tree bark—things extremely rare in modern life.

Plênh knew a little about music theory. He taught himself how to play each instrument he brought home. He learned by ear and eye, by listening to the village elders sing. He also taught himself how to make musical instruments. "So that I can teach my children later. So that these things won't be lost," Plênh said, amidst the crackling sound of dry bamboo sticks being added to the stove.

We drank wine amidst the biting cold of the border region. Many jokingly called Plênh an artist of the forest. Plênh just smiled, waving his hand to decline the title. "I love the mountains, I love the forests, I love everything that belongs to this land. Music is an inseparable part of the cultural treasure of Tây Giang where I live," Plênh explained.

He spoke about the village elders of Tay Giang, the true artists of his homeland. There was Mr. Briu Po, the elder Clau Blao, or Mr. Alang Avel, respected village elders, living treasures of the Co Tu culture of his hometown. And then there was anyone else participating in the festivities who suddenly got inspired and started singing.

For them, music isn't for performance, but for sharing, for storytelling. A song isn't sung for applause, but simply to satisfy their own hearts. To let the forest know, "I'm still here." Plênh spread his hands, explaining.

That was the origin of musical instruments, made from simple materials found around them: a piece of wood, an empty condensed milk can, and a wire cut from a cable to create instruments similar to the "dan bau" (a type of Vietnamese stringed instrument), the khene (a type of bamboo flute), bamboo flutes, or even stones to strike to create rhythms. Each instrument tells a story, carrying the breath of the mountains and forests, of their ancestors, and of the days spent growing up in the woods.

“Musical instruments are not just objects, they have souls,” Plênh said. And that's true. When he beat the drum or picked up the guitar, I felt as if the whole forest came alive, I saw the Cơ Tu girls and boys joyfully dancing the tâng tung da dá to the heavens, I saw the nights of bonfires and singing to celebrate the new rice harvest...

Village artist

The people of the mountains sing as if they are speaking from the depths of their souls. Their melodies echo throughout the mountains and forests, needing no stage, no audience. Because they sing for themselves, for the love of music that originates from their primal consciousness, singing for the joy and happiness of life.

They have always been special artists of the village. They don't perform for fame; they simply sing out of a natural need. Their music is like breath, like a clear stream flowing through a mountain gorge—pure and full of emotion. Their voices rise amidst nature, blending with the wind, the birds, and the rustling leaves. It's like a magical interplay between humanity and nature, between the past and the present.

One year, I stopped in the mountains of Tra Cang (Nam Tra My) to find Mr. Ho Van Thap. Mr. Thap was one of the few people in the area who knew how to craft and perform the unique stone xylophone of the Sedang people. Villagers said that Mr. Thap made and played many of his own musical instruments. He sang at village festivals, by the campfire, and during joyful gatherings intoxicated by rice wine.

His singing and playing resonated like a sacred ritual for himself. There was no pattern. No preparation. No motif. He sang for pure joy, for the endless solitude of a village artist's life.

That is the natural and pristine artistic soul of the mountain people. They sing with all their hearts. They sing as a way to express themselves, to share their joys, sorrows, and even their dreams.

Through music, the mountain people find empathy and solace. Life is still full of hardship. But there, they are immersed in a different space, one that doesn't belong to the earth. The songs float over villages, over mountains, carried by the winds wandering somewhere in the forest.

The mountain people sing and live with the proud, simple yet profoundly meaningful spirit of artists. It's a very special kind of "civilization," one that never blends in, and nothing can contain or infringe upon it.

Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/hat-giua-mien-rung-3154056.html