URTIIN
DUU:


PERFORMING
MUSICAL
LANDSCAPES
AND
THE
MONGOLIAN
NATION









BY



LILIANA
CARRIZO











THESIS



Submitted
in
partial
fulfillment
of
the
requirements


for
the
degree
of
Master
of
Music
in
Music


with
a
concentration
in
Musicology

in
the
Graduate
College
of
the


University
of
Illinois
at
Urbana‐Champaign,
2010



Urbana,
Illinois




 Master’s
Committee:




 
 
 Donna
A.
Buchanan,
Associate
Professor


 
 
 Gabriel
Solis,
Associate
Professor









ABSTRACT



Urtiin
duu,
or
Mongolian
long
song,
is
a
vocal
genre
prevalent
throughout
Mongolia
and

especially
common
among
mobile
pastoralists
of
the
central
Gobi
steppe.
Based
on

fieldwork
conducted
in
2001,
2004,
and
2006
in
Dundgovi
province
and
Ulaanbaatar,
this

thesis
focuses
on
urtiin
duu
as
a
marker
of
regional
and
national
identity.
Urtiin
duu
signify

various
levels
of
meaning
for
performers
and
listeners
alike.
Through
the
mimesis
of

landscape
topography
in
melodic
contour,
these
songs
have
become
powerful
emblems
of

clan
identity
important
to
Chinggis
Khan’s
legacy.
Their
melodic
contours
allude
to

landscape
deities,
or
ezen,
associated
with
particular
geographical
formations
and
regional

topographies,
and
their
texts
often
praise
important
Tibetan
Buddhist
deities
or
monks.
A

musical
tool
utilized
in
efforts
to
calm
and
soothe
livestock,
these
songs
also
form
an

important
component
of
various
mobile
pastoral
herding
practices.
During
Mongolia’s

socialist
era
(1921–1990),
however,
urtiin
duu
were
invariably
implicated
in
processes
of

cultural
modernization
and
reform,
during
which
time
the
genre’s
performance
context
and

associated
meanings
were
largely
transformed.
Although
these
songs
continued
to
be

performed
in
the
domestic
sphere,
they
were
also
increasingly
performed
at
large,
staged

gatherings
in
support
of
the
Mongolia
People’s
Republic
and
Communist
Party.

Additionally,
melodies
were
standardized
according
to
Western
tunings,
and
differing

regional
dialects
were
consolidated
into
that
of
Tov
Khalkha,
which
became
known
as
the

“national”
Mongolian
urtiin
duu
style.
Over
the
course
of
decades,
these
reforms
came
to

change
the
meanings
associated
with
urtiin
duu.
Once
a
rural
genre
prevalent

predominantly
in
the
domestic
sphere,
it
ultimately
became
a
key
component
in
the

construction
of
Mongolian
national
identity
writ
large.
This
work
focuses
on
the
various

meanings
of
urtiin
duu
implied
in
domestic,
spiritual,
political
and
social
realms,
and
the

processes
that
led
to
the
genre’s
valorization
as
an
emblem
of
the
Mongolian
nation.
























 ii

TABLE
OF
CONTENTS



CHAPTER
1:
INTRODUCTION
…………………………………………………………………………………………1


 Learning
to
Perform
Melodic
Landscapes
……………………………………………………………..8



 Mongolian
Mobile
Pastoralism
and
the
Navigation
of
Landscape
..………………………..12


 Literature
Review
...……………………………………………………………………………………………14




CHAPTER
2:
PERFORMING
MUSICAL
LANDSCAPES
………………………………………………………18


 Mimesis
and
Semiotic
Theory
…………………………………………………………………………….25


 Mimesis
and
Urtiin
Duu
……………………………………………………………………………………...27


 Graphing
Melodic
Contours
………………………………………………………………………………..29


 The
Nair
Festival
……………………………………………………………………………………………….38


 Other
Forms
of
Mimesis
…………………………………………………………………………………….41


 Conclusions
………………………………………………………………………………………………………44



CHAPTER
3:
PERFORMING
THE
MOTHERLAND
……………………………………………………………47


 Historical
Overview
…………………………………………………………………………………………..47


 Pre‐Revolutionary
and
Revolutionary
Eras
………………………………………………………...52


 The
Third
People’s
Republic
………………………………………………………………………………62


 Norovbanzad
and
the
Increasing
Professionalization
of
Urtiin
Duu
……………………...65


 A
Rising
Mongolian
Nationalism
………………………………………………………………………...74


 Urtiin
Duu
as
Performative
Resistance
………………………………………………………………..76



CHAPTER
4:
CONCLUSION:
THE
COMMODIFICATION
OF
URTIIN
DUU
..………………………….81



 The
Growth
of
Tourism
and
an
Internationally‐Oriented
Market
Economy
………….83



REFERENCES
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….93


 
 
 
 
 
 
 

APPENDIX
A:
URTIIN
DUU
GRAPHS
………………………………………………………………………………99



 





 iii

CHAPTER
ONE:



 INTRODUCTION




It’s
a
long
ride
from
Ulaanbaatar
to
Deren
Soum,
the
small
town
in
the
center


of
the
Gobi
near
where
my
mentor
Dad’suren
lives.
The
roads
are
unpaved,
full
of


rocks,
and
though
the
Russian
vans
available
for
rent
are
as
tough
as
their
iron‐clad


exteriors,
the
ride
is
still,
inevitably.
.
.
bumpy.
At
times
my
neck
muscles
cannot


support
the
springing
of
my
head
back
and
forth
and
I’m
pretty
sure
the
momentum


of
the
car
is
giving
me
minor
whiplash.
I
look
around
the
Russian
van
and
can
see


that
the
other
passengers
aren’t
enjoying
the
voyage
any
more
than
I
am.
We
still


have
five
hours
to
drive,
and
the
journey
only
gets
worse
as
we
head
further
south.



I’ve
hired
a
driver
to
get
me
from
Ulaanbaatar
to
Deren
Soum,
and
we’ve


given
a
ride
to
three
of
my
teacher’s
ten
children.
Dad’suren’s
three
sons
are
in
my


van,
along
with
the
wife
of
one
of
the
sons
and
their
newborn
child.
Along
the
way


we
stop
at
a
roadside
store
to
pick
up
some
airag
(fermented
horse
milk).
Since
it’s


August,
the
airag
season
is
in
full
swing,
and
we
purchase
a
couple
of
liters
to
make


our
ride
a
little
more
enjoyable.
I
have
some
gulps
as
we
pass
the
bottles
around;
it


has
a
strange,
biting
taste
but
it
gives
an
ever‐so‐slight
alcoholic
buzz
that
lightens


the
mood
(and
diminishes
the
effects
of
the
whiplash)
as
we
continue
along
the


bumpy
road.



In
the
distance,
the
landscape
is
dotted
with
remote
yurts,
herds
of
sheep,


and
many
mountain
peaks,
valleys,
and
hills
expanding
across
the
vivid
green


horizon.
This
area
is
known
as
Dundgovi
province.
It
is
located
in
the
center
of
the


Gobi
desert
and
is
generally
described
in
geographical
terms
as
the
“low
steppe.”
In



 1

the
summer,
grass
covers
the
mostly‐treeless
mountains
in
a
fairly
uniform
way,


creating
unique
shades
of
green
where
the
large
rounded
summits
fold
into
one


another.
In
the
winter,
the
grass
turns
a
glistening
shade
of
gold
and
covers
the


mountains
in
the
same
thorough
manner.
The
golden
hues
infusing
the
landscape


with
color
in
winter
are
as
remarkable
as
the
greens
that
appear
in
summer,
though


vastly
different
in
character
and
appearance.
Only
telephone
poles
string
across
the


landscape:
besides
these,
the
immeasurable
view
is
completely
unmarred
by
roads,


cultivated
fields,
or
homes
sectioning
off
pieces
of
land.



As
we
continue
to
traverse
the
rocky
terrain,
it
occurs
to
me
that
Dad’suren


would
have
made
this
voyage
on
horseback.
Although
he
is
over
sixty
years
in
age,

1
he
rarely
rides
in
a
motor‐operated
vehicle. 
Dad’suren’s
children
live
in
the
capital


city
and
are
clearly
more
comfortable
in
a
van,
but
Dad’suren
himself
travels


predominantly
by
horse
and
occasionally
by
camel.
He
is
an
adept
rider,
and
has


made
the
voyage
from
Ulaanbaatar
south
to
Deren
Soum
many
times.



At
one
point
during
the
ride,
I
ask
my
fellow
passengers
if
they
want
to
sing


some
popular
Mongolian
songs.
Artiin
duu
oo?
My
driver
asks
us,
“folk
songs?”

He
is


referring
to
electro‐acoustic
popular
songs
that
are
widespread
throughout


Mongolia.
Someone
suggests
orosnii
duu
(Russian
techno‐pop),
but
we
all
shoot
that


idea
down
quickly.
We
might
have
considered
singing
urtiin
duu
(long
song),
but
no



























































1
Older
nomads
in
this
desert
still
use
their
horses
for
mobility.
I
use
the
word
“still”
because

international
opinion
is
that
current
technologies,
such
as
cars
and
other
motor
vehicles,
are

gradually
replacing
horseback
riding
and
camel
riding
as
the
common
means
for
mobility
among

Mongolia’s
nomadic
population.
According
to
Nambaryn
Enkhbayar,
former
prime
minister
of

Mongolia,
trends
of
modernism
will
cause
nomadism
in
Mongolia
to
disappear
completely
by
the

year
2018.
Whether
or
not
this
prophecy
will
come
true
has
yet
to
be
determined,
though
current

population
censuses
do
indicate
that
increasing
numbers
of
nomads
are
moving
to
the
capital
city

due
to
harsh
conditions
in
the
Gobi.


 2

one
in
the
car
really
knows
how.
None
of
Dad’suren’s
children
have
acquired
his


interest
in
singing.
Artiin
duu
(short
songs),
on
the
other
hand,
are
known
by
all.


With
their
short
recognizable
melodies
with
studio‐recorded
Western
backgrounds,


artiin
duu
are
easy
for
almost
anyone
to
follow.
Everyone
enthusiastically
agrees
to


hear
artiin
duu,
and
our
driver
inserts
a
tape
in
the
cassette
deck
before
we
continue


on
our
way.
We
all
begin
to
sing
along
as
Eeji
Min
(an
artiin
duu
called
“My
Mother”)


begins
to
play
over
the
car
stereo.


Late
in
the
evening,
we
finally
arrive
at
Deren
Soum,
and
everyone
laughs
as
I


attempt
to
find
Dad’suren’s
summer
camp
(which
I
had
been
to
more
than
three


times,
at
that
point).
In
my
defense,
this
task
is
not
as
easy
as
it
sounds,
for
it
entails


recognizing
the
correct
mountains
and
land
formations
and
turning
before
or
after


them
appropriately
(and
in
the
right
direction).
Without
roads
to
follow,
the
vast


landscape
is
intimidating
to
navigate.
Nevertheless,
it
is
an
easy
task
for
Dad’suren’s


children,
who
spent
almost
every
summer
of
their
childhood
within
this
same


general
location,
and
grew
up
reading
and
navigating
the
geographical
forms
of
this


particular
landscape.




In
this
area,
nomadic
migration
patterns
tend
to
be
seasonal,
with
nomads


returning
to
specific
locations—within
about
a
fifteen
to
twenty
kilometer
radius—

every
season.
Most
of
the
families
in
the
area
know
the
nomadic
patterns
of
other


families,
particularly
the
location
of
families
to
whom
they
are
related.
This
results


in
a
network
of
shared
knowledge
regarding
people’s
whereabouts
as
they
relate
to


different
geographical
formations.
Needless
to
say,
I
don’t
share
in
this
knowledge,



 3

and
it
takes
me
much
longer
to
find
seasonal
camps
and
different
families’
locations


(a
point
of
humor
for
many
Mongolians
with
whom
I
have
traveled).



When
I
finally
do
find
the
summer
camp,
everyone
jokingly
cheers.
We
get


out
of
the
vehicle
in
good
spirits,
grateful
to
stretch
our
legs.
The
families’
dogs


surround
us,
barking.
We
have
finally
arrived,
full
of
airag
but
knowing
that
more


awaits
us
inside
Dad’suren’s
yurt.
When
Dad’suren
greets
me,
he
holds
out
his
palms


in
his
customary
way,
touching
them
to
mine,
and
smells
my
forehead
(in
Mongolia,


a
sniff
such
as
this
is
equivalent
to
our
version
of
a
kiss).
“You
couldn’t
find
the


summer
camp?”
he
asks
me,
incredulous,
as
he
chuckles
and
opens
the
door
to
his


yurt.
These
doors
are
always
small,
about
three
feet
in
height.
I
duck
down,
careful


not
to
bang
my
head,
and
turn
left
immediately.
There
is
a
taboo
against
women


visitors
being
on
the
right
side
of
the
yurt;
in
addition,
guests
customarily
enter
a


home
towards
the
left.
When
Dad’suren
enters,
he
heads
immediately
right,
where


the
host’s
family
typically
sits.



Inside,
everyone
is
seated
on
the
floor,
huddling
around
the
warmth
of
the


center
stove.
Here
fresh
milk
tea
is
boiling
for
the
new
arrivals.
Food
has
also
been


prepared
in
anticipation
of
our
visit,
and
Dad’suren’s
wife
promptly
hands
me
a


bowl
of
goriltai
shuul,
a
typical
Mongolian
soup
containing
noodles
and
boiled


mutton,
as
I
take
a
seat.
I
quickly
devour
my
soup,
eating
as
many
of
the
large
pieces


of
mutton
fat
as
I
can
tolerate,
as
I
know
these
were
given
to
me
as
a
demonstration


of
hospitality.


That
night,
Dad’suren
and
I
continue
my
lessons
learning
urtiin
duu.
We
sit


toward
the
north
side
of
the
yurt,
and
periodically
take
breaks
to
drink
airag
or



 4

salted
milk
tea.
It
is
hard
work.
Usually,
he
will
repeatedly
sing
sections
of
the
song


to
me,
and
I
will
play
them
back
to
him
on
my
flute
until
I
get
them
right.
Urtiin
duu


phrases
are
long,
and
after
a
while
I
grow
dizzy
from
holding
my
breath
for
such


lengthy
spans
of
time.
Our
practice
will
usually
continue
until
I
am
able
to
play
an


entire
verse
of
a
song
from
memory.
That
night,
I
complete
my
learning
of
the
song


Kherliingin
Bariya
before
we
blow
out
the
candle
and
the
group
of
us
drift
off
to


sleep.
As
it
gets
cold
in
the
desert
at
night,
the
family
is
wrapped
in
wool
and
sheep


blankets,
and
I
am
in
my
gortex
sleeping
bag
with
a
few
extra
blankets
Dad’suren’s


wife
has
piled
on
top
of
me
for
warmth.
My
eyelids
are
heavy
and
I
drift
away,


singing
Kherliingin
Bariya
in
my
head
so
I
don’t
play
it
incorrectly
during
my
lesson


tomorrow.


*












*












*






 Using
the
musical
practice
of
urtiin
duu
as
a
lens
through
which
to
view


Mongolian
cosmology,
music
and
practice,
this
thesis
builds
on
the
burgeoning


literature
associated
with
twentieth‐century
and
contemporary
Mongolia.
As
a
key


component
in
the
construction
of
the
Mongolian
nation,
urtiin
duu
was
subject
to
the


drastic
cultural
reforms
of
the
country’s
socialist
and
post‐socialist
eras.
Yet
its


origins
lie
in
rural
Mongolia,
where
it
has
long
been
sung
for
entertainment,
in


ceremonies,
as
a
form
of
worship,
an
aid
in
mobile
pastoral
herding
practices,
a


marker
of
regional
identity,
and
a
sonic
illustration
of
landscape.
This
thesis


explores
the
mimetic
connection
between
melodic
contour
and
landscape


topography
in
urtiin
duu
practice,
and
the
various
levels
of
socio‐spiritual,
political


and
cultural
meanings
implicated
therein.



 5


 Among
other
things,
the
opening
anecdote
illustrates
the
extent
to
which


natural
land
formations—including
hills,
ravines,
and
rivers—are
necessary
for


navigating
the
great
rural
expanse
that
comprises
the
majority
of
the
Mongolian


steppe.
As
a
performance
practice
that
originated
in
these
rural
areas
among
mobile


pastoral
communities,
urtiin
duu
have
extensive
ties
to
these
topographies—and


many
of
the
melodic
contours
of
these
songs
emulate
the
landscape
contours
of


certain
geographical
locations
(Pegg
2001e:
44‐49,
106).2
As
certain
Mongolian


clans
tend
to
reside
in
particular
locations,
the
genre
has
a
historical
importance
as


a
marker
of
regional
and
clan
identity.




 Most
Mongolian
musical
practices
are
categorized
according
to
whether
or


not
they
are
from
Eastern
or
Western
Mongolia;
the
East
encompasses
the


geographic
areas
of
the
lower
steppelands,
Buriyatia
and
present‐day
Inner


Mongolia,
while
the
West
spans
the
mountainous
regions
of
Xinjiang,
Tuva,
the
Altai,


and
parts
of
present‐day
Russia.
Historically,
Eastern
and
Western
Mongolia
have


periodically
fought
against
one
another
since
the
thirteenth
century.
In
the


seventeenth
to
eighteenth
centuries
(1630‐1750s),
Eastern
Mongolia
developed
into


an
independent
state,
known
as
Jungar.
Separated
by
geographical
as
well
as


cultural
and
clan
boundaries,
the
musical
practices
of
each
confederation
are


unequivocally
unique,
though
they
nonetheless
exhibit
strong
similarities
in
sonic


quality,
form,
purpose,
and
associated
cosmology.
Many
Mongolian
musical


practices
are
vocal
traditions,
and
almost
all
involve
cosmological
beliefs
associated


with
nature
spirits,
including
mimetic
sonic
emulations
of
natural
phenomena
sung



























































2

Note
that
the
phrase
‘urtiin
duu’
is
both
singular
and
plural
(Pegg
2001e).


 6

out
of
reverence
for
the
environment,
and
as
offerings
of
prayer
to
landscape
deities


(Levin
2006;
Pegg
2001e).




 Vocal
music
of
both
East
and
West
Mongolia
includes
a
large
variety
of


genres,
including
heroic
epics,
musical
poetry,
legend
songs,
incantations,
praise


songs,
dialogue
songs,
and
short,
satirical
songs
(Pegg
2001f).
When
accompanied,


they
are
most
often
performed
with
a
plucked
or
bowed
stringed
fiddle
(the


topshuur
or
ikil
in
the
West,
or
the
morin
khuur
in
the
East).
In
the
East,
vocal


traditions
such
as
urtiin
duu
were
once
widespread,
as
well
as
musical
narratives


known
as
holboo
and
an
elegant
dance
called
biy
(which
is
now
predominantly


practiced
among
Inner
Mongolians).
In
the
West,
khoumii
(throat‐singing)
is


prevalent,
as
well
as
other
polyphonic
musical
practices
that
involve
the
interplay


between
drone
tones
and
overtones,
including
the
end‐blown
pipe
known
as
the


tsuur.
Before
the
turn
of
the
twentieth
century,
epic
singers
who
sang
days‐long


musical
narratives
(tuul’)
were
common
in
Western
Mongolia.



 Urtiin
duu
finds
its
place
among
the
wide
variety
of
Mongolian
musical


practices,
and
it
is
one
of
the
only
genres
that
is
found
in
both
Eastern
and
Western


Mongolia
(although
it
is
more
commonly
sung
among
Eastern
clans).
As
a


performance
practice,
it
has
the
capacity
to
enliven
the
surrounding
environment


through
its
emulative
capabilities,
like
the
vast
majority
of
Mongolian
vocal
music.


More
commonly
accompanied
by
the
morin
khuur
(the
two‐stringed,
horse‐headed


fiddle),
or
the
ikil
as
it
is
known
in
the
West,
urtiin
duu
can
also
be
accompanied
by


the
Mongolian
flute,
or
limbe,
found
predominantly
among
Eastern
clans,
as
well
as


other
voices
sounded
in
“heterophonic
layers
of
sound”
(Pegg
2001f:
1005).




 7

Learning
to
Perform
Melodic
Landscapes




 I
first
heard
urtiin
duu
in
a
very
different
setting
than
the
one
described


above.
In
March
of
2002,
I
attended
a
performance
of
what
was
advertised
as


“classical
Mongolian
folk
music”
in
Ulaanbaatar,
Mongolia’s
capital
city.
The
concert,


held
in
the
elegant
“State
and
Dance
Opera
Building,”
was
largely
attended
by


Westerners
in
fancy
attire.
Once
we
were
seated,
a
beautiful
Mongolian
woman


dressed
in
an
exquisite
del
(nomadic
cloak)
made
of
silk
thread
and
intricate


embroidery
stepped
on
stage.
On
her
head
was
a
large
headdress
with
two


incredibly
large,
wild
goat
horns
protruding
from
its
sides,
giving
her
a
regal,
if
not


ostentatious,
appearance.
The
performer
stood
two‐and‐a‐half
to
three
feet
away


from
the
microphone;
I
later
understood
that
this
was
done
in
order
to
avoid
the


distortion
that
would
ensue
if
her
powerful
voice
overwhelmed
the
device
in
front


of
her.
She
opened
her
mouth
and,
beginning
in
a
very
high
vocal
register,
began
to


sing.
The
melody
sounded
powerful
and
reverberant;
it
became
immediately
clear


why
this
genre
would
aptly
be
described
as
“long
song.”
Her
melody
was
expansive


and
overarching,
and
initially
quite
hard
to
follow
as
there
was
little
motivic


repetition.
The
performance
lasted
around
ten
minutes,
and
the
melodic
contour


easily
traversed
more
than
two
octaves.
She
made
frequent
use
of
glottal
stops
to


accentuate
long
notes,
slurring
between
pitches
which
nonetheless
clearly
fell
into


the
Western
tuning
system,
and
there
was
no
noticeable
rhythmic
meter
to
her


vocalization.
Notes
were
sustained
as
long
as
she
had
the
breath
to
do
so,
and
they


lasted
long
enough
to
elicit
raised
eyebrows
and
gasps
of
pleased
astonishment


from
audience
members.



 8


 Captivated
by
the
performance,
I
hung
around
afterward
to
speak
with
the


singer.
Her
name
was
Chuluuntsetseg
and
she
was
a
professional
urtiin
duu
singer


who
had
studied
the
genre
at
a
conservatory
in
Ulaanbaatar.
She
told
me
that
urtiin


duu
originated
in
the
Mongolian
countryside
centuries
ago,
and
developed
in


conjunction
with
the
nomadic
lifestyle,
as
a
kind
of
herding
tool
used
to


communicate
with
animals
through
song.
Her
advice
was
to
travel
to
the
mid‐

central
Gobi,
to
a
province
known
as
“Dundgovi”
and
nicknamed
“the
singing


province.”
She
assured
me
that
the
remaining
rural
urtiin
duu
herders
in
existence


would
be
there.




 Upon
completing
my
four‐month
study
abroad
program
in
May
of
2002,
I


was
afforded
the
opportunity
to
extend
my
stay
in
Mongolia.
Having
just
finished
a


series
of
intensive
language
seminars
in
colloquial
Mongolian,
I
had
attained
strong


proficiency
in
the
language,
enabling
me
to
travel
and
work
independently.
As
a


flautist
and
avid
aficionado
of
urtiin
duu,
I
was
drawn
towards
learning
the
art
of


accompanying
the
genre.
During
my
stay,
I
had
been
lucky
enough
to
receive


instruction
in
Mongolian
flute,
or
limbe,
from
a
professional
flautist
named


Tsendpuro,
based
in
Mandalgovi.
Following
Chuluuntsetseg’s
advice,
I
travelled
to


Dundgovi
province
to
seek
out
urtiin
duu
singers
and
found
a
handful
who
were


kind
enough
to
instruct
me
in
the
art
of
accompaniment.
It
was
in
Dundgovi


province,
among
Dad’suren
and
his
family,
as
well
as
with
various
other
rural
urtiin


duu
singers,
that
I
accomplished
my
fieldwork
for
this
project,
on
four
different


visits
to
the
area
between
May
2002
and
August
2006.



 9


 During
this
time,
I
became
very
close
to
one
particular
mentor,
the
elderly


Dad’suren.
When
I
initially
approached
him,
Dad’suren
was
wary
of
my
motives,


having
been
warned
by
local
authorities
to
be
suspicious
of
Westerners
hoping
to


make
a
quick
profit
by
recording
his
urtiin
duu
and
selling
them
in
the
international


market.
I
had
heard
of
Dad’suren’s
singing
prowess
from
various
other
urtiin
duu


singers,
but
when
I
first
stepped
into
his
yurt
and
asked
him
to
teach
me
the
art
of


long
song
accompaniment,
he
kindly
but
sternly
refused,
explaining
that
though
I


seemed
perfectly
nice,
he
could
not
know
what
my
true
motives
were
for


approaching
him.3
Without
arguing,
I
brought
out
my
limbe
and
began
to
perform
all


of
the
short
Mongolian
songs
(bogin
duu)
I
knew,
all
of
which
had
been
taught
to
me


aurally
by
my
aforementioned
limbe
teacher,
Tsendpuro.
I
played
about
three
songs,


and
when
I
finished,
Dad’suren
looked
satisfied.
“I
can
see
you
are
here
to
learn,”
he


told
me.
“I’ll
teach
you.”



 Thus
began
our
lessons,
which
would
last
a
few
hours
each
day,
interrupted


only
when
Dad’suren
was
required
to
go
herd
his
sheep
to
distant
pastures,
or
to


round
up
some
of
his
camels
for
the
evening.
Our
lessons
would
always
proceed
the


same
way:
Dad’suren
would
teach
me
a
song
by
singing
me
the
first
few
seconds.


Then,
he
would
wait
until
I
repeated
the
pitches
correctly;
nodding
in
approval


when
I
was
accurate,
and
promptly
correcting
me
through
his
singing
when
I
had


rendered
something
incorrectly,
by
emphasizing
any
pitches,
slides
or
ornaments



























































3
In
later
years,
Dad’suren
informed
me
that
his
hesitancy
upon
first
meeting
me
was
largely
fueled


by
his
fear
of
retribution
from
local
authorities,
who
had
warned
him
against
working
with

foreigners.
In
the
socialist
era,
such
defiance
was
potentially
met
with
violent
punishment;
in
this

case,
such
fear
is
the
psychological
legacy
of
the
more
violent
aspects
of
socialist
Mongolia.



 10

that
I
might
have
missed.
Once
I
had
mastered
a
phrase,
he
would
sing
the
next


phrase,
and
the
process
would
then
repeat,
ad
infinitum.




 Initially,
I
began
learning
to
accompany
urtiin
duu
on
the
limbe.
Over
time,


Dad’suren
asked
me
to
switch
to
another
flute
that
I
also
carried
with
me


throughout
my
travels;
this
instrument,
a
B‐foot,
open‐holed
silver
Yamaha,


fascinated
him.
He
adored
the
“precise”
equal‐tempered
pitches
and
various


different
keys
within
which
urtiin
duu
could
be
performed,
and
explained
how
the


precision
of
the
instrument
was
useful
for
accompanying
the
precision
of


Borjigin


urtiin
duu,
the
songs
of
his
particular
clan.
Dad’suren
helped
me
develop
a
technique


of
gradually
sliding
my
fingertips
over
the
open
holes
of
my
Western
flute
to
conjoin


pitches
in
a
manner
reminiscent
of
the
vocal
elisions
found
throughout
his
urtiin
duu


melodies.
Once
I
completed
learning
a
song,
Dad’suren
would
then
practice


performing
the
song
with
me,
and
I
would
accompany
him
in
the
appropriate
style:


pre‐empting
his
entry
with
the
first
few
notes
of
the
melody,
and
then
holding
back


to
shadow
his
vocal
line,
creating
the
appropriate,
delayed
heterophonic
texture
of


traditional
urtiin
duu.
According
to
the
performance
practice,
the
accompanist
is


secondary
to
the
voice
in
melodic
importance,
and
should
be
sensitive
to
the
stylistic


nuances
of
the
vocal
line
being
rendered.
Eventually,
Dad’suren
and
I
began


performing
together
at
local
nair
festivals
(including
weddings
and
celebrations


throughout
Dundgovi
province).
I
took
great
pride
in
reaching
a
state
where
I
was


able
to
publicly
perform
as
an
accompanist
for
Dad’suren,
and
I
could
sense
his


approval
in
the
way
he
nodded
with
satisfaction
when
we
performed
together


successfully.



 11

Mongolian
Mobile
Pastoralism
and
the
Navigation
of
Landscape



 Like
Dad’suren,
the
majority
of
individuals
with
whom
I
studied
were
elderly


and
predominantly
resided
in
rural
settings.
They
had
all
grown
up
in
the
Mongolian


countryside
and
had
spent
most
of
their
lives
living
as
mobile
pastoralists.
I
found


that,
as
opposed
to
the
kind
of
urtiin
duu
performances
found
in
concert
halls


throughout
Ulaanbaatar,
urtiin
duu
is
a
very
different
performance
practice
in
these


remote
environments
and
herding
contexts.
Though
many
singers,
including


Dad’suren,
are
equally
adept
at
performing
in
both
herding
contexts
as
well
as
large‐

scale
concert
settings,
they
acknowledge
that
the
purpose
behind
the
performances


varies
greatly.
While
herding
animals,
urtiin
duu
are
often
sung
in
an
informal


manner,
often
to
coax
the
animal
or
entertain
the
singer.
The
dynamics
are
much


softer
than
those
of
concert
performances
and
rigid
rules
involving
melodic


recitation
and
specific
breathing
techniques
are
not
necessarily
present.
In
these


informal
settings,
singers
often
improvise
melodies
and
sounds
in
relation
to
those


that
they
perceive
from
their
surrounding
environments,
often
creating
a
mimetic


exchange.



 Other
Mongolian
song
types,
including
khoumii
(throat
singing),
are
said
to


emulate
sounds
found
in
the
outdoor
world
when
practiced
informally
by
herding


musicians.
These
musical
sounds
imitate
various
environmental
phenomena,


including
the
whistling
of
the
wind
or
the
rushing
of
water
(Levin
2006;
Pegg


2001e).
In
the
case
of
urtiin
duu,
the
songs
often
portray
particular
landscapes


through
the
representation
of
topography
in
melodic
contour,
to
the
extent
that


both
singers
and
listeners
alike
are
able
to
distinguish
landscapes
depicted
by
the



 12

rising
and
falling
of
pitch
as
the
melodies
are
sung.
These
performed
landscapes,


described
and
emulated
in
song,
have
a
basis
in
practices
associated
with
the


worship
of
spirit‐entities
known
as
ezen,
who
are
thought
to
reside
in
particularly


holy
landscapes.
Just
as
Chinggis
Khan
worshipped
holy
geographical
locations,
such


as
the
mountain
Burkhan
Khaldun,
nomads
of
this
area
worship
the
various
land


formations
that
surround
them
and
the
ezen
who
reside
within
them
(Weatherford


2004).
Dad’suren,
for
example,
worships
a
particularly
tall
mountain
near
his
home.


He
prays
to
the
oboo
(ritual
cairn)
and
sings
urtiin
duu
on
the
mountaintop
when
he


is
in
need
of
spiritual
protection
and
guidance.
This
is
all
part
of
the
act
of


reciprocity:
as
a
mimetic
exchange
with
the
environment,
Dad’suren
gives
back
to


the
earth
in
song
what
he
and
his
herds
have
taken
in
sustenance.




 During
my
time
among
singers
in
Dundgovi
province,
I
found
ezen
worship
to


be
an
extremely
important
and
valued
daily
activity,
and
these
spirit‐entities
were


often
praised
through
song.
Indeed,
singing
urtiin
duu
was
an
important
aspect
of


human‐ezen
interaction,
where
individuals
utilized
mimesis
to
sonically
interact


with
the
spirits
that
reside
in
particular
landscapes.
In
the
case
of
urtiin
duu,
the


melodic
contours
of
songs
are
mimetic
of
environmental
sounds
and
topographies


unique
to
the
landscapes
of
the
ezen
particular
to
a
specific
nutag,
or
geographical


location.
A
singer’s
nutag
is
not
only
one’s
personal
homeland,
but
also
the
home
of


one’s
ancestors
and
ezen;
thus
the
landscapes
signified
by
urtiin
duu
melodies
are


deeply
important
to
the
people
who
live
there.




 13

Literature
Review



 Various
ethnomusicologists
have
demonstrated
the
extent
to
which
mimesis


plays
a
role
in
Mongolian
musical
practices
writ
large.
This
thesis
builds
on
this


scholarship
by
examining
a
particular
kind
of
sonic
mimesis
that
occurs
in
urtiin


duu—the
emulation
of
landscape
topography.
Through
an
application
of
semiotic


theory,
this
work
adds
an
analytical
perspective
to
the
examination
of
mimesis
in


Mongolian
performative
practices.
By
creating
a
graphic
notation
for
the
songs
and


outlining
both
the
spiritual
and
political
meanings
associated
with
them,
I
explore


the
relationship
of
these
songs
to
both
Mongolian
landscapes
and
the
Mongolian


nation.
Additionally,
I
examine
the
career
and
musicianship
of
Dad’suren,
whose
life


intersected
with
the
large‐scale
political
changes
and
tumultuous
cultural
reforms
of


twentieth‐century
Mongolia.
In
doing
so,
I
hope
to
illustrate
an
individual’s


perspective
on
the
negotiation
of
meaning
involved
in
urtiin
duu
performance
as
it


transformed
over
time.



 My
work
has
been
greatly
influenced
by
the
work
of
Theodore
Levin
(1996,


2006)
and
Carole
Pegg
(2001e,
2001f),
both
of
whom
have
spent
extensive
time


researching
the
reciprocal,
mimetic
qualities
of
Central
Asian
musical
forms
and
the


importance
of
nutag
to
mobile
pastoralists
of
this
area.
I
have
also
been
informed
by


Caroline
Humphrey’s
writings
on
ezen
worship
(1992,
1995,
1996a,
1996b),
and
the


importance
of
reciprocal
giving
among
mobile
pastoralists
in
Mongolia—through


prayer,
song,
and
material
goods—to
spiritual
beings
in
order
to
promote
successful


animal
husbandry
and
spiritual
wellbeing.
Like
Humphrey
(1995,
1996a,
1996b)


and
Atwood
(1996),
I
view
the
mix
of
Buddhist
and
animistic
spirituality
prevalent



 14

throughout
the
communities
I
encountered
as
cooperative,
mutually
reinforcing


sides
of
apotropaic
spirituality,
where
individuals
regularly
pray
to
both
ezen
and


protective
Buddhist
deities
for
the
wellbeing
of
themselves,
their
families,
and
their


herds.



 Additionally,
Turino’s
work
on
Peircian
semiotics
(1999,
2000,
2008)
has


proven
extremely
valuable
for
explaining
the
details
of
signification
in
urtiin
duu


performance,
as
well
as
the
impact
of
Soviet
cultural
reforms
on
this
genre.
Also


influenced
by
Peter
Marsh
(2002,
2009)
and
Tom
Ginsburg
(1999),
I
have
attempted


to
show
how
cosmopolitan
values
were
adopted
and
internalized
by
many
during


the
socialist
era,
influencing
how
urtiin
duu
is
currently
conceived,
valued,
and


commodified
within
a
tourist
economy.




 Nonetheless,
I
also
recognize
that
some
scholars
disagree
on
how
to
regard


the
drastic
cultural
and
musical
reforms
of
the
twentieth
century.
Carole
Pegg


(2001e),
for
example,
views
the
Soviet
presence
in
Mongolia
as
a
largely
monolithic,


imposing
force.
She
has
argued
that,
in
the
face
of
complete
dominance,
Mongolians


maintained
their
own
form
of
resistance
through
the
secret
underground


performance
of
outlawed
musical
forms,
which
vibrantly
reemerged
once


communism
was
overthrown
in
the
1990s.
Peter
Marsh
(2002,
2009),
however,
has


recognized
the
important,
complicit,
and
often
decisive
role
many
Mongolians


played
in
the
adoption
of
communist
ideology
over
the
course
of
Mongolia’s
socialist


era.
As
a
result,
Marsh
argues
that
Mongolians’
readoption
of
indigenous
musical


forms
in
the
early
1990s
is
not
quite
a
reflourishing
of
pre‐socialist
musical


performance,
but
a
re‐negotiation
and
re‐adoption
of
indigenous
musical
forms
in



 15

line
with
the
dominant
and
pervasive
remnant
of
the
socialist
era—an
underlying


discourse
of
modernism.




 Like
Marsh,
I
recognize
the
impact
of
modernist
reforms
and
cosmopolitan


values
on
musical
practices,
and
argue
that
the
current
situation
is
a
complex


amalgam
comprised
of
internalized
discourses
and
indigenous
values.
My


scholarship
is
largely
inspired
by
Levin’s
work
in
Central
Asia
(1996)
as
well
as


Buchanan’s
research
in
Bulgaria
(1995,
2006)—which
is
focused
on
the
ways
that


Soviet‐style
socialism
was
both
resisted
and
internalized
by
Bulgarian
musicians.
In


Bulgaria,
for
example,
folk
orchestras
composed
of
“traditional
Bulgarian


instruments
modeled
on
the
Western
classical
philharmonic,”
were
created
to
aid
in


the
construction
of
a
distinct
Bulgarian
national
identity
(Buchanan
1995:
382).
As


in
Bulgaria,
Mongolian
officials
also
implemented
such
cultural
reforms,
largely


inspired
by
the
Soviet
model.
Realized
through
both
violence
and
excessive


persecution,
these
reforms
that
helped
reframe
indigenous
musical
practices


according
to
nationalist
sentiment
and
Communist
Party
loyalty.
During
this
time,


individuals
had
to
negotiate
their
acceptance
and
resistance
of
these
reforms
in


complex
ways.




 Throughout
the
twentieth
century,
the
socialist
government’s


implementation
of
modernist
reforms
existed
in
a
dialectical
relationship
with


previous,
indigenous
values
held
among
the
population.
Urtiin
duu,
now
an
index
of


the
Mongolian
nation,
once
helped
aspects
of
the
socialist‐sponsored
reality
appear


natural,
as
“the
truth
of
common
sense”
(Buchanan
1995:
384).
Though
communist


dogma
was
initially
actively
resisted,
parts
of
its
hegemony
were
accepted
as



 16

legitimate,
particularly
its
dissemination
of
the
ideals
of
nationalism.
The


unsuccessful
Mongolian
nationalist
rebellion
of
the
1960s,
for
example,
was
the


ideological
product
of
a
combination
of
domination
and
resistance:
informed
by


indigenous
ideas
of
spirituality
associated
with
Mongolian
clan
identity
and
Chinggis


Khan,
but
fundamentally
guided
by
a
discourse
of
nationalism
(Boldbaatar
1999).
In


the
realm
of
urtiin
duu
practice,
a
similar
process
occurred:
cultural
reforms


valorizing
urtiin
duu
as
an
icon
of
the
Mongolian
nation
were
adopted
but


simultaneously
co‐opted
as
emblems
of
performative
resistance.




 All
of
these
levels
of
meaning
derive
from
the
connection
between
urtiin
duu


melody
and
landscape
topography.
Various
Mongolian
clans
rely
on
the
melodies
of


urtiin
duu
to
proclaim
their
own
personal
relationships
with
specific
geographical


areas
and
the
ezen
found
therein.
In
chapter
two,
I
will
illustrate
urtiin
duu’s


involvement
in
complex
issues
of
clan
identity
associated
with
both
real
and


imagined
homelands.
In
chapter
three,
we
will
see
how
these
relationships
became


further
complicated
when
Soviet
cultural
reforms
helped
reframe
the
melodic


landscapes
and
nutag
according
to
nationalist
sentiments
associated
with
Soviet


loyalty
and
the
Mongolian
motherland
(eh
oron).

These
reforms
markedly
changed


the
way
urtiin
duu
was
and
is
practiced
and
received.
By
the
time
Mongolia
became


a
parliamentary
democracy
in
the
early
1990s,
urtiin
duu
had
become
a
key
emblem


in
the
construction
of
Mongolian
national
pride.



 17

CHAPTER
TWO:



 PERFORMING
MUSICAL
LANDSCAPES





I
was
born
in
a
herding
family,

Saturated
with
thick
cattle‐dung
smoke,

I
regard
as
my
cradle

The
grassland,
my
homeland
(nutag).



I
love
like
my
own
body

The
homeland
(nutag)
upon
which
I
dropped.

I
regard
as
my
mother’s
milk

The
crystal
clear
river.



This
is
a
Mongol.


A
person
who
loves
the
motherland
(eh
oron).




 
 
 
 ‐

Bi
Mongol
Hun
(‘I
am
a
Mongol’)


 
 
 
 
 
 by
R.
Chimed

 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 (translation
by
Uradyn
Bulag,
Bulag
1998:
174‐75)





 In
the
above
song,
R.
Chimed
describes
how
his
livelihood
is
contingent
on


the
sustenance
provided
by
his
homeland,
or
nutag.
He
considers
his
nutag
his


provider
and
mother,
the
one
who
cradles
him
in
the
folds
of
her
terrain
and


nourishes
him
with
her
rivers
of
milk.
His
deep
emotional
attachment
to
her
is
laden


with
feelings
of
gratitude,
and
he
responds
to
her
needs
as
she
responds
to
his.
He
is


careful
to
maintain
this
reciprocal
balance
with
her,
because
it
is
upon
her
that
his


survival
depends.




Chimed’s
perspective
is
influenced
by
his
lifelong
practice
of
mobile


pastoralism,
a
way
of
life
loosely
defined
as
a
kind
of
specialized,
itinerant
form
of


animal
husbandry
focused
on
raising,
herding,
and
breeding
domesticated
livestock.


Mobile
pastoral
practices
have
largely
developed
in
response
to
the
inhospitable,



 18

arid
climate
of
Central
Asia.
Indeed,
the
geographical
terrain
and
the
land‐use


strategies
employed
by
pastoralists
in
this
area
have
mutually
impacted
and


influenced
one
another
to
a
great
extent
over
the
course
of
the
last
millennia.


Contrary
to
romanticized
notions
of
the
Mongolian
steppe
as
“pristine
nature,”
the


grasslands
are
actually
a
unique
bio‐environment
that
has
developed
in
conjunction


with
the
millennia‐long
presence
of
seasonal
mobile
pastoralists
and
their


domesticated
herds
(Humphrey
and
Sneath
1996b:
9).
The
seasonal
migration
of


nomads,
as
well
as
the
grazing
habits
of
their
particular
herds—specifically
horses,


cows,
yaks,
camels,
sheep
and
goat—have
all
contributed
to
the
development
of
the


seemingly
endless
green
pastures
that
spread
for
thousands
of
miles
across
the


Central
Asian
steppe.
This
relatively
“undamaged”
environment
(in
a
non‐polluted


sense)
is
largely
the
result
of
pastoral
practices
that
conserve
the
environment’s


natural
resources,
including
using
dried
dung
rather
than
wood
for
domestic
fuel,


and
breeding
livestock
that
can
survive
on
natural
pasture
throughout
the
year


(Ibid.:
12).



As
anthropologist
Uradyn
Bulag
describes,
the
concept
of
nutag,
or


homeland,
is
extremely
important
among
Central
Asian
mobile
pastoralists
and


inextricably
tied
to
ezen
worship:


When
someone
moves
away
from
his
native
land,
he
should
take
stones


from
the
homeland,
and
add
them
to
the
new
oboo
honouring
local
deities.
.
.


one
should
be
buried
in
one’s
natal
land
or
homeland
(torson
nutag).
Upon


one’s
return
home,
the
first
thing
one
should
do
is
drink
the
water
(ugaasan


us).
.
.
.
The
Buryat
Mongols
usually
bury
the
placenta
under
the
yurt,
a
sacred


spot
to
which
men
would
travel
miles
to
pay
homage.
The
homeland
is
thus


said
to
be
connected
to
one’s
umbilical
cord
(hüisen
holbootai).
An
emotional



 






metaphor
for
land
is
törsön
nutag
ugaasan
us
(the
land
that
gave
me
birth,


and
the
water
that
baptized
me).
 
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
(Bulag
1998:
175)



 19

 Among
the
mobile
pastoralists
with
whom
I
resided,
I
found
a
great
tendency


for
herders
to
work
in
cooperation
with
their
nutag.
Indeed,
the
extensive
literature


on
Central
Asian
nomads
describes
how
they
often
defer
judgment
on
where
to


allow
their
animals
to
graze
based
on
signals
from
the
environment
and
the
spirit‐

masters,
or
ezen,
who
reside
there.
Certain
clues
can
help
determine
where
animals


should
be
herded,
including
considerations
like
how
much
precipitation
has
fallen
in


a
certain
area,
or
whether
or
not
a
pasture
has
been
repeatedly
grazed
over
many


seasons
and
needs
to
rest.
As
a
means
of
respect,
these
individuals
also
praise
the


landscapes
upon
whose
bounty
they
sustain
their
herds,
and
every
day
they
make


offerings
to
the
ancestral
spirits
and
ezen
that
reside
in
the
land
formations


surrounding
their
yurts
(Bulag
1998:
175).


In
addition
to
ezen
worship,
other
religious
and
spiritual
beliefs
have


certainly
left
their
mark
on
urtiin
duu
practice.
Many
of
the
themes
described
in


urtiin
duu
lyrics
reflect
the
mixture
of
spiritual
and
religious
beliefs
present
in


Mongolia
since
about
Chinggis
Khan’s
time.
According
to
the
Secret
History
of
the


Mongols,
written
in
the
thirteenth
century,
the
Mongolians
of
Chinggis’
time


worshipped
“eternal,
mighty
heaven”
(Hessig
1980:47‐49).
Tengriism,
a
belief


system
that
consider
the
sky
(tenger)
the
supreme
deity,
includes
elements
of


ancestor
worship
and
animism.
Also
incorporating
elements
of
land
worship,
these


beliefs
are
tied
to
the
practice
of
consulting
shamans
as
mediators
between
the


spirit
world
of
ancestors
(who
usually
reside
in
particularly
holy
mountains
or


rivers)
and
people
of
the
earthly
realm.
Additionally,
starting
in
the
sixteenth


century,
Tibetan
Buddhism
was
gradually
introduced
when
Altan
Khan,
ruler
of
the



 20

Mongol
tribes
and
descendent
of
Chinggis
Khan,
recognized
Soyom
Gyatso
of
Tibet


as
the
Dalai
Lama.
By
the
eighteenth
century,
the
religion
was
firmly
entrenched


among
the
population
by
the
ruling
Manchu
Qing
dynasty,
and
a
delicate
balance


had
formed
between
the
various
beliefs
associated
with
Tengriism
and
those


introduced
by
Buddhist
monks,
temples,
and
practices
established
across
the


steppe.



Various
scholars
have
described
the
mix
of
animism,
shamanism,
and
Tibetan


Buddhism
in
rural
Mongolian
communities,
with
animism
and
Buddhism


predominating
in
the
central
steppe
grasslands
and
shamanism
(virtually
absent
in


the
central
steppelands
of
Mongolia)
prevalent
in
the
wooded
forests
towards
the


margins
of
the
nation’s
borders
(Humphrey
1995:
159).
Though
earlier
religious


scholars
tended
to
focus
on
the
“contamination”
of
the
Buddhist
literary
tradition


with
the
superstitious
beliefs
associated
with
shamanism
and
animism,
referring
to


the
brand
of
Buddhism
in
Mongolia
as
a
kind
of
watered‐down
“Lamaism,”
recent


scholars
(with
Christopher
Atwood
at
the
forefront)
have
criticized
such
false


dichotomies,
explaining
that
both
Buddhist
and
animistic
beliefs
have
apotropaic


qualities,
allowing
the
two
belief
systems
to
intermingle
in
daily
practice
(Atwood


1996).
Thus
certain
animistic
rituals,
like
the
worship
of
mountaintop
cairns,
or


oboo,
devoted
to
particular
ezen,
are
actually
presided
over
by
Buddhist
lamas


(Humphrey
1995:
122).



The
practice
of
worshipping
ezen
was
supported
by
both
Buddhist
clergy
as


well
as
ruling
aristocrats,
in
order
to
maintain
credibility
among
mobile
pastoral


communities.
During
Manchu
Qing
rule,
for
example,
local
Manchu
landlords



 21

ceremonially
presented
themselves
to
ezen
as
a
means
of
ensuring
their
authority


among
Mongolian
nomads
(Humphrey
1995:
146).
Despite
facing
extensive


persecution
during
the
socialist
era,
animistic
and
Buddhist
beliefs
have
led
a


somewhat
vigorous
underground
existence
in
the
central
Gobi
desert,
where
urtiin


duu
is
predominantly
found.
This
is,
in
part,
due
to
the
ease
of
practicing
certain


animistic
forms
of
land
worship
covertly,
as
well
as
the
fact
that
beliefs
associated


with
animist
themes
could
thrive
under
the
blanket
of
nationalistic
praise
towards


the
homeland
and
thus
escape
attention
from
ruling
authorities.


The
apotropaic
practices
associated
with
the
worship
of
both
ezen
and


Buddhist
deities
concern
the
importance
of
appeasing
these
spiritual
beings,
who


hold
the
power
to
provide
“generalized
well‐being,
good
weather,
and
fertility,
or,
if


‘angered,’
drought
and
pestilence”
(Humphrey
1995:
145).
Ezen,
in
particular,
can


be
pleased
through
both
material
and
musical
offerings
sung
in
their
image.


Simultaneously,
they
can
dictate
where
and
when
nomads
will
move
their
herds


based
on
the
cues
they
manifest
in
the
environment.
Inherent
to
this
animist


philosophy
is
a
fundamental
respect
for
and
consideration
of
every
entity
in
the


environment,
where
“animals,
mountains,
trees,
grass,
weather
and
so
forth
function


as
active
subjects
which
have
their
own
ways
of
being
that
affect
human
beings”


(Humphrey
and
Sneath
1996b:
3).
Thus,
it
is
necessary
for
individuals
of
these


communities
to
consider
the
wellbeing
of
their
surrounding
environments
if
one


wants
his
or
her
own
wellbeing
to
be
considered
in
turn.
Certain
taboos,
known
as


yos,
are
practiced
in
this
area,
and
rest
on
the
premise
that
humans
should
avoid
any


unnecessary
disturbance
of
ezen
or
the
environment.
For
example,
one
should
not



 22

scuff
marks
or
footprints
on
the
earth,
nor
hunt
young
or
pregnant
animals,
nor
rip


out
grass
by
the
roots.
Additionally,
it
is
prohibited
to
urinate
or
wash
oneself
in
a


river,
or
to
urinate
or
defecate
in
the
burrows
or
living
area
of
any
animal


(Humphrey
1995:
141).
The
Mongolian
word
for
nature,
baigal,
comes
from
the


verb
baix
(to
be),
which
literally
translates
as
“what
is,”
and
includes
both
human


beings
and
the
environment
under
its
purview.
As
Humphrey
describes:
 


It
is
not
in
contemplation
of
the
land
(gazar)
that
is
important
but


interaction
with
it.
.
.
.
[Mongolian
nomads]
do
not
take
over
terrain.
.
.

and


transform
it
into
something
that
is
their
own.
Instead,
they
move
within


a
space
and
environment
where
some
kind
of
nomadic
life
is
possible.
.
.
.



That
is
to
say,
they
let
it
[their
environment]
pervade
them
and
their


herds,
influencing
where
they
settle,
when
they
move,
and
what
kinds
of


animals
they
keep.



 
 
 
 
 
 (Humphrey
1995:
135,
my
emphasis)



Central
Asian
mobile
pastoralists
interact
extensively
within
their


environments,
not
just
physically,
but
through
sonic
means
as
well.
This
premise
is


echoed
in
the
work
of
ethnomusicologist
Carole
Pegg
(2001e)
and
Theodore
Levin


(2006).
Levin
asserts
that
such
musical
practices
animate
sonic
resonances
of
the


environment
by
using
mimetic
faculties
to
interact
with
the
natural
reverberations


produced
by
geographical
formations.
These
include
sounds
such
as
the
trickling
of


water,
the
booming
echo
in
a
cave,
or
the
vibration
of
sound
as
it
courses
across
an


open
plain.
Urtiin
duu,
which,
according
to
Levin,
constitute
“one
of
the
most


dramatic
examples
of
resonant
reverberation,”
are
songs
that
mimetically
emulate


the
environment,
producing
sounds
that
are
not
merely
a
product
of
human
effort,


but
rather
a
result
of
the
interaction
between
human
and
environmental
sound


(Levin
2006:
37).



 23

 Utilizing
mimetic
faculty
in
performance
affords
urtiin
duu
singers
the
ability


to
produce
human
sounds
iconic
of
the
sounds
produced
by
certain
geographies;
in


so
doing,
practitioners
enter
into
a
kind
of
communication
with
the
resident
ezen


emulated
in
song.
Urtiin
duu
are
sung
as
a
kind
of
offering
to
ezen,
either
in
melodic


emulation
of
the
worshipped
entity
or
through
a
poetic
description
of
it:


Contemporary
folk‐religious
practices
are
dialogic
and
mutually
influencing



 







reciprocal
exchanges
between
human
beings,
nature‐spirits,
and
gods
of
the














 







universe,
achieved
by
mimesis
in
performance.
.
.
.
Topographical
images
are


mapped
in
contours
of
melodies
and
dances;
the
body
used
to
produce
sounds


and
shapes
in
imitation
of
the
environment.
Such
mimesis
is
an
integral
aspect


of
a
sociospiritual
process
of
exchange.
Reciprocity
is
necessary,
for,
whether


it
is
vocal
reproduction
of
sounds
heard
in
nature
or
using
materials
from


nature
in
order
to
produce
those
sounds,
something
has
been
given
that
must


be
returned.
Having
returned
the
gift
in
performance,
there
is
an
expectation


that
the
relationship
of
exchange
will
continue:
the
forces
of
nature
will
grant


the
favors
asked
of
them.



 













 
 
 
 
 
 
 










(Pegg
2001e:
97)



 
 

Through
mimesis
of
landscape
topographies,
the
environment,
and
animal


sounds,
urtiin
duu
performances
involve
the
sonic
emulation
of
entities
in
the


outdoor
world.
In
the
case
of
landscape
and
environment,
melodic
contours
are


iconic
of
different
geographic
topographies
and
environmental
phenomena—such


as
the
rising
and
setting
of
the
sun.
In
the
case
of
animals,
the
words
of
urtiin
duu


operate
through
onomatopoeia:
by
mimicking
animal
sounds
in
song,
singers
are


able
to
communicate
with
their
herds.
As
“imagistic
sketches
of
nature,”
urtiin
duu


practice
can
be
a
mimetic
expression
of
gratitude
and
an
appeal
for
protection
from


ezen
that
reside
in
particularly
holy
land
formations
and
rivers
(Levin
2006:
91).


The
ezen,
pleased
by
the
musical
offerings
iconic
of
their
landscapes,
provide


protection
and
answer
prayers
of
nomads.




 24

Mimesis
and
Semiotic
Theory


Peircean
semiotics
is
useful
for
describing
the
kinds
of
mimetic
faculty
found


in
urtiin
duu
practice,
as
well
as
the
multilayered
meanings
inspired
by
the


production
and
reception
of
these
songs.
According
to
Peirce,
human
beings
develop


their
senses
of
their
world
and
themselves
through
the
mediation
of
sign‐object


relations.
In
order
for
a
sign
to
effectively
signify
some
kind
of
meaning—be
it
an


idea,
an
emotional
feeling,
or
a
remembrance
of
a
past
experience—the
sign
must
be


something
(a
sign
vehicle),
which
signifies
something
(an
object)
for
somebody,


creating
an
effect,
or
interpretant
(Peirce
1995:
99).
Sign‐object
relationships
can
be


iconic,
as
is
often
the
case
when
human
beings
employ
mimetic
faculties
in
artistic


and
musical
performances,
but
icons
are
only
one
of
three
types
of
sign‐object


relations.
The
others
are
indices,
based
on
co–occurrence
in
real‐life
situations,
and


symbols,
based
on
linguistic
definition
and
agreement.
In
any
social
situation
there


is
always
an
overlap
between
the
iconic,
indexical,
and
symbolic
realms,
as


processes
of
creating
and
interpreting
meaning
necessarily
involve
chains
of
signs—


where
the
interpretant
of
the
first
sign
can
become
a
new
sign
vehicle,
standing
for
a


new
object,
creating
a
new
interpretant,
and
so
on,
ad
infinitum
(Peirce
1955:
169).



 When
urtiin
duu
singers
emulate
particular
landscapes
through
melodic


contour,
part
of
the
process
involves
the
production
of
musical
signs
iconic
of


landscape
topographies,
environmental
phenomena,
or
animals
(Nakagawa
1980,


Pegg
2001e,
Levin
2006).
Since
these
processes
imply
“a
transfer
of
properties
of


space
and
place
to
sonic
parameters
such
as
pitch,
timbre,
rhythm
and
dynamics”


(Levin
2006:
91),
they
can
be
considered
diagrammatic
icons,
involving
“analogous



 25

relations
of
the
parts
between
sign
and
object
as
the
basis
of
similarity
between


them”
(Turino
1999:
227).
The
initially
iconic
sign‐object
relationships,
then,
further


create
powerful
responses
in
individuals
familiar,
and
often
deeply
emotionally


attached,
to
these
objects.
These
effects,
or
sign‐object‐interpretant
relationships,


can
be
described
as
one
of
three
types:
rhematic
(where
the
sign
is
interpreted
as


one
of
possibility),
dicent
(where
the
sign
is
interpreted
causally
and
can
be


confirmed
or
denied
through
fact
or
experience),
or
argument
(where
the
sign
is


interpreted
as
a
symbolic
proposition
or
idea).



Signs
produced
and
received
in
musical
performances
are
often
interpreted


as
dicent
indices,
in
that
they
are
perceived
as
being
actually
affected
by
their


objects.
Dicent‐indices
can
be
particularly
powerful
signs
in
that
they
come
to
stand


for
their
objects
in
seemingly
natural,
innate
ways.
Among
Mongolian
nomadic


pastoralists,
urtiin
duu
are
often
produced
and
received
as
dicent‐indices,
especially


when
sung
during
daily
life
activities,
such
as
while
herding
animals.
‘Tugemel’
urtiin


duu
(a
more
abbreviated
version
of
urtiin
duu),
for
example,
are
often
sung
playfully


on
the
steppe
by
herders
in
emulation
of
surrounding
landscapes.
Described
as
a


form
of
“ludic
mimesis”
by
Levin,
these
sonic
emulations
are
performed
in
an


unofficial
manner,
usually
when
herders
entertain
themselves
during
long
hours


spent
horseback
riding
and
herding
animals
from
one
pasture
to
the
next
(Levin

1
2006:
82‐88). 
The
melodic
contours
are
iconic
of
particular
landscapes
personally


favored
by
the
herder,
and
they
index
emotional
feelings
of
attachment
involved



























































1
On
long
herding
journeys,
nomads
sometimes
ride
for
over
ten
hours
straight,
and
are
able
to
eat

and
sleep
on
horseback.
They
often
sing
to
entertain
themselves
on
these
long,
solitary
rides.



 26

therein:
“Long‐songs
are
the
fetish
of
connoisseurs
of
landscape
acoustics:
they
elicit


the
distinctive
sonic
qualities
of
a
favorite
outdoor
place,
and
long‐song
singers


savor
and
recall
these”
(Ibid.:
37).



Mimesis
and
Urtiin
duu


Several
different
sociocultural
groups
across
Mongolia
have
their
own


unique
urtiin
duu
style,
including
the
Oirat
and
Uriangkhai
groups
of
northwest


Mongolia,
the
Darkhat
and
Buryat
groups
of
north
Mongolia,
the
Tov
Khalkha


(central
Khalkha)
and
Borjigin
of
the
central‐southern
Gobi,
and
various
other


peoples
across
Inner
Mongolia.

Despite
the
wide
geographical
range
in
which
urtiin


duu
are
practiced,
as
well
as
the
disparate
settings
in
which
they
are
currently


found—including
rural
nomadic
encampments
as
well
as
large‐scale
tourist


productions—all
urtiin
duu
exhibit
certain
similar
characteristics.
Most
are
sung
in


powerful,
declamatory
voices
that
can
easily
echo
across
vast
steppeland,
fill
a
yurt


with
deeply
resonant
vocalizations,
or
carry
across
a
concert
hall.
The
melodic


contours
of
most
urtiin
duu
traverse
a
range
of
at
least
two
octaves,
contain
few


words,
and
are
performed
without
fixed
meter.
Since
these
songs
incorporate
very


few
words
over
the
course
of
long
melodic
verses
that
sometimes
last
over
five


minutes
in
duration
before
being
repeated,
many
syllables
are
sung
as
non‐lexical


vocables
(sounds
without
distinct
symbolic
meaning),
such
as
hai,
eh,
ooh,
or
ah.
For


example,
only
eight
words
are
sung
over
the
course
of
the
of
the
Tov
Khalkha


version
of
Kherlengiin
bariya,
though
as
many
as
thirty
non‐lexical
vocables
can
be



 27

counted.
Similarly,
the
Borjigin
version
of
this
same
song,
with
the
same
lyrics,
also


contains
over
thirty
non‐lexical
vocables.



The
song
lyrics
that
typically
carry
referential
meaning
are
often
those


referring
to
particularly
holy
landscapes.
These
lyrics
can
be
understood
as
they


mark
the
beginning
of
musical
phrases
and
are
emphasized
through
loud
dynamics


and
carefully
placed
vibrato
and
glottal
stops.
Two
urtiin
duu
in
Appendix
A
serve
to


illustrate
this
point.
In
the
two
aforementioned
versions
of
the
song
Kherlengiin


bariya,
both
the
words
Kherlengiin
(phrase
one),
and
bariya
(phrase
two)
can
be


understood
as
they
begin
each
important
phrase
(Appendix
A:
A.3,
A.4).

These


words
directly
refer
to
specific
geographical
locations
and
phenomena,
particular


those
associated
with
Chinggis
Khan
and
particular
Mongolian
clan
identities,
such


as
the
legendary
river
Kherlen
that
runs
through
what
is
thought
to
be
Chinggis


Khan’s
birthplace.



Many
of
the
words
used
in
urtiin
duu
are
pronounced
according
to
Old


Mongolian
script,
the
vertical
script
prevalent
in
this
area
before
1921,
rendering


their
lexical
meaning
difficult
to
understand
for
the
average
Mongolian.
Syllables
are


“interpolated
to
preserve
the
melodic
line
of
the
text,”
and
the
lyrical
line
“is
often


truncated,
so
that
metrical
elements
of
the
written
text
are
not
preserved
in
song,”


further
obscuring
the
meaning
of
the
words
and
indicating
that
song
lyrics
are


operating
primarily
as
iconic
and
indexical
signs
for
most
Mongolians
(Pegg
2001e:


45).
Many
rural
Mongolians
confirmed
this
point,
explaining
that
urtiin
duu
lyrics


are
“difficult
to
understand,”
“in
old
script
pronunciation,”
and
as
Dad’suren



 28

explained,
they
would
have
to
be
studied
by
“scholars”
in
order
to
fully
capture
their


literal
meaning.



Signs
created
by
urtiin
duu
performance,
then,
primarily
operate
as
iconic


and
indexical
relations,
a
semiotic
feature
common
to
many
musical
practices.


According
to
Turino,
“iconic
and
indexical
signs
typically
operate
together
in


expressive
cultural
practices,
and
indices
have
their
own
special
potentials
for


producing
emotional
response
and
social
identification”
(Turino
1999:
234‐35).
In


urtiin
duu,
iconic
emulation
and
indexical
signification
are
often
communicated


through
iteration
of
these
melodic
contours
representative
of
certain
landscapes.


These
musical
landscapes,
in
turn,
can
evoke
powerful
feelings
associated
with


ancestral
and
ezen
spirits,
as
well
as
different
sociocultural
identities
for
performers


and
listeners
alike.



Graphing
Melodic
Contours


In
urtiin
duu,
melodic
contour
is
an
overwhelmingly
significant
and
salient


feature
of
a
song;
it
is
what
renders
a
song
recognizable
from
one
singer
to
the
next.


For
this
reason,
I
have
created
a
graphic
representation
of
urtiin
duu
that
essentially


“maps
out”
melodic
contour
as
it
is
expressed
over
time
in
order
to
emphasize
these


contours.
It
is
my
hope
that
this
form
of
notation,
as
a
kind
of
visual
representation


of
melodic
contour,
will
help
depict
the
way
urtiin
duu
melodies
can
operate
as


diagrammatic
icons
of
certain
landscape
topographies.
This
notation
is
also
helpful


for
illustrating
how
the
overall
melodic
contour
of
an
urtiin
duu
remains
steady,


varying
according
to
the
personal
style
of
the
singer.




 29

 Certain
melodic
gestures,
for
example,
are
an
integral
part
of
the
melodic


contour
of
specific
urtiin
duu
(Nakagawa
1980:
153).
In
the
following
example,
the


main
motifs
of
the
song
Giingoo
are
confirmed
by
graphic
notation
of
two
different


performances
of
the
song
(Appendix
A:
A.1,
A.2).
The
specific
rhythms
and


ornamentation
within
such
contours
can
change
depending
on
the
individual


performer,
as
does
the
starting
pitch
of
the
song.
In
these
two
examples,
each


performer,
Dunjima
and
Dad’suren,
employs
different
internal
rhythms
while


performing
Giingoo.
However,
the
melodic
contour
of
these
songs
remains
relatively


stable,
despite
variances
in
ornamentation,
use
of
vocables,
and
rhythm.
To


illustrate
this
point,
I
have
labeled
the
shared
melodic
motifs
in
the
graphs
of
each


singer’s
version.




 Urtiin
duu
are
powerful,
in
part,
because
of
their
ability
to
signify
different


kinds
of
nutag,
ranging
from
vast
geographical
landscapes
and
homelands


(including
entire
mountain
chains)
to
specific
geographies
(such
as
nearby
hills
and


valleys
important
to
the
individuals
who
live
near
them).
On
one
occasion,
I


happened
to
come
across
an
example
of
the
latter
kind
of
signification.
In
May
2002


I
met
two
different
singers,
Jantsan
and
Dolamsuren,
who
each
sang
their
own


versions
of
an
urtiin
duu
known
as
Bogdin
ondor
(Holy
tall
mountain).
They
sang
the


same
song,
with
the
same
lyrics,
and
the
same
general
overall
melodic
contour.


Nonetheless,
their
versions
differed
in
unique
and
important
ways:
Dolamsuren’s


melodic
contour
was
calmer,
without
as
many
unanticipated
leaps
and
falls
as


Jantsan’s
version.
Jantsan’s
contour,
on
the
other
hand,
incorporated
much
more


drastic
pitch
variation
and
less
of
the
overall
smooth
quality
conveyed
by



 30

Dolamsuren.
When
I
asked
both
the
singers
and
family
members
the
reasons
for


their
different
styles,
the
responses
centered
on
the
differences
in
landscape


between
the
geographical
areas
surrounding
each
singer’s
home.
Dolamsuren’s


rendition
of
Bogdin
ondor
is
influenced
by
her
own
indexical
experiences
of
the


landscape
topographies
she
is
surrounded
by
and
which
she
reveres.
These
happen


to
be
flatter
than
the
mountains
near
Jantsan’s
home,
who
resides
in
an
area
around


thirty
kilometers
away
from
Dolamsuren
known
as
Baga
gazriin
chuluu
(small,


rocky
hills),
a
place
noted
for
its
rocky
contours:


Figure
2.1



 
 
 
 
 
 
 Reprinted
from
www.flikr.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Baga
Gazriin
Chuluu,
Dundgovi
province





The
particular
landscape
that
surrounds
Jantsan’s
home
influences
the
more


drastic
hill‐like
rises
and
falls
in
pitch
of
his
personal
urtiin
duu
style.
Graphs
A.5
and


A.6
in
Appendix
A
demonstrate
the
different
contours
of
Jantsan’s
and
Dolamsuren’s


versions
of
the
song,
respectively.
Though
these
melodies
are
iconic
of
the
different



 31

landscapes
surrounding
Dolamsuren’s
and
Jantsan’s
yurts,
they
also
index
each


singer’s
personal
relationship
with
the
particular
landscapes
in
which
they
reside.


This
type
of
indexical
signification
operates
in
powerful
ways
and
can
implicate


multiple
layers
of
meaning
for
any
individual
singer,
accompanist,
or
listener.


Jantsan,
for
example,
was
moved
to
tears
when
singing
Bogdin
ondor
for
me,


particularly
because
his
son
had
just
passed
away.
In
the
moment
he
sang
to
me,
his


melody
became
a
sonic
catalyst
for
eliciting
strong
feelings
of
grief.
Jantsan
later


explained
that
the
song
had
reminded
him
of
his
home,
evoking
emotional


recollections
associated
with
his
family
and
his
deceased
son.
This
experience


illustrates
that
urtiin
duu
has
the
potential
to
be
a
powerful
form
of
experiential


signification
for
many
individuals
at
any
given
moment.


Though
the
melodic
contours
of
urtiin
duu
can
signify
particular
surrounding


landscapes
where
nomads
currently
live,
they
can
also
represent
larger


geographical
areas,
even
those
where
singers
do
not
live
or
that
they
have
never


personally
seen.
Mongols
who
self‐identify
as
Tov
Khalkha,
for
example,
currently


reside
in
the
central
Southern
Gobi
desert,
an
area
they
have
occupied
for
centuries.


The
landscape
features
characteristic
of
this
area
are
not
unlike
those
of
the


southwestern
United
States,
including
mesas
and
plateaus,
as
well
as
low
valleys


and
flatlands.
Their
urtiin
duu
style,
described
as
aizam,
or
“extended”
urtiin
duu,
is


said
to
be
a
reflection
of
the
vast,
low
steppe
of
the
Gobi:
“Mongols
use
terms
such
as


‘spacious,’
‘wide,’
‘long‐lasting,’
‘big,’
‘free’
and
‘of
great
size’
for
this
style”
(Pegg


2001e:
45).



 32

 The
two
versions
of
Bogdin
ondor
depicted
in
Appendix
A
are
good
examples


of
aizam
urtiin
duu
(graphs
A.5
and
A.6).
The
graphs
of
these
two
songs
include


brackets
at
the
bottom
marked
with
asterisks
(*),
indicating
sudden
leaps
in
register


and
the
frequency
with
which
these
occur.
The
following
picture
demonstrates
the


plateau‐like
formations
characteristic
of
the
central
Gobi.



Figure
2.2



 
 
 








Reprinted
from
www.flikr.com,
Stefan
Heusch:
Bayanzag,
central
Gobi




The
melodic
contours
of
aizam
urtiin
duu
are
typically
longer
and
more


extended
than
those
of
urtiin
duu
that
represent
other
landscapes.
For
example,
the


urtiin
duu
known
as
Uyakhan
zambuutiviin
nar
has
a
melodic
contour
that
lasts
well


over
three
minutes.
Additionally,
aizam
urtiin
duu
incorporate
elongated
phrases


that
can
traverse
as
many
as
three
octaves,
as
well
as
melodic
leaps
and
falls


encompassing
fourths
and
fifths,
all
of
which
suggest
different
landscape
elevations


in
their
melodic
iteration.
They
often
demand
that
singers
sing
in
both
chest
and


falsetto
vocal
ranges.
Another
unique
characteristic
of
these
urtiin
duu
is
the
use
of
a


deeply
resonant
voice
during
particularly
low
sections
of
the
songs,
a
representation


of
the
echo‐like
resonance
that
voices
carry
in
the
low
valleys
of
the
central
Gobi



 33

desert.
In
fact,
several
of
the
urtiin
duu
singers
I
encountered
used
the
word
tsuurai,


or
echo,
in
relation
to
urtiin
duu
practice,
in
particular
when
describing
Tov
Khalkha


urtiin
duu.
I
suspect
that
the
word
tsuurai
is
linked
to
the
word
tsuur,
the
name
of
an


end‐blown
flute
performed
by
Western
Mongolians
in
conjunction
with
khoumii.


The
term
tsuurai
is
also
translated
in
conjunction
with
the
words
duuriax,
meaning


“to
imitate,”
and
dabtax,
meaning
“reiterate,”
both
of
which
are
used
extensively
by


singers
to
describe
the
mimetic
qualities
of
urtiin
duu.
In
the
following
picture,
the


vastness
of
the
Gobi
desert
is
depicted,
a
topography
that
influences
the
“extended”


quality
of
urtiin
duu:



Figure
2.3












 
 
 Reprinted
from
www.flikr.com
,
Jean
Christoph,
central
Gobi,
Mongolia


 
 
 
 
 
 

The
quality
of
low
resonance
is
evident
in
the
Tov
Khalkha
songs,
Kherlengiin
bariya


and
Uyakhan
zambuutiviin
nar.
As
Uyakhan
zambuutiviin
nar
demonstrates,
these


songs
often
demand
that
phrases
be
prolonged
as
long
as
a
singer
can
hold
his
or



 34

her
breath.
Dad’suren
often
taught
me
to
end
my
accompaniment
by
extending
the


last
note
as
long
as
possible
in
an
elongated
way,
to
emphasize
this
characteristic
of


the
landscape.



The
urtiin
duu
of
the
Borjigin
clan
provides
another
example
of
the
capacity


for
urtiin
duu
contours
to
signify
large
geographical
areas.
Nomads
of
the
Borjigin


clan
occasionally
identify
their
urtiin
duu
as
aizam,
though
this
term
is
not
as


prevalent,
and
their
songs
are
more
often
described
as
general
or
abbreviated


(besreg).
These
songs
are
not
nearly
as
extended
as
Tov
Khalkha
aizam
long
songs,


and
tend
to
incorporate
more
intricate
decoration
(chimeglel)
of
the
melodic
line


(Pegg
2001e:
47).
The
Borjigin
people
assert
that
their
clan
originated
in
a
very


different
landscape
from
the
one
in
which
they
currently
live,
and
it
is
this
landscape


that
is
reflected
in
their
urtiin
duu
stylings.



The
melodic
contours
of
Borjigin
songs
reflect
how
singers
imagine
their


original
homeland
in
the
Khentii
mountains.
The
smaller
intervals
emulate
rocky


mountains
with
step‐like
ascents
and
descents,
instead
of
the
more
plateau‐like


formations
of
Tov
Khalkha
long
songs
(Ibid.).
Unlike
Tov
Khalkha
songs,
Borjigin


songs
do
not
suddenly
switch
to
the
highest
vocal
register,
but
rather
work
up
to


these
points
in
a
more
gradual
manner.
The
Borjigin
singers
Dad’suren
and
Ulziibot


both
indicated
that
this
melodic
style
is
representative
of
the
mountainous
slopes


where
these
melodies
are
said
to
have
originated.
The
following
picture,
taken
by


photographer
Don
Croner,
depicts
the
landscape
topography
of
the
Khentii


mountains,
which
bears
a
clear
iconic
resemblance
to
the
step‐like
contour
of


Borjigin
urtiin
duu.
 



 35

 
 Figure
2.4
 
 
 



 
 
 


 
 
 Reprinted
from
www.doncroner.com,
Khentii
mountains,
Mongolia


 



 Just
as
in
the
Tov
Khalkha
version,
the
Borjigin
version
of
Kherlengiin
bariya


begins
an
ascent
to
a
very
high
vocal
range
with
the
iteration
of
the
word
bariya
in


the
second
phrase.
Unlike
the
Tov
Khalkha
version,
however,
the
melodic
contour
of


the
Borjigin
version
does
not
incorporate
as
many
sudden
leaps
but
rather
rises
in


smaller
pitch
intervals
(Appendix
A:
A.4).


In
yet
another
example
of
the
step‐like
ascents
and
descents
in
pitch
found
in


Borjigin
urtiin
duu,
the
song
Jaakhan
sharga
(Young
bay
horse),
sung
by
the
Borjigin


singer
Ulziibot,
employs
a
similar
kind
of
melodic
contour
(Appendix
A:
A.7).
The


Borjigin
style
of
vibrato,
which
oscillates
between
intervals
as
wide
as
a
second


(unlike
Tov
Khalkha
stylings,
which
usually
include
more
glottal
stops),
is
also
iconic


of
a
step‐like
topography.
Unlike
the
low‐voice
resonance
typical
of
the
Tov
Khalkha


style,
Borjigin
singers
primarily
emphasize
high
melodic
peaks
accompanied
by


powerfully
resonant
singing,
indicative
of
the
type
of
resonance
one
would


encounter
singing
on
mountaintops
in
such
regions.
Characteristically,
Borjigin


songs
do
not
incorporate
the
low‐ranged
resonance
nor
declamatory
voice
typical
of


the
Tov
Khalkha
songs.




 36

 Borjigin
people
are
invested
in
separating
their
personal
identities
from
Tov


Khalkha,
in
part
because
this
identity
proclaims
them
to
be
direct
descendents
of


Chinggis
Khan
and
his
courtly
performers,
who
were
also
from
this
same
area
of


Khentii:
“Borjigin
have
a
very
clear
mental
image
of
the
boundaries
of
their
territory


despite
repeated
changes
in
name
and
administrative
divisions
since
the


seventeenth
century.
It
is,
they
say,
the
‘shape
of
a
sheep’s
stomach,
fastened
at
the


top
by
Mount
Bayan
Ulaan
in
Delger
sum
of
Khentii
aimag’”
(Pegg
2001e:
17).


Historically,
the
Borjigin
were
considered
an
elite
clan
and
predominantly
ruled


over
the
Khalkha
during
the
Manchu
Qing
era
before
the
1921
Communist


Revolution
(Humphrey
and
Sneath
1996b:
27).
During
the
socialist
era,


proclamation
of
Borjigin
identity
was
outlawed
due
to
its
feudal
basis
and
elite


lineage
claims.
In
Soviet
censuses
conducted
in
1918,
1963,
1969,
1979,
and
1989,


the
Borjigin
clan
is
neither
mentioned
as
a
tribe
nor
as
an
ethnic
group,
but


completely
excluded
from
description
(Bulag
1998:
30,
66‐69).
The
idea
of
a


separate
Borjigin
identity
is
still
part
of
an
ongoing,
contentious
debate,
with
most


Khalkha
arguing
that
all
Borjigin
are
Khalkha
or
vice
versa,
and
most
Borjigin


arguing
that
they
are
distinct
from
Khalkha.
As
Pegg
explains,


Chinggis
Khan
is
the
seed
from
which
Khalkha
Mongols,
the
imperial


Borjigin
clan,
and
those
concerned
about
the
unity
of
the
Mongols
are


cultivating
their
current
identities.
References
to
Chinggis
Khan
in
songs


and
melodies
were
just
beginning
to
be
acceptable
in
1989
and
the
label


“Borjigin”
used
as
a
measure
of
cultural
supremacy.
The
Borjigin
long‐

song
style
was
said
to
be
the
best,
since
Borjigin
musicians
and
singers


performed
in
Chinggis’
court.
Chinggis
Khan’s
father,
Yesühei
Baatar,
was


from
the
Borjigin
clan,
and
his
descendants
consider
themselves
to
be
the


nucleus
of
Mongol
identity.
.
.
.
By
1993,
there
was
some
confusion
as
different


Mongol
groups
used
the
symbol
of
Chinggis
Khan
to
reinvent
themselves.


There
was
even
confusion
between
Khalkha
and
Borjigin.
I
was
told
by
a


Khalkha
friend
“all
Mongols
are
Khalkha”
and
by
a
non‐Borjigin
Khalkha
“all


Khalkhas
are
Borjigin.”
 
 
 



 37

 









 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 









(Pegg
2001e:
22)



Despite
the
contentiousness
of
the
supposed
separate
identities
of
the


Khalkha
and
Borjigin,
there
is
no
question
that
their
urtiin
duu
differ
from
one


another
stylistically.
This
difference
became
increasingly
more
pronounced
during


the
twentieth
century
due
to
the
varying
contexts
in
which
the
songs
were


performed.
As
Tov
Khalkha
songs
were
promoted
to
the
level
of
“national
urtiin
duu


style”
during
the
socialist
era,
their
dissemination
was
extensive
and
younger


Mongolians
have
learned
them
from
the
radio
as
well
as
in
staged
musical


gatherings.
Borjigin
urtiin
duu,
however,
were
primarily
outlawed
during
this
time,


and
were
thus
typically
passed
from
one
generation
to
the
next
in
private
during


domestic
celebrations
known
as
nair.
No
longer
subject
to
prohibition
and


censorhip,
these
nair
are
now
openly
practiced
by
Borjigin
families.



The
Nair
Festival


I
was
lucky
enough
to
attend
several
of
these
celebrations,
which
are
held
to


mark
important
occasions
such
as
weddings
and
births.
Though
almost
all


Mongolian
nomadic
groups
hold
their
own
versions
of
nair,
the
Borjigin
nair
is


unique
in
its
extensive
incorporation
of
urtiin
duu
into
the
celebration,
sung


according
to
specific
rules
designated
by
the
Nairiin
Darga,
the
Director
of
the
Feast.


This
position
is
usually
designated
according
to
age,
occupied
by
the
eldest
male


present.
The
festival
always
begins
by
singing
Tumen
Ekh
(The
first
of
ten


thousand),
an
urtiin
duu
commemorating
Chinggis
Khan’s
greatness.
The
party
then


continues
with
the
ceremonial
and
generous
handing
out
of
airag.




 38

 Every
person
attending
the
ceremony
is
required
to
sing
an
urtiin
duu
while


holding
a
bowl
of
airag
in
front
of
them.
Throughout
the
course
of
the
ceremony,


each
person
will
typically
be
asked
to
sing
three
times.
The
Nairiin
Darga
judges
the


singers
based
on
the
accuracy
and
precision
of
their
rendition.
If
he
or
she
is
found


to
have
sung
improperly—or
somehow
to
have
broken
a
rule
such
as
talking
while


another
person
is
singing—the
person
is
then
“punished”
and
required
to
imbibe


thirteen
liters
of
airag
from
a
large
bowl
centered
in
the
middle
of
the
yurt.
Several


people
will
undoubtedly
be
“punished”
over
the
course
of
the
evening,
and
a


humorous
situation
usually
ensues,
with
the
person
attempting
to
drink
as
much

2
airag
as
possible,
usually
getting
quite
drunk,
and
eventually
vomiting. 
Nair


celebrations
can
last
into
the
night
or
all
night,
and
on
some
occasions
several
days,


as
long
as
there
is
airag
available.



These
nair
have
maintained
a
similar
structure
and
set
of
rules
over
the


course
of
the
twentieth
century.
Pegg
describes
an
interview
with
an
elderly
Borjigin


nomad,
whose
description
of
Borjigin
nair
in
“Old”
Mongolia
(pre‐Revolutionary


Mongolia,
or
pre‐1921),
is
extremely
reminiscent
of
the
various
nair
I
attended
in


2002,
2004,
and
2006:



The
seventy‐six‐year‐old
Borjigin
Gelegsamdan,
who
remembered
nairs


from
his
childhood,
explained
that
participants
had
to
be
smartly
dressed,


with
the
gown
(deel),
buttoned
up,
collars
neatly
touching,
and
hats
on

straight.
The
correct
posture
had
to
be
adopted.
Smoking
and
talking
was


not
allowed
during
performances
and
anyone
wishing
to
go
to
the
toilet
had


to
ask
for
permission
from
the
Director
of
the
Feast.
.
.
.
Penalties
were
given


to
ensure
order.
Anyone
who
broke
a
rule
had
to
consume
three
large
bowls


of
airag.
.
.
.

All
were
expected
to
perform
long‐songs,
and
those
who
could
not



























































2

With
luck,
the
person
will
vomit
outside,
but
on
one
occasion
I
witnessed
one
of
Dad’suren’s
sons

who,
unable
to
control
himself,
vomited
in
the
crowded
yurt,
resulting
in
a
chain
of
vomits
from

various
disgusted
members
sitting
nearby.
The
outrageous
night
is
still
remembered
fondly
by
both

Dad’suren
and
I
whenever
I
visit.



 39

 were
made
by
elders
to
drink
airag
until
they
vomited,
thereby
ensuring
the


songs
would
be
learned
by
the
next
time.
 
 


 
 
 
 








 
 
 
 









(Pegg
2001e:
42)



In
order
to
ensure
proper
learning
of
Borjgin
urtiin
duu,
the
gathered


community
will
join
in
singing
every
other
verse
of
the
urtiin
duu,
reinforcing
the


correct
delivery
of
the
song.
I
theorize
that
the
importance
placed
on
precise


renditions
of
urtiin
duu
in
Borjigin
nair
celebrations,
as
well
as
the
strict
and
formal


rules
maintained
by
both
the
Nairiin
Darga
as
well
as
ceremonial
participants,
has


aided
in
the
maintenance
of
both
a
separate
Borjigin
urtiin
duu
style
as
well
as
a


separate
Borjigin
identity.
Borjigin
urtiin
duu
occur
in
contexts
asserting
the


importance
of
the
clan’s
distinctiveness.
The
Borjigin
people
are
said
to
be
the
direct


descendents
of
Chinggis
Khan.
Having
come
to
the
central
Gobi
many
generations


back,
most
have
never
directly
seen
the
Khentii
mountains.
This
fact
brings
into
the


question
the
validity
of
Borjigin
claims
that
their
urtiin
duu
specifically
represent
the


Khentii
mountain
landscape.
Though
it
is
possible
their
urtiin
duu
style
was
once


influenced
by
the
step‐like
contour
of
the
Khentii
mountains,
these
songs
are
no


longer
directly
iconic
of
this
landscape.
They
are,
rather,
iconic
of
people’s
imagined


ideas
of
what
this
landscape
actually
looks
like.
Thus,
the
melodic
contours
of


Borjgin
urtiin
duu
and
their
perceived
connection
to
the
Khentii
landscape
have


come
to
index
the
idea
of
the
Borjigin
identity
itself.
This
point
is
strengthened
by


the
fact
that
most
Borjigin
consider
their
urtiin
duu
to
be
“‘detailed,’
‘accurate,’


‘precise’
and
‘refined,’”
descriptions
that
allude
to
their
elite
status
as
Chinggis


Khan’s
imperial
descendents
and
the
power
their
particular
clan
possessed
in
pre‐

1921
feudal
Mongolia
(Pegg
2001e:
47).




 40




Other
Forms
of
Mimesis


Regardless
of
clan
association,
various
similarities
exist
among
both
Tov


Khalkha
and
Borjigin
singers
in
this
area
regarding
urtiin
duu
practice,
especially


when
it
is
utilized
as
a
kind
of
herding
technique.
Not
all
urtiin
duu
are
iconic
of


landscape
topography.
Some
urtiin
duu
are
iconic
of
other
environmental


phenomena.
Through
utilizing
different
kinds
of
mimesis,
singers
engage
animals


and
other
environmental
entities
through
song.
Dad’suren
explains
how,
in
Oyakhan


zambuutiviin
nar
(The
sun
shines
around
the
earth),
the
melodic
contour
is


reminiscent
of
“the
rising
and
setting
of
the
sun.”
Turning
to
graph
A.8
in
Appendix


A,
one
can
detect
the
overall
rise
and
fall
of
the
melodic
contour,
which
unfolds
over


three
minutes.
The
overall
arch‐like
rise
and
fall
of
the
melody
is
especially


noteworthy
towards
the
second
half
of
the
song.
Notably,
the
song
emphasizes
the


word
nar
(sun)
at
the
beginning
of
the
verse,
followed
by
an
elongated,
ascending


musical
phrase
iconic
of
a
sunrise
(Appendix
A:
A.8).


Urtiin
duu
are
also
mimetic
of
the
powerful,
reverberant
echoes
that
can


resound
across
the
open
steppe
when,
for
example,
wind
gusts
across
the
landscape,


or
a
human
being
sings,
or
an
animal
releases
a
loud
sound.
This
kind
of
mimesis


occurs
when
urtiin
duu
vocalists
are
accompanied
by
instrumentalists
or
other


singers.
During
these
performances,
the
resonance
of
the
melody
echoes
between


the
musicians,
creating
a
powerful
kind
of
reverberation.
Urtiin
duu
can
be


accompanied
by
the
horse‐head
fiddle
(morin
khuur)
or
the
flute
(limbe).
While


performing
with
a
singer,
an
accompanist
will
anticipate
the
singer’s
entrance
at
the



 41

beginning
of
verse.
Once
the
singer
begins
the
melody,
the
instrumentalist
will
then


shadows
the
singer’s
melodic
contour
in
a
kind
of
delayed
heterophonic
style.
The


result
is
an
echo‐like,
sonically
resonant
melody.
As
mentioned
above,
the
word


tsuurai,
or
echo,
is
used
in
relation
to
urtiin
duu
practice
and
accompaniment,
as
are


the
words
duuriax
(to
imitate)
and
dabtax
(to
reiterate).


The
same
effect
occurs
when
two
or
more
urtiin
duu
singers
join
one
another


in
song.
Since
the
songs
are
not
performed
in
any
kind
of
fixed
rhythm,
two
or
more


singers
never
sing
in
perfect
unison,
and
a
similarly
delayed,
heterophonic
melodic


effect
is
created.
This
kind
of
resonance
is
a
mimetic
emulation
of
the
kind
of
echo‐

like
reverberance
found
in
certain
landscapes,
particularly
across
the
open
steppe,


or
in
a
cave.



In
addition
to
being
iconic
of
landscape
and
other
environmental


phenomena,
certain
urtiin
duu
are
also
iconic
of
animal
sounds
and
are
sung
during


a
particular
situation
that
confronts
herders
during
the
birthing
season:
specifically,


when
a
mother
animal
does
not
accept
her
calf
after
giving
birth
to
it,
and
will
not


allow
her
child
to
suckle
from
her
(Batzengel
1980a:
51).
Such
situations
are
urgent


in
that
the
calf’s
survival
depends
on
receiving
milk
from
its
mother.
Since
nomads


raise
all
their
own
food,
every
animal
is
a
potential
provider
of
sustenance
and
every


calf’s
life
is
important
for
the
family
as
a
whole.
During
these
critical
situations,


urtiin
duu
are
sung
to
mother
animals
in
order
to
calm
them
and
allow
their
young


to
suckle
from
them.
In
particularly
difficult
situations,
such
as
in
the
case
of
a


stubborn
mother
camel,
an
instrumentalist
is
required
to
accompany
a
singer
(in



 42

this
case,
typically
a
morin
khuur
player)
in
order
to
render
the
melody
more


effective.


There
are
five
urtiin
duu
mimetic
of
animals,
one
song
for
each
of
the
five


domesticated
animals
found
in
nomadic
herds.
Each
respective
song
uses
words


iconic
of
the
particular
sounds
each
different
kind
of
animal
makes.
Levin
describes


a
similar
phenomenon
among
Tuvan
herders,
who



.
.
.
imitate
animal
sounds
exclusively
through
iconic
mimesis
of
the
sounds

themselves.
.
.

the
ability
to
imitate
animal
sounds
with
a
high
degree
of

 



 



 






verisimilitude
is
singled
out
for
special
praise.
The
[Mongolian]
term
for


such
imitations,
ang­meng
mal­magan
öttüneri,
“imitation
of
wild
and


domestic
animals,”
is
widely
used
by
herders.



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 





(Levin
2006:
85)




In
Mongolia,
herders
similarly
employ
the
ang­meng
mal­magan
öttüneri


techniques
to
mimic
animal
sounds
through
onomatopoeia.
For
example,
in
the
case


of
tsoigo
(sung
to
sheep)
the
word
tsoigo
is
sung
in
a
rapid
manner,
creating
a


vibrating
effect
reminiscent
of
the
animal’s
vibrating
grunts.
Dad’suren
explains
that


khoos,
sung
to
camels,
is
also
performed
in
a
way
reminiscent
of
a
camel’s
low


moans,
similar
to
the
word
oov,
used
to
call
camels
and
yaks.




The
following
table
shows
the
name
of
each
song
and
the
corresponding


animal
to
whom
the
song
is
sung.
With
the
exception
of
Giingoo,
sung
to
horses
prior


to
racing,
every
song
listed
below
is
composed
entirely
of
the
repetition
of
the
word


as
it
is
sung
to
different
contours.
Dad’suren
describes
how
these
songs
actually


communicate
with
animals,
as
in
the
case
of
the
mother
camel,
who
cries
upon
being


moved
by
the
melody
and
words
of
khoos
and
reunites
with
her
calf:
“When


someone
sings
khoos,
khoos
in
the
melody
of
the
long
song,
the
camel
mother
is


coaxed
into
nursing
her
baby
and
weeps.
It
means
that
the
camel
mother
is
touched



 43

by
the
melody
and
words
of
the
song.
The
animal
is
moved.”
I
have
found
that
these


melodies
are
more
variable
from
singer
to
singer
than
other,
long‐established
urtiin


duu
such
as
Kherlengiin
bariya
or
Oyakhan
zambuutiviin
nar,
discussed
earlier.




Table
2.1:
Urtiin
duu
words
sung
to
different
animals




Animal

 
 
 Song
name/lyric

Horse
 Гийнгоо

 Giingoo

Camel
 Хooc
 Khoos

Goats
 Цoйго

 Tsoigo

Sheep
 Toйго
 Toigo

Cow
 Oоь,
oь
 Ooh,
oh






As
a
mother
horse
always
accepts
her
calves,
horses
are
sung
urtiin
duu
for


different
purposes,
particularly
to
calm
a
racing
horse
before
an
event
and


synchronize
the
mentality
of
the
singer
(who
is
always
the
racer)
with
that
of
the


horse.
Before
almost
all
horse
races,
both
urban
and
rural
Mongolians
perform


Giingoo,
sometimes
accompanied
by
the
morin
khuur.
Unlike
the
other
songs
listed


in
the
above
table,
there
are
no
words
onomatopoeic
of
horse
sounds
in
Giingoo,


though
the
morin
khuur
accompaniment
can
incorporate
neighing
sounds


reminiscent
of
the
horse.
Additionally,
Dad’suren
performs
a
song
called
Mornii


yavdal
(gait
of
the
horse)
on
the
morin
khuur,
where
the
rhythm
of
the
fiddle‐playing


intentionally
evokes
the
galloping
rhythm
of
a
horse’s
hoof
beats.



Conclusions



 44

 Urtiin
duu
thus
holds
the
capacity
to
index
particular
landscapes
and
entities


in
the
environment,
as
well
as
the
experiences
and
feelings
they
inspire,
often


producing
powerful
emotional
responses
in
those
individuals
who
have
intimate


knowledge
of
them.
As
ethnomusicologist
Tony
Perman
describes,
“Emotions
are


particularly
powerful
when
the
signs
that
instigate
them
are
indexical
dicents”


(Perman
2008:278).
The
signs
produced
by
singing
urtiin
duu
often
operate
as


indexically
dicent
to
the
experience
of
mobile
pastoralists
when
they
interact
with


their
nutag
and,
moved
by
its
beauty
or
even
a
sense
of
gratefulness
for
the


sustenance
it
provides,
become
inspired
to
produce
musical
landscapes
in
its
image.


This
explains
why,
during
the
socialist
era,
so
many
viewed
the
removal
of
urtiin
duu


from
outdoor
contexts
and
into
concert
halls
as
a
particularly
egregious
affront.


During
this
time,
performance
contexts
were
re‐framed
according
to
a
new
political


authority
in
ways
that
conflicted
with
nomads’
personal
associations
of
urtiin
duu.


Tsendpuro,
a
music
teacher
in
the
capital
city
of
Dundgovi
province,
recalls
that
“the


communists
destroyed
long
song,
because
they
moved
them
from
the
steppe
to
the


concert
hall.”



 However,
as
we
shall
see
in
the
next
chapter,
the
changes
imposed
during
the


socialist
era
on
urtiin
duu
and
other
musical
practices
were
not
wholeheartedly


dismissed
by
Mongolians.
The
modernist‐socialist‐cosmopolitan
ideologies


introduced
in
the
1920s
ultimately
came
to
be
internalized
by
the
1960s,
especially


values
associated
with
modernity.
As
we
have
seen,
the
sounds
of
certain
urtiin
duu,


as
sign‐vehicles,
can
iconically
signify
particular
homelands
and
landscapes.
These


associations
have
lingered
as
new,
multilayered,
and
complex
meanings
were



 45

formed
over
the
course
of
the
twentieth
century.
My
intention
in
describing
the


mimetic
significations
of
urtiin
duu
in
this
chapter
is
to
illustrate
what
is
essentially


an
earlier
layer
of
meaning
in
what
was
to
become
the
multilayered
indices


associated
with
urtiin
duu.
As
its
performance
context,
style,
and
reception
changed


during
the
twentieth
century,
urtiin
duu
was
ultimately
transformed
into
an


emotion‐laden
index
of
the
Mongolian
nation.



 46

CHAPTER
THREE:


 
 PERFORMING
THE
MOTHERLAND


 
 



Urtiin
duu
has
a
long
and
complicated
history
in
Mongolia,
having
undergone


profound
stylistic
and
contextual
changes
over
the
twentieth
century.
Over
time,
the


term
urtiin
duu
has
come
to
describe
a
multitude
of
genres
and
song
variants.
As
a


performance
practice,
its
history
has
paralleled
the
drastic
transformations
in


government,
social
ideologies,
economic
reforms,
and
urbanization
that


transformed
Mongolia
into
a
communist
state.
Now
proclaimed
to
be
“Mongolia’s


national
song,”
urtiin
duu
is
indelibly
associated
with
both
the
decades‐long


resistance
against
communist
rule,
as
well
as
the
acceptance
and
internalization
of


certain
socialist‐cosmopolitan
attitudes
valuing
ideas
associated
with
progress
and


modernization.
In
order
to
understand
the
complex
relationship
of
urtiin
duu
to


these
ideologies,
a
brief
history
of
twentieth‐century
Mongolia
will
be
recounted


here,
with
a
focus
on
cultural
reforms,
the
birth
of
Mongolian
separatist
nationalism,


and
the
impact
of
these
on
musical
practices.


Historical
Overview



Scholars
typically
organize
twentieth‐century
Mongolian
history
into
five


general
time
periods:
the
pre‐revolutionary
era,
lasting
until
1921;
the


revolutionary
era,
a
period
marked
by
bloodshed
and
upheaval,
lasting
from
1921‐

1939;
the
Second
People’s
Republic,
so
called
because
it
marked
the
second
drafting


of
Mongolia’s
constitution,
lasting
from
1940‐1961;
the
Third
People’s
Republic,


marked
by
Mongolia’s
official
induction
as
a
socialist
state,
lasting
from
1960‐1990;



 47

and
the
post‐socialist
era,
lasting
from
1990
till
the
present
day.
These
eras
are


useful,
not
only
because
they
signal
distinctive
moments
in
Mongolia’s
history
as
a


sovereign
power,
but
also
because
each
corresponds
with
an
increasing


internalization
of
modernist‐cosmopolitan
values
among
the
population.


Throughout
the
communist
period,
Mongolia
was
ideologically,
economically,
and


politically
allied
with
the
Soviet
Union,
in
part
to
counteract
the
threat
of
Chinese


occupation.
During
this
time,
a
kind
of
cosmopolitan
ideology
gained
hold
that


presented
the
Mongolians
as
connected
with
a
larger
international
socialist


community,
one
with
its
center
of
power
in
Moscow:
“When
we
speak
about


Mongolian
cosmopolitanism
of
the
communist
period,
we
are
speaking
about.
.
.



Mongolians’
openness
to
a
distinctly
Soviet
form
of
internationalism”
(Marsh
2002:


10).
Of
note,
this
particular
brand
of
cosmopolitanism
was
accompanied
by
a
kind
of


isolationism,
whereby
international
engagement
and
exchange
predominantly


occurred
with
the
Soviet
Union
and
other
communist
nations
under
the
Soviet


sphere
of
influence.



 Developing
the
theses
of
scholars
Peter
Marsh
and
Tom
Ginsburg,
I
will
argue


that
the
cosmopolitan
ideals
and
modernist
reforms
introduced
in
the
revolutionary


era,
and
expanded
upon
during
the
Second
People’s
Republic,
became
the
basis
for


reframing
urtiin
duu
practice
according
to
nationalist
sentiments.
It
also
became
the


basis
of
the
subversive
Mongolian
nationalist
movement
that
developed
during
the


Third
People’s
Republic—a
movement
that
depended
on
a
specific
kind
of
Soviet‐

inspired
cosmopolitanism
for
its
nationalist
basis
but
simultaneously
defied


continued
alliance
and
subservience
to
the
Soviet
Union.
Both
the
modernist‐


 48

socialist
cosmopolitanism
adopted
from
the
Soviet
ideology
and
the
emergent


separatist
nationalism
depended
on
reframed
indigenous
musical
practices
and


instruments—including
urtiin
duu—as
evidence
of
Mongolia’s
distinctiveness.



As
we
have
seen,
in
the
pre‐revolutionary
era
urtiin
duu
signified
particular


homelands
and
landscapes
through
mimetic
processes.
During
the
revolutionary


era,
however,
the
Communist
Party
began
making
a
concerted
effort
to
create
a
new,


national
music
culture
(Marsh
2005).
During
this
time,
urtiin
duu
came
to
be


performed
in
new
settings
framed
as
nationalist
gatherings;
thus,
their
associations


co‐occurred
with
new
objects
in
changing
situations.
This
kind
of
phenomenon
is


usefully
described
as
“semantic
snowballing,”
where
a
particular
sign
vehicle—


including
a
song
or
musical
style
such
as
urtiin
duu—co‐occurs
with
different


objects
in
various
contexts
over
time,
thereby
indexing
new
meanings
while
still


retaining
elements
of
past
associations
(Turino
2008:
9).

In
urtiin
duu
practice,


previous
emotional
associations
of
urtiin
duu
melodies
with
certain
landscapes


lingered
as
new,
nationalist
meanings
were
introduced
during
the
revolutionary
era.


By
the
Third
People’s
Republic,
urtiin
duu
were
further
recontextualized
as
a


professional
practice
associated
with
newly‐established
“national
orchestras”


comprised
of
groups
of
indigenous
instruments
arranged
into
ensembles
inspired


by
the
Western
classical
idiom
(Marsh
2002:
79).



Such
large‐scale
musical
changes
were
common,
not
just
in
Mongolia
but


across
Central
Asia.
In
Uzbekistan,
for
example,



[T]he
Shash
maqâm
comprised
an
important
cultural
property
that


provided
evidence
of
an
Uzbek
literary
and
musical
great
tradition.
Soviet


cultural
politics
had
fostered
the
creation
of
such
great
traditions
for
each


official
Soviet
nationality,
often
aided
by
a
reimagination
of
cultural
history




 49

 that
produced
notable
distortions
in
the
way
that
both
cultural
boundaries


and
cultural
commonalities
were
perceived
and
reified.


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Levin
1996:
46)
 


 

Like
the
Shash
maqâm
in
Uzbekistan,
urtiin
duu
became
an
important
kind
of


Mongolian
cultural
property,
exalted
as
an
emblem
of
Mongolian
identity,
but


simultaneously
standardized,
institutionalized,
and
performed
almost
exclusively
in


patriotic
contexts—all
in
an
effort
to
consolidate
a
national
consciousness.



 However,
the
ideologies
associated
with
these
reforms
were
adopted
in


complex
and
often
contradictory
ways,
demonstrating
the
fluid
and
dynamic


relationship
between
the
official
version
of
reality
that
communist
authorities
tried


to
promote,
and
the
way
individuals
internalized
and
creatively
reinterpreted
the


dominating
discourse.
Though
authorities
often
promoted
the
idea
of
Mongolia
as
a


loyal
Soviet
ally
and
ethnically
homogenous
state,
the
subversive
practices


maintained
by
many
Mongolians
throughout
this
period—in
spite
of
the
known
and


feared
consequences
of
continuing
such
practices—demonstrates
the
extent
to


which
the
official
version
of
Mongolian
cultural
identity
was
contested
during
these


decades.


Nonetheless,
state‐sponsored
versions
of
Mongolian
history
and
identity


were
not
wholeheartedly
rejected;
indeed,
the
resistance
movement
of
the
1960s


was
fundamentally
based
on
the
nationalist
ideals
promoted
by
the
very
regime


these
individuals
were
trying
to
resist.
During
this
time,
indigenous
ideas
of
tribal


identity
and
loyalty
towards
Chinggis
Khan
were
justified
and
propagated
in


nationalist
terms.
Thus,
to
some
extent,
Mongolians
of
the
resistance
movement


came
to
internalize
the
discourse
substantiated
by
the
dominant
social
order,
and



 50

their
rebellion—based
on
the
idea
of
a
wholly
independent
Mongolian
nation


capable
of
resisting
Soviet
influence
and
the
communist
regime—was
modeled


accordingly.


As
a
communist
state,
Mongolia
was
modeled
after
the
Soviet
system,


including
the
establishment
of
a
single‐party
governmental
structure
headed
by
the


Communist
Party,
a
socialist
economic
system,
and
the
enforcement
of
communist


ideology
through
extensive
tactics
of
cultural
reform.
Often
trained
in
Russia
and


closely
allied
with
Soviet
officials,
Mongolians
appointed
as
communist
authorities


embarked
on
a
campaign
to
reframe
and
promote
certain
aspects
of
urtiin
duu


performance
while
banning
other
aspects
of
the
performance
practice
deemed


potentially
subversive
to
the
communist
agenda
(Marsh
2002:
122‐24).



Urtiin
duu
became
subject
to
various
constraints
in
order
to
conform
to
the


ideals
of
the
new
music
culture
sponsored
by
the
state.
Aware
of
the
potential
for


subversive
expression
in
musical
practices,
authorities
continually
suppressed
urtiin


duu
performance
through
extensive
prohibitions.
Only
those
urtiin
duu
deemed
“not


dangerous
to
sing”
could
be
played
on
the
radio
(Pegg
2001e:
259),
and
all


performances
of
urtiin
duu
were
to
be
held
in
concert
halls
and
staged,
patriotic


competitions.



Yet
throughout
Mongolia’s
communist
era,
urtiin
duu
practice
continued
in


the
domestic
sphere,
including
the
performance
of
prohibited
melodies
and
lyrics.


The
melodic
contours
of
urtiin
duu
allowed
performers
to
secretly
allude
to


homelands
that
fell
outside
of
the
official
borders
of
the
newly‐created
Mongolian


state.
Thus,
urtiin
duu
became
a
powerful
form
of
resistance
during
this
time,
as
its



 51

signification
of
particular
landscapes
could
elude
authorities
not
familiar
with
these


contours.
I
theorize
that
the
subversive
performances
of
urtiin
duu
gathered
new


nationalist
meanings
associated
with
Mongolian
nationalism
during
the
1960s,
not


only
because
they
had
already
been
reframed
and
essentialized
as
indices
of


Mongolia’s
unique
national
character
(which
undoubtedly
contributed
to
this


process),
but
also
because
of
their
ability
to
covertly
signify
objects
key
to
the


formation
of
a
pan‐Mongolian
national
identity—one
that
could
potentially
resist


Soviet
influence
and
unify
Mongolians
across
China
and
Russia.
I
further
theorize


that
singers’
narrations
of
myths
associated
with
urtiin
duu
practice
began
to


highlight
the
capacity
of
melodies
to
communicate
secret
messages,
as
it
had


become
important
for
Mongolians
to
elude
authorities
and
secretly
maintain


identities
that
conflicted
with
the
official
version
of
reality
sponsored
by
the


Communist
Party.





Pre­Revolutionary
and
Revolutionary
Eras



The
collapse
of
the
Manchu
Qing
dynasty
in
1911
signaled
a
period
of


upheaval
among
the
Mongolian
people,
who
scrambled
to
maintain
their
recently


found
independence
as
a
theocratic
state.
Recognizing
the
threat
China
posed,
they


eventually
sought
refuge
under
the
Soviet
umbrella
and
sacrificed
a
relative
amount


of
sovereignty
for
what
they
assumed
to
be
a
basic
level
of
independence.
A
long‐

standing,
historical
fear
of
Chinese
colonization
fed
the
eagerness
with
which


Mongolians
sought
to
align
themselves
with
the
Russians:



The
most
pressing
danger
was
not
the
“colonial”
control
of
their
country


by
a
few
foreigners
representing
a
foreign
government
but
actual
colonizing


of
the
best
part
of
their
land
by
Chinese
settlers;
not
subjection,
but




 52

 displacement,
not
the
fate
of
India,
but
the
fate
of
the
American
Indian.



 
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Lattimore
1955:
39)



The
Russians,
meanwhile,
focused
on
Mongolia’s
utility
as
a
buffer
region
against


China,
and
happily
accepted
an
alliance:
“Like
other
small
states
at
the
periphery
of


large
empires,
Mongolia’s
survival
has
depended
on
giving
large
powers
a
stake
in


its
continuing
independence.
In
this
regard,
Mongolia
was
fortunate
in
that
its
own


nationalist
ambitions
after
1921
overlapped
with
the
imperial
interests
of
the
USSR”


(Ginsburg
1999:
248).



By
1924,
Mongolia
was
proclaimed
as
the
“Mongolian
People’s
Republic”


(MPR),
an
independent
communist
state
allied
with,
and
heavily
dependent
on,


Soviet
military
assistance
and
influence.
Though
the
relationship
between
the
two


was
depicted
as
“fraternal”—with
the
USSR
described
as
an
‘elder’
brother—

Mongolia
was
“clearly
a
junior
partner
at
best”
(Boikova
1999:
107).
The
USSR


helped
draft
Mongolia’s
first
constitution,
recognizing
the
MPR
as
the
only


legitimate
government
of
Outer
Mongolia,
and
by
1929
they
had
established
an


isolated
economic
trade
alliance
with
Mongolia
and
themselves.
At
that
time,


Mongolian
authorities
of
the
communist
regime
began
an
aggressive
campaign
of


indoctrination
in
Mongolia
that
included
extensive
violence,
persecuting
those


individuals
who
posed
any
kind
of
political
threat,
and
promoting
those
individuals


who
were
loyal
to
the
communist
agenda
to
positions
of
significant
power
within


the
country’s
sole
ruling
party,
the
Mongolian
People’s
Revolutionary
Party
(MPRP).


With
increasing
urbanization,
the
creation
of
an
industrial
work
force,
and
the


institution
of
“merit‐based
performance
criteria,”
individuals
were
rapidly



 53

integrated
into
the
new
regime
and
quickly
rose
to
positions
of
power
(Ginsburg


1999:
258).


In
order
to
extend
the
ideological
influence
of
the
Communist
Party
during


the
early
years
of
the
revolutionary
era,
these
Mongolian
authorities
established


“enlightenment
gers”
(gegeerliin
ger),
also
known
as
“red
gers”
(ulaan
ger),


throughout
urban
and
rural
areas.
Their
purpose
was
to
spread
communist


propaganda
among
the
population
and
remove
all
feudal
and
religious
influences


from
any
kind
of
creative
or
performative
endeavor.
Embarking
upon
a
“radical


bowdlerization
program
to
assimilate
and
refashion
the
existing
culture,”
Soviet


authorities
explicitly
targeted
musical
practices
(Pegg
2001e:
253).
The
pre‐

revolutionary
themes
of
urtiin
duu
and
other
musical
practices—including
all


associations
with
animism,
Buddhism,
and
Chinggis
Khan—were
expressly


forbidden.
Instead,
new
songs
with
patriotic
themes
were
composed
and


disseminated
among
the
population.
Soldiers
were
trained
in
military
contexts
on


specific
instruments
and
learned
nationalistic
songs
such
as
“The
Mongolian


People’s
Republic”
and
“Lenin
Loves
Children.”
Certain
new
musical
practices,


including
military‐style
marches
that
incorporated
the
use
of
trumpets
and
drums,


were
introduced
to
the
public
and
in
schools,
while
other
indigenous
instruments


were
destroyed.
Those
that
survived
were
standardized
and
reoriented
according
to


the
European
tuning
system.



Over
the
course
of
the
1920s,
the
communist
regime
greatly
expanded
its


authority
over
Mongolian
social
policy,
including
the
development
of
over
sixteen


ulaan
ger
by
1929,
as
well
as
successfully
establishing
a
non‐capitalist
economy
in



 54

the
country.
Nonetheless,
the
MPRP
still
found
their
power
over
the
rural


population
unsteady
at
best.
The
feudal
aristocracy
and
Buddhist
church
still


maintained
significant
ideological
control,
as
they
had
for
almost
three
centuries


during
the
Manchu
Qing
era.
In
order
to
effectively
force
people
to
comply
with
the


regulations
of
the
new
communist
government,
the
MPRP
and
its
head,
Marshall


Choibalsang,
instigated
violent
purges
throughout
rural
areas.
During
this
time,


anyone
or
anything
that
posed
a
threat
to
the
new
authority
was
massacred
or


destroyed:


The
Mongolian
and
Soviet
secret
police
(NKVD)
troops
went
among
the

herders,
entering
their
homes
and
arresting
those
they
believed
to
be


associated
with
the
former
aristocrats
or
Buddhist
leadership
and


destroying
Buddhist
and
other
spiritual
paraphernalia.
One
musician
from

Arkhangai
says
that
old
herders
told
him
that
fiddles
were
also
destroyed,


saying,
“the
soldiers
seized
their
fiddles,
took
them
outside
of
the
ger
and


burned
them
along
with
the
Buddhist
scriptures.”



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Marsh
2002:
62)




Musicians
and
musical
practices
underwent
forceful
persecution
during
this


time.
“Performance
practices
were
eliminated
or
forcibly
changed,”
and
performers


“were
reduced
to
living
in
holes
in
the
ground
and
begging”
(Pegg
1995:
77‐78).
It
is


estimated
that
over
one
hundred
thousand
people—including
musicians,
Buddhist


lamas,
shamans,
and
anyone
assumed
to
be
anti‐communist—perished
in
the
purges


(Sandag
and
Kendall
2000).
As
Dad’suren
explained
to
me,
“religion
was
considered


to
be
a
drug
in
the
communist
period
and
Marx
said
so.
Marx’s
book
said
so.
We


were
taught
that
religion
was
empty
and
false,
there
was
neither
Buddha
nor
devil,


and
there
were
no
ghosts.”
 



 55

 The
aggressive
campaign
eventually
came
to
a
close
in
the
late
1940s,
leaving


behind
a
trail
of
blood
and
terror
that
discouraged
any
person
from
defying
the
new


government.
A
palpable
sense
of
fear
was
still
present
among
older
nomads
when
I


traveled
among
the
Mongolian
countryside
some
eighty
years
after
the
purges
had


come
to
pass,
with
some
musicians
recalling
these
events
and
refusing
to
share
their


songs
for
fear
of
retribution
from
local
authorities.
Haslund‐Christensen,
a
folklorist


who
visited
Mongolia
in
the
1930s
and
1940s,
paints
a
vivid
picture
of
the
situation


facing
both
Outer
and
Inner
Mongolian
musicians
during
this
time:



[W]ith
some
few
exceptions
the
singers
and
musicians
of
the
old
era
had
long


since
fled
to
remote
valleys
.
.
.
.

Upon
my
asking
where
these
exceptions
might

be
found,
who
had
not
fled
to
remote
places
of
hiding,
I
finally
received
the


melancholy
reply
that
they
were
incarcerated
in
the
prison
of
the
town
for


having
been
too
deeply
rooted
in
the
past
to
be
able
to
understand
the


message
of
the
new
era.
 
 
 















 
 
 
 
 
 (Haslund‐Christensen
1943:
28)



Thus,
authorities
essentially
wiped
out
older
musicians
and
practices,
and


were
in
a
position
to
promote
songs
that
explicitly
supported
the
Party.
The
“Song
of


Future
Leninists,”
for
example,
begins
as
follows:
“With
the
melody
of
the
trumpet


and
the
drum,
with
the
echo
of
calls
and
slogans,
with
the
wings
of
red
kerchiefs,
our


march
progresses.
We
are
today’s
pioneers,
we
are
future
Leninists,
we
will
learn
all


good
things
from
Lenin,
we
will
build
a
bright
future
with
Lenin”
(Pegg
2001e:
278).


During
this
time,
musicians
who
refused
to
promote
the
communist
agenda
were


imprisoned,
but
those
musicians
who
sang
ideologically
inspired
songs
were
heavily


rewarded.
In
one
example,
a
musician
known
as
Luwsan
khuurch
(Luwsan
the


fiddler)
composed
songs
in
praise
of
the
Party
and
spread
them
among
the



 56

population,
and
was
consequently
rewarded
by
being
appointed
director
of
the
first


music
and
drama
theater
established
in
Mongolia
in
1922
(Marsh
2002:
65).



Mongolian
authorities
were
clearly
inspired
by
ideologies
associated
with


modernist
reforms.
Based
on
evolutionist
ideas
that
societies
progress
from


primitive
to
sophisticated
(read:
superior)
as
they
“civilize,”
this
ideology
promoted


the
idea
that
development
and
modernization
were
equivalent
to
social


advancement.
According
to
these
principles,
societal
changes
“would
occur
in
one


direction,
from
the
primitive
to
the
advanced,
towards
a
utopian
goal
.
.
.

[such
that]


economic
and
cultural
development
in
a
less‐developed
nation
would
naturally
lead


its
people
to
assimilate
the
more
progressive
traits
and
lifestyles
of
the
more


developed
and
advanced
nation
with
which
it
has
contact”
(Marsh
2002:
118).
In


Mongolia,
Soviet
models
were
imposed
on
creative
practices
under
the
guise
of


necessary
cultural
reforms
important
to
the
cultivation
and
advancement
of


Mongolian
society.


By
the
1930s,
Choibalsang,
a
close
ally
of
Stalin,
dictated
that
Mongolian


teachers
be
sent
to
the
Soviet
Union
for
Russian
language
training.
Additionally,
the


Russians
began
sending
educational
materials
to
Mongolia,
indoctrinating
young


children
with
Marxist‐Leninist
theories
(Boikova
1999:
115).
By
1940,
with
the


purges
still
occurring,
the
Second
People’s
Republic
was
established
and
Mongolia’s


second
constitution
drafted.
During
this
time,
a
new
group
of
Mongolians
came
into


power,
largely
because
the
older
leaders
had
perished
in
Choibalsang’s
violent


campaign.
These
individuals
were
typically
urban
intellectuals
who
had
been


professionally
trained
in
the
Soviet
Union
and
espoused
communist
values.
They



 57

had
spent
so
much
time
training
in
Russia
that
they
easily
“integrated
into
Russian


patterns
of
life
.
.
.

[they]
ate
Russian
food,
spoke
Russian,
and
sometimes
lived
with


Russians”
(Ginsburg
1999:
260).
Peter
Marsh
argues
that
these
urban
intellectuals


were
early
cosmopolitans
who
helped
introduce
and
establish
modernist‐socialist‐

cosmopolitan
values
throughout
Mongolia:


[M]any
of
the
early
Mongolian
cosmopolitans
.
.
.

viewed
Mongolian
cultural









 






development
as
having
been
long
hindered
by
unprogressive
traditions
and


a
self‐serving
aristocracy.
As
they
rose
to
positions
of
power
within
the
party

and
government,
they
saw
themselves
less
as
protectors
of
the
ancient
cultural


heritage
than
as
agents
of
cultural
modernization
and
change
.
.
.
.
[M]any
of



 







these
cosmopolitans
placed
emphasis
on
the
development
of
“new
culture”

 





 







(shine
soyol),
including
the
arts
.
.
.

that
would
be
brought
about
through
both

 




 







‘reviving’
the
essential
Mongolian
traditions
lost
as
a
result
of
centuries
of

 




 







feudalism
and
aristocracy,
and
then
“developing”
them
in
accordance
with
the

 







 







contemporary
examples
of
Soviet
and
socialist
.
.
.

nations.
This
is
the
process

 






 







by
which
these
Mongolians
constructed
a
distinctly
cosmopolitan
national



 







culture.
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Marsh
2002:
12)




This
new
class
of
cosmopolitans
utilized
strategies
of
modernist
reformism
to


reframe
indigenous
creative
practices
as
part
of
an
emerging
Mongolian
national


identity,
while
simultaneously
modifying
them
according
to
cosmopolitan
values.




 In
Mongolia,
such
cultural
reforms
had
to
strike
a
careful
ideological
balance


between
the
influence
of
Soviet
power
with
the
notion
of
Mongolian
national


independence.
In
order
to
avoid
threatening
Soviet
imperialism,
the
emergent


Mongolian
nationalism
had
to
frame
Mongolia
as
a
distinctive
nation
that
was


nonetheless
economically
and
ideologically
reliant
on
the
Soviet
Union.


Cosmopolitan
values
based
on
evolutionist
theories
helped
frame
this
ideology,
for


it
depicted
the
unique
but
backwards
Mongolians
as
a
potential
equal
partner
with


the
Soviets,
if
only
they
relied
on
Soviet
domination
to
help
them
modernize
and


progress.
The
unavoidable
tension
inherent
in
“Mongolia
the
nation”
as
the



 58

dependent
younger
brother
to
the
Soviets,
versus
“Mongolia
the
nation”
as
a
wholly


independent
sovereign
power,
would
play
out
in
the
1960s.
In
the
meantime,


authorities
could
moderate
the
necessary
praise
of
Mongolian
distinctiveness
by


emphasizing
the
need
to
“develop”
their
indigenous
practices
according
to
an


ideology
that
prized
complexity
and
sophistication
and
conveniently
positioned


Mongolia
as
entirely
reliant
on
its
more‐civilized,
“elder”
Soviet
sibling.



 In
Mongolia’s
Second
People’s
Republic,
these
reforms
led
to
the
establishment


of
the
rhetorical
constructions
“modern”
(orchim
üyein)
and
“traditional”
(ulaamjlal


or
ugsaatny)
in
relation
to
musical
performance,
identifying
certain
indigenous


musical
practices,
songs
and
instruments,
as
objects
“separate
from
everyday
life,”


and
“needing
to
be
‘developed’”
(Marsh
2002:
14,
147‐8).
For
example,
the


Mongolian
Academy
of
Sciences
sponsored
expeditions
to
rural
areas
to
conduct


folkloric
collection
of
songs
and
the
term
ardiin
(folk)
was
adapted
to
describe


musical
practices
in
pre‐revolutionary
Mongolia.
At
the
same
time,
the
Party


organized
small,
semi‐professional
orchestras
comprised
of
indigenous
instruments


that
began
performing
modern
(orchim
üyein)
European
classical
works.
In
1941,


the
State
Music
and
Drama
Theater
was
founded
in
the
capital
city
and
a
committee


“specifically
set
out
the
theater’s
ideological
tasks,
bringing
it
in
line
with
the


socialist
programs
of
the
state”
(Pegg
2001e:
254).
These
included
reforms
that


emphasized
classical
music‐making
on
European
instruments.
Throughout
the


twentieth
century,
such
drastic
music
reforms
were
common
across
the
Soviet


sphere
of
influence:

 



 Soviet
culture
policy
with
respect
to
traditional
music
was
identical
for

 


 all
the
Central
Asian
republics.
The
main
problem
in
culture
policy
was
the




 59


 relation
of
traditional
music
and
the
music
of
contemporary
European‐style



 composers.
The
State
cultural
leadership
announced
that
the
principal
priority


 in
the
development
of
musical
culture
was
to
be
the
assimilation
of
so‐called


 European
professional
music.
In
general,
this
priority
was
preserved
right
down


 to
the

beginning
of
the
1990s,
when
the
Soviet
Union
collapsed.
Only
after
this


 cleansing
could
traditional
music
be
published
in
collections
of
musical
folklore


 and
performed
in
public
concerts,
on
the
radio,
and
so
on.
And
traditional
music


 was
performed
not
only
in
ordinary
concerts,
but
also
at
special
ideological


 meetings
and
Party‐sponsored
concerts.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Djumaev
1993:
43,
45)




Nationalist
sentiments
were
simultaneously
encouraged
and
developed


through
the
efforts
of
composers
such
as
L.
Mördorj,
who
set
revolutionary
poetry


to
musical
accompaniment
and
repeatedly
referred
to
particularly
beloved


landscapes
in
conjunction
with
the
idea
of
the
Mongolian
nation
(Marsh
2002:
84).


These
songs
were
performed
at
staged
competitions
framed
as
patriotic
gatherings


in
support
of
the
Party,
where
trophies
were
awarded
to
the
best
singers
according


to
values
determined
by
the
communist
authorities
and
academics
in
positions
of


power.
New
song
texts
helped
transform
previous
emotional
associations
of
nutag


(homeland)
into
a
kind
of
landscape‐based
national
unity.
For
example,
a
song


known
as
Shivee
Hiagt
(Fortress
Kyahta)
was
composed
for
performance
at
musical


rallies.
Deemed
“the
first
song
of
the
modern
generation,”
the
lyrics
clearly
point
to


famous
landmarks
throughout
Mongolia
with
ideas
of
the
Party
and
the
unity
of
the


Mongolian
people:
“Between
the
Altai
and
Hyangan,
throughout
the
homeland,
in


the
valleys
of
the
sacred
Kerulen
and
golden
Selenge
rivers,
beloved
songs
about
our


renowned
Party,
are
being
created
freely
by
our
people
with
one
accord”
(Ibid.:
279‐

80).
As
described
in
chapter
one,
the
idea
of
nutag
has
an
important
place
among


mobile
pastoral
communities.
Seen
as
the
homeland
that
provides
nourishment
for



 60

the
kind
of
subsistence‐based
living
of
mobile
pastoralists,
the
concept
is
also
tied
to


nostalgic
feelings
associated
with
favorite
landscapes,
where
a
person’s
ancestral


spirits
and
ezen
reside.
These
new
musical
gatherings
removed
urtiin
duu
from


outdoor
contexts,
but
still
allowed
people
to
retain
their
strong
emotional
ties
to


particular
landscapes
through
song,
reframing
them
in
new
settings
according
to


nationalist
sentiments.



Not
only
were
songs
reframed
this
way,
but
the
imagery
and
myths


associated
with
them
were
re‐imagined
in
new
song
contexts
at
political
rallies.
The


well‐known
tale
of
Kookhoo
Namjil,
for
example,
recounts
a
legendary
flying
horse


whose
hairs
were
used
to
string
the
original
morin
khuur.
In
the
following
song


example,
the
image
of
the
mythical
flying
horse
is
reinterpreted
as
“flying
toward


Communism”:
“We,
who
all
became
owners
in
such
a
fine
homeland,
developed
our


motherland
and
are
all
living
a
rich
life.

We
horse‐riding
people,
holding
lasso‐

poles,
made
clear
on
the
emblem
of
our
state.
Let’s
leap
with
our
winged
mounts


toward
the
bright
sun
of
communism”
(Pegg
2001e:
260).
Notice
that
images
of


certain
herding
activities
essential
to
the
pastoral
lifestyle
of
rural
Mongolians,


including
horseback
riding
and
lasso‐swinging,
were
also
creatively
reinterpreted
in


the
above
song
as
emblems
of
the
state.


During
the
Second
People’s
Republic,
Party‐sponsored
musical
gatherings


also
began
to
promote
particular
indigenous
musical
instruments
and
styles
as


national,
while
banning
alternative
performance
styles,
in
conjunction
with
state


efforts
to
consolidate
a
singular
Mongolian
national
identity
as
Tov
Khalkha.
During


this
time,
the
Tov
Khalkha
style
of
urtiin
duu
was
chosen
and
promoted
as
the



 61

appropriate
Mongolian
“national
style.”
Urtiin
duu
sung
almost
exclusively
in
this


clan’s
musical
dialect
were
also
performed
to
melodies
that
had
been
re‐tuned


according
to
the
European
classical
system.
All
of
these
efforts
were
central
to
the


Party’s
creation
of
an
ethnically
homogenous
Mongolian
state
predominantly


identified
as
Khalkha.
Other
styles
of
urtiin
duu,
including
the
Dorbet,
Dariganga,


and
Borjigin
styles,
were
prohibited.
Additionally,
the
morin
khuur
was
promoted
to


the
level
of
“national
instrument”
and
was
standardized
through
the
addition
of
f­

holes
in
imitation
of
the
Western
violin
(Marsh
2002:
91‐92).
At
patriotic
rallies,


singers
of
various
clans
were
forced
to
sing
in
the
Tov
Khalkha
urtiin
duu
style.


Furthermore,
their
songs
had
to
stick
to
patriotic
themes
and
all
spiritual


associations
and
lyrics
were
removed
from
performance.
As
long
as
they
followed


these
rules,
they
were
amply
awarded
with
prized
titles
such
as
“Labor
Hero”
and


“Century’s
Long
Song
Singer.”
These
efforts
resulted
in
a
fundamental


transformation
of
meanings
associated
with
urtiin
duu.
While
the
melodies
still


retained
their
previous
meaningful
associations
with
particular
landscapes,
they


came
to
further
signify
Party
loyalty
and
values
associated
with
modernist
reforms.



The
Third
People’s
Republic


In
the
1960s,
the
growing
nationalist
sentiment
associated
with
urtiin
duu


was
carefully
monitored
by
the
government’s
cultural
administration,
who
had
to


ensure
that
Mongolians
did
not
assert
their
autonomy
to
the
point
that
they
would


resist
Soviet
influence.
The
Mongolian‐Soviet
tension
had
formed
a
rather
delicate


balance
over
the
course
of
the
socialist
era,
and
as
Sino‐Soviet
relations
soured
with



 62

the
advent
of
the
cold
war,
the
Soviet
Union
had
a
vested
interest
in
keeping


Mongolia
her
staunch
ally
(Boldbaatar
1999:
244).



In
1960,
Mongolian
authorities
began
a
massive
cultural
campaign
known
as


the
“Cultural
Leap
Forward”
program,
coinciding
with
Mongolia’s
attainment
of
“the


historic
state
of
socialism,”
forty
years
after
the
People’s
Revoution,
“when
private


ownership
of
capital
.
.
.
was
eliminated
in
favor
of
either
state
or
collective


ownership”
(Marsh
2009:
73).
Inspired
by
the
Cultural
Revolution
of
the
People’s


Republic
of
China
to
the
south,
Mongolian
authorities
“took
the
message
of
the
new


China
to
the
whole
country
[Mongolia]
and
local
musicians
were
incorporated
into
a


state
union
structure”
(Pegg
2001f:
1006).
At
this
time,
all
herds,
livestock,
and


private
property
were
collectivized
and
most
nomads
were
placed
in
collective


farms
(negdel).
As
Dad’suren
described
to
me
of
this
time,


I
had
only
seventy‐five
heads
of
livestock
then.
A
household
was
allowed
to
have


 







up

to
seventy‐five
heads
of
livestock
and
fifteen
heads
of
livestock
per
family







 







member
under
the
laws.
I
had
ten
children,
so
my
family
had
twelve
members.
I








 







lived
in
the
Soum
Center
then.
Livestock
exceeding
the
limit
of
fifteen
heads
of



 







livestock
per
family
member
was
confiscated
and
given
to
the
cooperative.
A

 




 







rural
herder’s
family
was
not
allowed
to
have
more
than
seventy‐five
animals.

 





 







Those
few
livestock
animals
had
to
provide
the
livelihood
of
herders
and
their



 







families.



In
order
to
gain
popular
approval
for
this
national
collectivization
effort,


communist
authorities
instigated
massive
cultural
reforms
throughout
urban
and


rural
Mongolia.
This
included
an
extensive
escalation
in
professional
musical


practices.
During
this
time,
the
number
of
rural
cultural
centers,
music
buildings,


schools,
and
concert
halls
where
Party
rallies
were
held
increased
dramatically,
and


the
terms
“professional”
(mergejliin)
or
“amateur”
(sain
duryn)
came
into
increasing


use
to
describe
musicians
and
musical
practices.
Newly
established
conservatories



 63

based
in
Ulaanbaatar
and
modeled
after
Russian
and
European
counterparts
began


disseminating
musical
reforms
among
the
population.
Aspiring
musicians
trained
at


such
institutions
would
often
receive
positions
of
pay
in
rural
cultural
centers,


thereby
influencing
amateur
practices
in
nomadic
communities
and
continuing
the


spread
of
Europeanized
instruments
and
playing
techniques
(Marsh
2002:
76‐77).


Other
Mongolian
musicians
who
had
trained
in
Russia
began
forming
ensembles


comprised
of
Western
European
instruments.
Between
1963
and
1969,
various


works
by
Tchaikovsky,
Dargomizhsky,
Puccini,
and
Rachmaninov,
among
others,


were
routinely
performed
by
Mongolians
at
the
State
Dance
and
Opera
Theater
in


Ulaanbaatar
(Ibid.:
79‐80).



During
this
time,
national
and
classical
ensembles
were
separated
from
one


another,
though
cultural
administrators
placed
more
attention
and
value
on


European‐style
classical
performances.
National
ensembles,
such
as
the
Folksong


and
Dance
Ensemble
described
above,
were
considered
professional
folk
ensembles.


Though
not
considered
as
important
as
European
ensembles,
they
were
still
clearly


established
according
to
European
principles.
For
example,
string
quartets
were


established,
whose
instrumentation
comprised
morin
khuurs
as
well
as
the
new
ikh


khuur
(or
“large”
fiddle),
created
in
the
image
of
the
contrabass
violin.
Other
smaller


ensembles
were
also
modeled
after
the
classical
European
chamber
ensemble,
but


incorporated
standardized
indigenous
Mongolian
instruments
including
the
shanz,


khuuchir,
morin
khuur,
limbe,
yoochin,
contrabass,
drum
and
accordion.
Notably,
the


inclusion
of
Western
instruments,
such
as
the
trumpet
or
clarinet,
was
thought
to



 64

“further
enrich
and
strengthen
the
sound
of
the
orchestra”
(Ibid.:
102).
According
to


Peter
Marsh,


[T]he
character
of
the
new
national
music
culture
of
Mongolia
had
achieved
a



 







fundamental
break
with
the
pre‐Revolutionary
musical
world.
The
emphasis
of






 







the
new
musical
culture
focused
upon
professionalism,
centralization,
and

 




 







standardization
within
the
framework
of
the
European
classical
musical
ideas

 



 







and
aesthetics.
The
look
and
sound
of
a
typical
concert
of
national
“folk”
music

 




 







in
the
mid‐1970s,
for
example,
probably
bore
a
greater
resemblance
to
a
typical






 







performance
of
a
contemporary
European‐styled
symphony
orchestra
than
to
a





 







typical
traditional
performance
of
a
Mongolian
herder,
sitting
in
his
ger
in
the

 



 







countryside.
These
changes
reflected
the
broader
cultural
transformation
that

 



 







was
occurring
within
Mongolian
society
of
the
Third
People’s
Republic.
The

 





 







professional
arts
of
this
period
bore
little
resemblance
to
the
traditional
arts
of



 







the
pre‐Revolutionary
era.
But
neither
were
they
merely
“Soviet,”
implying
that






 







they
were

imposed
on
the
Mongolians.
Instead,
they
represented
a
new


 



 







cosmopolitan
influence.


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Marsh
2002:
111)




Indeed,
by
the
middle
of
the
Third
People’s
Republic,
few
traces
of
pre‐

Revolutionary
musical
activities
in
Mongolia
had
survived
the
sweeping
reforms.


Norovbanzad
and
the
Increasing
Professionalization
of
Urtiin
Duu



 Namjilyn
Norovbanzad,
Mongolia’s
most
famous
urtiin
duu
concert
singer
of


the
twentieth
century,
became
a
national
hero
and
icon
in
her
own
right
during


Mongolia’s
communist
era,
as
her
singing
career
paralleled
the
professionalization


and
standardization
of
musical
practices
during
this
time.
By
the
time
she
was
a


young
woman,
Norovbanzad’s
musical
talents
were
recognized
by
authorities,
and


she
was
increasingly
promoted
and
paid
for
the
concerts
she
gave,
eventually


becoming
a
professional
urtiin
duu
singer,
as
she
describes:



In
1948
I
began
to
perform
at
concerts
and
act
at
the
Cultural
Palace
in


Mandalgobi
city
.
.
.
.

As
a
result
I
became
a
professional
artist.
In
1957
.
.
.



I
was
asked
to
join
a
Mongolian
group
of
actors
and
participate
in
a
Youth



 






Festival
to
be
held
in
France.
When
I
returned
home,
I
was
told
that
I
had




 65

 been
chosen
as
a
member
of
the
National
Central
Theater’s
troupe
to
be
sent


to
China
.
.
.
.

I
performed
as
a
soloist
with
the
[State
Folk
and
Dance]
Ensemble


from
the
fall
of
1957
to
1988.
During
those
years
I
went
on
tour
to
.
.
.

most
of


the
former
Soviet
Union
countries,
including
Russia,
Belarus,
Ukraine,


Moldova,
Latvia
and
Central
Asia,
as
well
as
Denmark,
France,
Italy,


Yugoslavia,
Germany,
Bulgaria,
Rumania,
Poland,
Hungary,
Afghanistan,
India,

 



 






Bangladesh,
and
China.
I
have
also
given
seven
performances
in
Japan
.
.
.
.
In


order
to
pass
down
Urtyn
duu
to
younger
generations,
I
have
organized

 

 




 






competitions,
set
up
curriculums
and
training
schools
and
taught
Urtyn
duu


at
the
Department
of
Singing
in
the
National
Arts
University
for
over
ten
years.1




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Norovbanzad
1993)



Not
only
did
Norovbanzad’s
career
correspond
with
the
increasing


professionalization
of
indigenous
Mongolian
musical
practices,
she
was
also


afforded
ample
international
exposure
due
to
her
various
performances
abroad.
By


1957,
she
was
being
paid
for
her
performances
as
an
urtiin
duu
singer.
It
was
not


long
before
she
was
hired
to
perform
urtiin
duu
in
many
nations
across
the
world,


helping
her
develop
an
international
awareness
and
cosmopolitan
inclination.
After


establishing
herself,
she
was
eventually
hired
as
a
professor
of
urtiin
duu
at
the


National
Arts
University,
and
was
the
first
to
hold
this
post.
She
was
amply


rewarded
for
her
musical
loyalty
to
the
Party,
not
only
monetarily,
but
through
her


appointment
as
a
congresswoman
from
1961‐1965
(Norovbanzad
1993).


Dad’suren
and
Norovbanzad
provide
an
interesting
point
of
comparison,


because
their
different
singing
styles
are
an
example
of
the
kind
of
musical
changes


urtiin
duu
underwent
as
it
became
professionalized
during
the
Third
People’s


Republic.
Norovbanzad
was
trained
by
Dad’suren,
an
amateur,
rural
musician.
She


probably
would
never
have
gotten
her
start
nor
become
Mongolia’s
first


professional
urtiin
duu
singer
had
this
amateur
not
imparted
to
her
his
extensive



























































1
Note
that
this
translation
uses
an
alternate
form
of
spelling
for
urtiin
duu—Urtyn
Duu.



 66

knowledge
of
songs
and
singing
technique.
Nonetheless,
certain
aspects
of
her


singing
style
and
presentation
would
differ
dramatically
from
Dad’suren’s,


especially
towards
the
end
of
Norovbanzad’s
career,
when
she
had
come
to
adopt


the
cultural
reforms
imposed
on
urtiin
duu
performance
over
the
course
of
the


communist
era.


Both
Norovbandad
and
Dad’suren
were
both
from
Deren
Soum,
in
Dundgovi


province,
and
Norovbanzad
was
trained
by
Dad’suren
in
the
1940s
and
1950s,
just


as
musical
practices
were
professionalized
according
to
socialist
cultural
policies.


Not
only
did
venue
and
context
differ
between
the
two
performers—with


Norovbanzad
performing
primarily
in
concert
halls
and
international
music


festivals,
and
Dad’suren
performing
in
herding
contexts
and
in
domestic
nair


festivals—but
the
style
of
presentation
varied
as
well.
Norovbanzad
was
presented


in
an
extremely
stylized
manner,
wearing
elaborate
costumes
associated
with


twelfth‐
and
thirteenth‐century
Mongolia,
during
the
height
of
the
state’s
imperial


power.
Dad’suren,
on
the
other
hand,
performed
in
pastoral
contexts
and
was
never


much
rewarded,
but
neither
was
he
subject
to
such
stylized
performances
or
overt


censorship.
He
continued
to
sing
at
home,
during
the
breeding
season
for
the
benefit


of
his
animals,
as
well
as
for
his
own
personal
enjoyment
while
herding
or
in


domestic
nair
festivals.



Unlike
the
informal
del,
or
traditional
robe,
worn
by
Dad’suren
during


impromptu
urtiin
duu
performances
in
rural
settings,
Norovbanzad
began
wearing


stylized
costumes
at
almost
every
national
event
and
concert
setting
in
which
she


performed.
These
costumes
are
still
worn
in
elaborate,
showy
settings,
particularly



 67

when
urtiin
duu
is
performed
at
the
yearly
induction
ceremony
marking
the


country’s
national
Naadam
competition:



The
performance
of
the
fiddle
and
long
song
are
usually
overshadowed
by


or
subsumed
into
the
[imperial]
imagery
that
accompanies
the
Naadam

 

 




 






ceremonies
.
.
.
.

There
were
always
men
dressed
in
13 
century
army


th

regalia
.
.
.
.

Sometimes
there
was
even
a
person
dressed
like
Chinggis
Khan
.
.
.



 






[while]
the
long
song
singers
typically
wear
stylized
army
uniforms
or
costumes.


 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Marsh
2002:
215‐216)



Norovbanzad’s
performances
were
framed
according
to
nationalist


sentiments,
just
as
they
continually
are
in
present‐day,
nationalistic
performances.


These
costumes
are
iconic
of
an
ancient
nomadic
past
and
are
meant
to
be


dramatically
evocative.
Typically,
they
appear
as
an
older
form
of
the
nomadic
del,


complete
with
an
elaborate,
antiquated
headdress
(worn
by
Mongolian
princesses


almost
a
millennium
ago)
made
from
the
long,
arched
horns
of
the
wild
Altai
goat,
as


depicted
below:




 Figure
3.1



 


 
 
 
 
 
 Reprinted
from:


 
 


 
 http://www.mongoliatourism.gov.mn/about‐mongolia/





 68

It
is
noteworthy
that
the
above
picture
of
Norovbanzad
is
now
the
icon
portraying


Mongolia’s
“Culture”
section
in
the
Official
Tourism
Website
of
Mongolia,
and
one


must
click
on
this
picture
to
access
the
official,
government‐sponsored


interpretation
of
the
definition
of
“Mongolian
culture.”



In
their
different
contexts,
the
musical
performances
of
both
Norovbanzad


and
Dad’suren
vary
in
subtle
ways.
Upon
comparison,
the
respective
melodic


contours
of
their
songs
remain
relatively
static,
though
their
singing
techniques


differ.
Although
Norovbanzad
uses
the
vocal
yodeling
(shurankhai)
common
to
most


urtiin
duu
singers,
she
also
incorporates
the
kind
of
vibrato
found
in
Western


operatic
and
Broadway
contexts.
This
type
of
vibrato
is
noticeably
absent
from


Dad’suren’s
singing.
Additionally,
having
been
required
to
perform
exclusively
in
the


Tov
Khalkha
style,
Norovbanzad’s
Borjigin
urtiin
duu
began
to
exhibit
Tov
Khalkha


qualities,
including
loud
dynamics
with
little
variation,
as
well
as
a
prolonged
form


of
delivery
characteristic
of
stage
performances.
This
could
also
have
been
a
result,


in
part,
of
the
constant
vocal
projection
required
of
her
in
large
concert
halls,
or
the


single
dynamic
level
afforded
her
in
microphone
amplification,
which
may
have


caused
her
to
downplay
dynamic
nuances
in
delivery.
However,
these
variations


were
largely
due
to
Norovbanzad’s
adoption
of
the
Tov
Khalkha
singing
style,
which


(as
described
in
chapter
one)
emphasizes
loud
dynamics
and
incorporates
the
use
of


a
declamatory
vocal
delivery.


A
good
comparison
between
Dad’suren’s
and
Norovbanzad’s
singing
styles


can
be
heard
through
examining
their
versions
of
the
urtiin
duu,
Uyakhan


Zambuutiviin
Nar
(The
sun
shines
around
the
earth).
Dad’suren’s
performance
has



 69

much
more
intricacy
in
his
melodic
contour,
as
well
as
more
dynamic
control.


Futhermore,
Norovbanzad’s
ascents
are
not
nearly
as
step‐wise
as
Dad’suren’s,


probably
the
result
of
her
having
been
influenced
by
the
plateau‐like
rises
of
the
Tov


Khalkha
urtiin
duu
she
was
required
to
perform
for
decades.


In
the
following
speech,
Norovbanzad
eloquently
depicts
ideologies


associated
with
modernist
reforms
that
she
had
clearly
internalized
over
the
course


of
her
performance
career,
proclaiming
the
genre’s
supposed
primordial
origin
as


well
as
its
complexity
as
a
justification
of
its
musical
value:


Mongolian
folk
music
.
.
.

dates
back
to
ancient
times.
Historical
documents

indicate
that
the
form
of
Mongolian
folk
music
was
fixed
during
the
Hun
era,


around
100
B.C
.
.
.
.

Scholars
are
divided
on
the
origin
of
the
word
Urtyn
duu,


which
translates
from
Mongolian
as
“long
song.”
Some
believe
that
the
name


Urtyn
duu
refers
to
the
fact
that
the
songs
had
been
sung
for
many
centuries

 


 






without
changing
their
style,
rhythms,
or
tunes
.
.
.
.
Urtyn
duu
forms
a
unique


part
of
the
world’s
musical
culture
.
.
.
.
[It]
describes
the
beautiful
countryside


of
the
motherland,
Mongolia
.
.
.
.
Solemn
[aizam]
Urtyn
duu
is
the
perfect



 






example
of
the
artistic
excellence
of
Urtyn
duu
in
general
.
.
.

the
beautifully


intricate
lyrics
contain
many
syllables
and
are
artistically
composed
.
.
.
.


Customarily,
solemn
Urtyn
duu
is
performed
before
Naadam,
the
national


sports
festival
.
.
.
.

Urtyn
duu,
and
particularly
solemn
Urtyn
duu,
require
a


powerful
voice
and
technical
skill.
Classical
Mongolian
folk
music
has
come


to
the
attention
of
the
world
at
large
and
is
regarded
as
one
of
the
world’s


greatest
art
forms.

 
 
 



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Norovbanzad
1993)



In
the
above
speech,
given
while
receiving
the
“Fukouka
Asian
Culture
Prize


Award”
in
Japan
in
1993,
a
couple
of
years
after
Mongolia’s
transition
away
from


communism
and
to
a
parliamentary
democracy,
Norovbanzad
demonstrates
the


way
modernist‐cosmopolitan
values
had
permeated
her
thinking
by
essentializing


the
origin
of
urtiin
duu
as
ancient
and
unchanging
while
still
arguing
the
genre’s


progressiveness
in
terms
of
the
complexity
of
the
songs.
Her
use
of
the
phrase


“artistic
excellence,”
especially
while
arguing
the
technicality,
intricacy,
and
skill



 70

involved
in
performing
the
songs,
reveals
the
way
she
equates
complexity
with


value
and
the
level
to
which
she
had
internalized
urtiin
duu
performance
as
an
art


object,
separate
from
everyday
life.
This
correlates
to
the
new
contexts
in
which
she


performed,
which
were
no
longer
nomadic
yurts
but
large,
staged
gatherings.


Furthermore,
her
depiction
of
urtiin
duu
as
a
description
of
the
“motherland,”
a


patriotic
term
introduced
during
the
period
of
cultural
reform,
indicates
that
she


had
come
to
indexically
associate
urtiin
duu
performances
with
ideas
of
Mongolian


nationalism
(Bulag
1998:
175).
This
is
not
only
true
for
Norovbanzad
but
took
place


across
Mongolian
society,
through
the
repeated
performance
of
urtiin
duu
at


nationalist
gatherings
and
sporting
competitions
such
as
Naadam,
which
she
also


describes.
Her
adoption
of
the
term
“classical
folk
music”
to
describe
urtiin
duu
is


most
telling,
demonstrating
the
degree
to
which
European
classical
values
had
come


to
inform
her
thinking,
to
the
point
that
the
term
“classical”
is
used
as
the
ultimate


justification
of
musical
value.
The
classical
Mongolian
composer
N.
Jantsannorov


made
a
similar
point
in
an
interview
I
conducted
with
him
in
2002,
describing
urtiin


duu
as
“classical
music”
and
justifying
his
use
of
the
term
by
detailing
the
complexity


of
the
genre.




 The
myth
of
urtiin
duu’s
ancient
origin
represented
in
Norovbanzad’s
words


has
become
a
widely
promulgated
nationalist
discourse
throughout
Mongolia.
The


creation
of
such
a
discourse
is
not
unique
to
Mongolia,
but
a
general
phenomenon


witnessed
in
many
socialist
states
of
the
twentieth
century,
where
authorities


attempted
to
construct
and
impose
a
kind
of
national
consciousness
(Buchanan


2006;
Djumaev
1993;
Levin
1996).
In
Mongolia’s
case,
urtiin
duu
was
reframed
as
an



 71

exceptional
“folk
art”
unique
to
the
Mongolian
people,
and
had
thus
become
an


index
of
the
Mongolian
nation
itself.
Other
international
cosmopolitan
institutions


played
a
role
in
the
dissemination
of
this
kind
of
nationalist
discourse.
For
example,


UNESCO
(United
Nations
Educational,
Scientific
and
Cultural
Organization)
declared


urtiin
duu
to
be
one
of
the
world’s
“intangible
human
cultural
treasures”
in
2005,


simultaneously
asserting
that
urtiin
duu
“is
widely
believed
to
have
originated
2000


years
ago”
(UNESCO
2005).



Yet
the
claim
of
urtiin
duu’s
“ancientness”
is
largely
a
nationalist
construction


and
has
never
been
substantiated
by
concrete
evidence.
For
example,
though


Norovbanzad
argues
urtiin
duu
originated
in
100
B.C.,
it
was
only
in
the
1960s
that


the
genre
now
known
as
urtiin
duu
was
given
the
name
“urtiin”
(or
“long”)
for


classification
purposes,
so
as
to
differentiate
it
from
bogin
duu,
or
short
songs
(Pegg


2001e:
259).
Writing
in
the
1930s,
for
example,
Ernst
Emsheimer
(having
been


informed
by
Haslund‐Christiansen’s
fieldwork)
refers
to
what
must
have
been
urtiin


duu
by
the
term
aizam,
the
same
term
used
for
the
extended
urtiin
duu
typical
of


Khalkha
singers.
Notably,
he
does
not
refer
to
the
songs
as
“urtiin,”
since
this
term


was
not
yet
in
use:

“[a]s
H.
Haslund‐Christensen
was
informed
by
a
Khalkha
Mongol


.
.
.
aidsam
duun
.
.
.
[are]
songs
that
according
to
Mongolian
tradition
date
back
to


the
time
of
Chinggis
Khan,
and
that
for
the
most
part
have
historical
import,
as
for


example
tales
of
notable
heroic
deeds,
or
praises
of
olden
times”
(Emsheimer
1943:


72).
Though
he
still
refers
to
the
myth
of
urtiin
duu’s
(or
as
he
writes,
aidsam
duun’s)


origin
in
Chinggis’
time,
it
is
difficult
to
find
other
evidence
of
this
claim.




 72

 Norovbanzad
also
points
to
the
use
of
music
during
Chinggis
Khan’s
court
to


prove
the
“ancient”
roots
of
urtiin
duu,
as
does
UNESCO:
“urtiin
duu
has
been


recorded
in
literary
works
since
the
13th
century”
(UNESCO
2005).
Yet


documentation
of
the
music
made
in
noble
Mongolian
courts
of
the
twelfth
and


thirteenth
centuries,
found
in
the
writings
of
Marco
Polo
when
he
visited
Kublai


Khan’s
court,
do
not
show
explicit
evidence
of
urtiin
duu
practice
(Harris
2008).


Only
wartime
music
is
described,
and
nothing
resembling
urtiin
duu
is
ever


mentioned.
One
urtiin
duu,
known
as
Ertnii
Saikhan,
continues
to
be
sung
in
the


present
day
and
is
widely
proclaimed
among
Mongolian
musicians
as
having


originated
in
Chinggis
Khan’s
court,
but
there
is
no
explicit
evidence
to
substantiate


the
idea
that
these
songs
were
sung
in
the
style
of
urtiin
duu
eight
hundred
years


ago.
Though
Norovbanzad
argues
that
“The
classical
language
is
used
in
Urtyn
duu
.
.


.
.
Thus,
Urtyn
duu
was
in
existence
when
both
orthodox
and
colloquial
Mongolian


were
combined”
(Norovbanzad
1993),
scholars
can
only
assert
that
urtiin
duu
were


sung
during
the
pre‐revolutionary
era,
before
Mongolians
adopted
Cyrillic
script
in


the
1940s
and
changed
the
pronunciation
of
colloquial
words
accordingly.
Urtiin


duu
have
certainly
existed
in
this
area
for
quite
some
time;
one
urtiin
duu
known
as


Ovgon
Shuvuu
was
documented
by
a
Russian
writer,
Robinsky,
in
1870
(Ibid.).
Yet


there
is
scant
evidence
of
any
kind
of
urtiin
duu
performance
prior
to
this
date.2



Nonetheless,
the
myth
of
urtiin
duu’s
ancient
origin
has
contributed
to
the


adoption
of
the
performance
practice
as
a
mark
of
national
distinction.
One



























































2
One
counter‐claim
to
this
argument
can
be
found
in
the
widespread
distribution
of
music
genres


similar
to
urtiin
duu,
indicating
that
the
genre
(or
something
like
it)
could
have
spread
across
central

Asia
and
eastern
Europe
around
the
time
of
Chinggis
Khan’s
empire,
in
the
thirteenth
century.




 73

professional
urtiin
duu
singer
explained
that
he
performs
internationally
because
he


“want[s]
to
introduce
our
traditional
culture
to
the
world,”
describing
how
“every


country
has
its
own
specialty,
like
Italy
has
its
classical
art,
France
has
its
choir,


Japan
has
samurai
dance
and
China
has
the
music
ensemble
and
flute,”
and
Mongolia


has
urtiin
duu
(Lkhagvasuren
2008).
Walking
on
the
street
in
Mandalgovi
in


Dundgovi
province
in
2006,
I
asked
one
Mongolian
I
met
whether
or
not
he
knew


any
urtiin
duu.
His
reply
was,
“of
course
I
know
them!
They’re
our
nation’s
song.”


When
I
asked
him
to
sing
one,
he
said,
“well
I
know
them,
but
I
don’t
know
how
to


sing
them.”
Dad’suren,
a
self‐described
nationalist,
has
mentioned
his
hopes
that


urtiin
duu,
a
“wonderful
national
art,”
will
“one
day
conquer
the
world”
and
prove


Mongolia’s
worth
as
a
unique
nation
on
a
global
scale.




A
Rising
Mongolian
Nationalism




 Not
everyone
was
pleased
with
the
reforms
characterizing
indigenous


musical
practices
during
the
Third
People’s
Republic.
Badraa,
a
Mongolian
scholar


trained
in
Russia,
published
several
papers
from
1966‐68
in
which
he
lamented
the


loss
of
certain
pre‐revolutionary
musical
abilities,
including
the
improvisational


skills
performers
possessed
before
the
introduction
of
written
musical
notation


(Badraa
1998).
In
one
article,
entitled
“The
Mongolian
Folk
Long
Song,”
Badraa


criticized
the
Party
for
not
paying
enough
attention
to
pre‐revolutionary
urtiin
duu


styles.
He
also
criticized
staged
performances
as
“music
with
little
feeling,”
precisely


because
the
artists
were
being
compensated,
monetarily,
for
musical
endeavors
that


had
so
recently
been
performed
and
received
as
inherent
to
mobile
pastoral
life.
As



 74

a
direct
result
of
these
writings,
Badraa
was
accused
of
“non‐Marxist
minded


activities”
and
dismissed
from
his
job
(Marsh
2002:
155‐56).



Supporters
of
a
more
indigenous
and
less
Soviet‐influenced
musical
style,


such
as
Badraa,
were
condemned
for
supporting
a
subversive
kind
of
nationalism


that
defended
Mongolian
independence
against
Soviet
influence
and
threatened


communist
control.
It
was
during
this
time
that
the
delicate
balance
between
an


independent
versus
dependent
Mongolian
nationalism
was
disrupted,
and


Mongolian
intellectuals
began
to
speak
out
against
the
Soviet
sphere
of
influence.



Signs
of
rebellion
began
to
spring
up
all
over
Mongolia.
Perhaps
most
notable


was
the
Chinggis
Khan
memorial
incident
of
1962,
fueled
by
a
strong
sense
of


independence
and
national
consciousness
emerging
among
intellectuals
in
the


population
(Boldbaatar
1999).
When
the
question
arose
regarding
how
to
celebrate


Chinggis
Khan’s
eight‐hundreth
anniversary
in
the
early
1960s,
several
leaders


embarked
upon
a
project
to
erect
a
monument
to
Chinggis
Khan
in
his
supposed


birthplace
in
Dadal
Soum,
northern
Mongolia.
Though
several
arguments
had
been


waged
among
authorities
in
the
political
community
over
whether
to
valorize


Chinggis’s
conquests
or
deplore
his
barbarism,
a
subversive
group
of
intellectuals


decided
to
proclaim
Chinggis’
valor
in
an
effort
to
instigate
a
national
movement


that
supported
a
kind
of
Mongolian
independence
separate
from
Soviet
influence.


These
intellectuals
succeeded
in
erecting
a
statue
of
Chinggis
Khan
in
June
1962;


during
the
opening
ceremony,
they
openly
criticized
communist
scholars
for
their


negative
treatment
of
Chinggis,
and
praised
their
lost
hero
as
the
creator
of
the
first


Mongolian
nation:




 75

 
 The
Chinggis
monument
was
the
first
public
acknowledgement
of
the
role



 Chinggis
had
played
in
creating
the
Mongol
state.
Not
only
did
it
express



 the
Mongols’
pride
in
their
long
history
of
nationhood
and
national



 independence,
but
it
quickly
became
a
symbol
of
the
revival
of
Mongolian



 national
consciousness.









 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 









(Boldbaatar
1999:
243)



The
individuals
involved
in
the
uprising
were
dealt
with
harshly.
Authorities


demanded
that
the
organizers
of
Chinggis’
anniversary
issue
statements


condemning
their
own
actions.
Though
authorities
left
the
monument
intact,
several


supporters
of
the
movement
were
brought
into
custody
for
questioning
and


eventually
fired
from
their
positions
within
the
Party.
Government
officials
were


concerned
that
the
growing
Mongolian
nationalism
was
fundamentally
incompatible


with
Soviet
internationalism
and
the
MPRP’s
political
monopoly
and
they
embarked


upon
an
aggressive
campaign
to
destroy
the
movement.
Although
the
nationalist


movement
was
effectively
demolished
after
the
construction
of
the
Chinggis
Khan


statue,
it
nonetheless

“continued
to
be
a
factor
of
Mongolian
life,”
and
the
Chinggis


Khan
monument
incident
“undoubtedly
played
a
crucial
role
in
keeping
Mongolian


nationalism
alive,
so
that
it
could
express
itself
yet
again
in
the
tumultuous
events


surrounding
the
Mongolian
nationalist
revival
some
thirty
years
later
”
(Boldbaatar


1999:
245).



Urtiin
Duu
as
Performative
Resistance


During
the
1960s,
urtiin
duu
gathered
new
nationalist
meanings
associated


with
Mongolian
independence.
Though
many
aspects
of
urtiin
duu
practice
had
been


banned
by
authorities
since
the
First
People’s
Republic,
certain
songs
and
melodies


continued
to
be
practiced
covertly
in
the
domestic
sphere,
particularly
during
nair



 76

celebrations,
such
as
those
described
in
chapter
one.
Aspects
of
the
urtiin
duu
that


could
escape
detection,
including
the
melodic
signification
of
landscapes
that
fell


outside
political
boundaries,
continued
to
be
performed
without
authorities
noticing


that
any
kind
of
subversive
activity
was
occurring.

Though
the
melodic
signification


of
landscape
in
urtiin
duu
practice
had
helped
promote
nationalist
ideologies


valorizing
Mongolia
as
the
national
motherland,
it
was
also
a
valuable
tool
for


concealing
subversive
identities
at
odds
with
those
sanctioned
by
the
government.


During
this
time,
Borjigin
urtiin
duu
were
prohibited
but
covertly
maintained
in


domestic
nair
festivals.
According
to
Dad’suren,
these
festivals
were
arranged
in


secret
among
close
family
members.
The
urtiin
duu
melodies
performed
were
of
the


Borjigin
musical
dialect.
Their
contours
referenced
homelands
in
the
Khentii
region


associated
with
Chinggis
Khan,
covertly
signifying
the
river
found
in
Chinggis
Khan’s


homeland
without
overtly
referring
to
him.



Other
sociocultural
groups,
including
the
Bait
Mongols,
also
resisted
the


communist
regime
through
the
performance
of
urtiin
duu
that
referred
to
their


homeland
in
the
Altai
mountains
(Pegg
2001e:
16).
The
Torgut
Mongols
secretly


performed
an
urtiin
duu
signifying
their
original
homeland
in
Hovog
Sair,
and
their


biy
dances
used
movements
that
mimetically
evoked
the
topography
of
mountains


in
Xinjiang
(Ibid.:
20).
Other
forms
of
performative
resistance
were
also
practiced


during
this
time.
Urtiin
duu
lyrics
valorizing
Chinggis
Khan
could
be
changed
to


escape
detection.
Tumen
Ekh
(The
First
of
Ten
Thousand),
for
example,
could
be


performed
by
eliminating
Chinggis’
name
and
explaining
that
the
song
was
about
a


very
fast
horse
(Ibid.:
23).
Additionally,
as
a
Tibetan
Buddhist
Mongolian
monk
by



 77

the
name
of
Batpuro
informed
me
in
2002,
the
song
Gingoo
continued
to
be


performed
during
training
for
horse
races,
though
the
words
of
the
song
are
in


Sanskrit
and
praise
Tibetan
Buddhist
deities.


According
to
Dad’suren,
that
urtiin
duu
melodies
have
always
had
the
ability


to
convey
secret
meanings
has
long
been
attributed
to
the
performance
practice.


Myths
surrounding
these
songs
reveal
that
their
melodic
contours
can
convey
secret


messages.
Though
these
myths
suggest
that
urtiin
duu
have
always
had
this
role,
I


theorize
that
such
myths
became
more
prevalent
during
the
socialist
era,
when


covert
signification
became
essential
to
the
resistance
effort.
One
such
myth,


described
to
me
by
Tsendpuro,
my
flute
teacher
from
Mandalgovi,
Dundgovi
aimag,


describes
how
urtiin
duu
were
used
during
Chinggis
Khan’s
time.
Tsendpuro
related


that
there
once
lived
an
honorable
man
who
had
been
unjustly
imprisoned
by


another
tribe.
His
devoted
wife
discovered
the
location
of
his
imprisonment
and


traveled
there
on
horseback,
hoping
to
meet
with
her
husband.
When
she
reached


the
camp,
she
convinced
the
jail
guards
to
let
her
see
him.
In
her
cloak,
she
brought


her
husband
a
piece
of
cheese,
explaining
to
the
guards
that
she
was
worried
her


husband
was
hungry.
The
guards
allowed
the
wife
to
give
her
husband
the
cheese.


Once
her
husband
had
received
her
package,
the
wife
sang
an
urtiin
duu
to
him
that


conveyed
a
secret
message:
inside
the
cheese
she
had
hidden
arrows.
Her
husband


heard
the
urtiin
duu
and,
upon
understanding
her
message,
found
the
arrows
buried


in
the
cheese
and
was
able
to
escape.


Another
myth,
described
by
Dad’suren,
explains
the
secret
messages


communicated
in
the
urtiin
duu,
Hartsag.
Hartsag,
Dad’suren
explains,
was
a
young



 78

man
who
had
fallen
in
love
with
a
poor
but
beautiful
girl
named
Sarangoo.
Although


Sarangoo
was
secretly
in
love
with
Harstag,
she
was
betrothed
to
a
local
prince,
who


hated
Hartsag
for
his
strength.
On
the
night
of
the
nair

to
celebrate
Sarangoo’s


union
with
the
prince,
Hartsag
showed
up
and
improvised
an
urtiin
duu
for


Sarangoo,
depicting
his
love
for
her.
The
prince,
not
being
versed
in
urtiin
duu,
could


not
understand
the
message.
Sarangoo,
however,
had
understood,
and
she
sang
an


urtiin
duu
back
to
him
that
communicated
her
love
for
him.
Through
song,
the
two


communicated
the
details
of
how
and
when
they
would
escape
together.
The
story


ends
sadly,
for
Sarangoo
did
not
survive
the
escape—the
harsh
weather
proved
too


difficult
for
her
body
to
withstand
and
she
perished.
According
to
Dad’suren,
this


myth
was
considered
acceptable
by
authorities
because
it
depicted
princely


authority
(associated
with
the
old
feudal
system)
as
negative.
However,
the
myth


also
contained
another
message,
one
emphasizing
the
ability
of
urtiin
duu
melodies


to
elude
authorities.
This
point
was
very
important
to
the
nationalist
movement
of


the
1960s.


Though
authorities
succeeded
in
crushing
the
burgeoning
Mongolian


nationalism
by
the
mid‐1960s,
nationalist
sentiments
continued
to
thrive


underground.
This
explains
why
those
urtiin
duu
that
referred
to
Chinggis
Khan


were
so
easily
remembered
and
re‐adopted
in
an
overt
manner
once
prohibitions


were
lifted
in
1990.
However,
in
other
respects,
these
songs
had
been
fundamentally


transformed
during
the
seven
decades
of
communist
rule.
No
longer
overtly


associated
with
the
MPRP,
they
were
nonetheless
inextricably
linked
to
the


cosmopolitan
values
and
nationalist
sentiments
that
had
long
since
framed
them



 79

during
the
twentieth
century,
and
were
thus
easily
adopted
as
an
emblem
of


Mongolian
national
identity
when
the
country
transitioned
from
a
communist
state


to
a
parliamentary
democracy
in
1990.



 80

CHAPTER
FOUR:


 CONCLUSION:
THE
COMMODIFICATION
OF
URTIIN
DUU






 When
the
Soviet
Union
began
to
collapse
in
the
late
1980s,
many
Mongolians


seized
upon
this
as
a
chance
to
create
a
democratic
state.
Inspired
by
the
revolutions


in
Eastern
Europe,
protests
erupted
in
1990
in
front
of
the
Parliament
Building
in


Sükhbaatar
square,
Ulaanbaatar.
The
MPRP
was
immediately
faced
with
two
choices


regarding
the
conflict:
aggressively
suppress
the
protest
(which
at
the
time
was


peaceful)
or
commence
governmental
reforms.
The
MPRP,
wishing
to
maintain
its


political
monopoly
over
the
nation,
decided
to
respond
favorably
to
the
protests
and


immediately
called
for
multi‐party
elections.
As
a
result
of
their
political
support
for


the
revolution,
the
Party
was
viewed
as
a
force
for
liberalization.
Accordingly,
the


MPRP
and
its
associated
political
leaders
triumphed
as
the
dominant
winners
of
the


first
multi‐party
election
held
in
1990.
The
new
government
swiftly
established
a


new
Baga
Khural
(standing
legislature)
and
had
drafted
a
new
constitution
by
1992,



effectively
and
quickly
converting
Mongolia
into
an
official
democratic
state.
The


international
community
was
shocked
by
the
ease
of
the
transition,
which
went


“smoothly
compared
with
other
post‐communist
countries.
This
was
despite
the
fact


that
the
economic
shock
caused
by
the
Soviet
pullout
was
among
the
most
severe


ever
recorded”
(Ginsburg
1999:
247).


The
ease
of
Mongolia’s
transformation
to
a
democracy
has
been
attributed


largely
to
internal
factors.
The
Mongolian
independence
movement
of
the
1960s
still


resonated
among
most
of
the
populace
for
the
three
decades
following
its
public


dissolution.
Elements
of
the
resistance
movement
practiced
covertly
in
urtiin
duu



 81

performances
helped
maintain
these
sentiments.
Thus
in
the
1990s,
Mongolians


embraced
their
chance
for
political
change,
even
if
it
meant
facing
difficult
economic


turmoil.
These
changes
corresponded
with
the
full
readoption
of
banned


performance
practices,
including
urtiin
duu
themes
pointing
to
distant
homelands,


and
Tibetan
Buddhist
beliefs
and
practices.



Nationalist
sentiments
surged
and
Mongolians
fully
reclaimed
the
glory
of


their
lost
hero,
Chinggis
Khan.
His
image,
as
well
as
his
nationalist
associations
as


the
original
founder
of
the
Mongol
state,
now
have
another
level
of
resonance
for


the
newly
independent
Mongolian
nation.
Chinggis
Khan
has
become
a
nationalist


icon
signifying
the
unity
and
single
origin
of
the
Mongolian
people.
It
is
not


uncommon
for
younger
Mongols
to
refer
to
Mongolia
as
“Chinggis
Khan’s
Mongolia,”


or
Mongols,
in
general,
to
refer
to
themselves
as
“Chinggis
Khan’s
children.”
Some


Mongols
describe
a
great
sense
of
sorrow
over
having
essentially
ignored
their


spiritual
leader
during
the
country’s
term
as
a
Soviet
satellite.
According
to
a
song


written
by
the
heavy‐medal
band
Honh,





Great
Khan,
Lord
Chinggis,
oh,
my
ancestor!


Though
there
are
many
hundreds
of
monuments,



 
 There
are
none
for
you,
our
ancestor,


 
 Though
we
had
respectful
thoughts,



 
 Nobody
uttered
them.


 
 Forgive
us,
poor
things,


 
 Descendants
of
dear
Mongolia,


 
 Forgive
us,
forgive
us,
forgive
us.
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Pegg
2001e:
24)



As
we
saw
in
the
last
chapter,
many
of
the
urtiin
duu
were
covertly


maintained
over
the
twentieth
century.
Currently,
they
are
openly
practiced
and


proclaimed,
especially
those
associated
with
Chinggis
Khan.

Thus,
Tümen
Ekh
(First



 82

of
Ten
Thousand),
the
song
whose
narrative
of
a
very
fast
horse
actually
signified


Chinggis
Khan,
now
openly
reveres
Chinggis
as
a
deity.
Pegg
observes
that
“Chinggis


Khan
.
.
.

became
part
of
some
Mongols’
performative
resistance
to
communist


attempts
to
mold
their
identities
.
.
.
.
In
the
song
.
.
.

Tümen
Ekh,
it
is
now
openly


acknowledged
that
the
‘Ezen
deed
bogd’
(Lord
Supreme
Holy
One)
of
the
first
verse


is
a
reference
to
Chinggis
Khan”
(Ibid.:
22).
Having
readopted
the
worship
of


Chinggis
Khan
as
kind
of
national
Mongolian
ancestor,
Tümen
Ekh
is
now
performed


at
the
opening
of
every
national
Naadam
ceremony.
References
to
Mongolia
as
a


nation
are
inherent
in
its
lyrics,
such
as
“May
this
be
a
fine
state,
the
first
of
ten


thousand”
(Ibid.).
Songs
like
Tümen
Ekh
are
indelibly
associated
with
Mongolian


nationalism,
not
only
because
they
were
framed
as
an
index
of
the
Mongolian
nation


over
the
course
of
the
twentieth
century,
but
also
because
of
their
association
with


the
secret
defiance
of
communist
control.
Now
lyrics
and
themes
once
previously


censured
are
proclaimed
and
even
emphasized
in
performance.



The
Growth
of
Tourism
and
an
Internationally­Oriented
Market
Economy




 The
immediate
withdrawal
of
Soviet
economic
support
created
a
severe


depression
in
Mongolia
in
1990
and
beyond,
but
this
was
somewhat
mitigated
by


the
assistance
of
Western
powers.
The
Mongolians,
who
continued
to
fear
Chinese


colonization
and
Soviet
dominance,
eagerly
turned
to
their
Western
allies
for


ideological
and
economic
support,
including
backing
for
cosmopolitan
goals
aimed


at
the
continued
modernization
of
the
nation:


.
.
.
the
late
1980s
witnessed
a
weakening
of
Soviet‐imposed
constraints
on


 Mongolia’s
choices
.
.
.
.

Russian
weakness
and
preoccupation
with
domestic




 83

 reform
mean
that
Mongolia’s
leaders
now
have
some
room
to
maneuver


 internationally
and
domestically.
Their
aggressive
courting
of
Europe,
the


United
States,
and
Asia
reflects
the
search
for
a
“third
force”
to
guarantee


national
security
and
support
modernization.
Cosmopolitanism
continues


to
be
the
instrument
of
national
survival
in
the
modern
Mongol
worldview.



 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Ginsburg
1999:
250)





 The
support
of
Western
powers
has
come,
in
large
part,
through
the


development
of
a
substantial
tourism
industry
geared
towards
Western
travelers.


With
the
establishment
of
a
National
Tourism
Board
in
1995,
an
unprecedented


number
of
European,
Asian,
and
American
tourists
have
begun
to
visit
the
country.


The
industry
now
garners
over
180
million
dollars
in
annual
revenue,
comprising


more
than
ten
percent
of
Mongolia’s
gross
domestic
product.
Focused
on


commodifying
tourists’
nostalgic
perceptions
of
nomadic
life,
tourist
companies


often
promote
ideas
of
Mongolia
as
a
primitive,
ancient
land
where
civilization
and


time
are
transcended:
“The
Mongolian
steppes
and
their
nomads,
horses,
herds
and


gers
form
a
cultural
landscape
which
is
the
region’s
iconic
attraction,
the
central


image
in
Mongolian
marketing,
the
key
feature
of
its
flagship
tourism
products,
and


the
most
heavily
commoditized
component
of
its
industry”
(Buckley,
Ollenburg
&


Zhong
2008).
The
idealizations
are
disclosed
in
many
locales
promoting
tourism:




 Endless
steppes,
untouched
nature,
magical
light.
A
sky
close
enough
to



 touch.
Become
one
with
the
lifestyle
of
the
nomads.
Discover
a
land
of



 unbelievable
beauty,
and
the
lifestyle
of
the
Mongolian
herdsmen
which
has



 hardly
changed
for
centuries.
This
country,
which
these
resilient
people
on



 their
hardy
little
horses
once
made
into
the
largest
empire
ever
to
exist



 worldwide,
will
fascinate
you.
Experience
unending
space,
unfettered



 freedom,
and
a
fascinating
culture.





 
 
 
 
 









(Ibid.,
translated
from
www.deepmongolia.com)




 Chinggis
Khan’s
legacy
has
also
taken
on
commercial
meanings.
Walking


around
Mongolia’s
capital
city,
Ulaanbaatar,
in
the
present
day,
one
is
immediately



 84

inundated
with
images
of
Chinggis
Khan
on
billboards,
signs,
and
in
commercials.


His
name
is
used
by
Mongolian
vodka
and
beer
companies,
heavy
metal
bands,
and


restaurants.

In
the
following
advertisement
for
Chinggis
Khan
vodka
(Fig
4.1),


Chinggis’
image
and
life
dates
hover
over
images
of
beautiful,
scantily‐clad


Mongolian
models
drinking
vodka
out
of
elegant
shot
glasses
reminiscent
of


champagne
flutes.
Mongolia’s
international
airport
is
called
“Chinggis
Khan


International
Airport,”
and
his
face
appears
on
the
500,
1000,
5000,
and
10,000


tugrik
currency
bills.
Furthermore,
his
legacy
is
marketed
to
tourists.
In
2006,
a


huge
Naadam
was
held
for
the
benefit
of
Western
travelers,
marketing
Chinggis


Khan’s
800th
anniversary
with
huge
celebrations
and
sporting
competitions.
The


event
brought
so
many
tourists
to
Mongolia
that
concerns
rose
over
the
nation’s


ability
to
accommodate
such
a
large
influx
of
people
(Buckley,
Ollenburg
&
Zhong



2008).



 The
tourist
industry
has
also
had
a
profound
impact
on
professional


musicians,
who
have
turned
almost
exclusively
to
tourist
venues
for
employment.


Peter
Marsh
is
quoted
at
length,
below,
for
his
eloquent
description
of
the
way
urtiin


duu
performances
are
now
marketed
to
Western
audiences.
Notice
that
the


ensemble
he
describes
has
also
consciously
adopted
the
name
Tümen
Ekh.
His


description
is
similar
to
the
one
I
gave
in
the
introduction
to
this
thesis,
detailing
my


first
encounter
with
urtiin
duu
performance.



 85

Figure 4.1: Advertisement for Chinggis Khaan Vodka from Mongolica magazine, 2006

Mongolica 6(2): 70, Summer 2006.

86

 In
late
1999
(near
the
end
of
the
tourist
season)
I
and
my
colleague



 attended
a
concert
program
by
the
ensemble
Tümen
Ekh
.
.
.
.
[W]e
were



 among
an
audience
of
about
25
people
.
.
.
.

All
in
the
audience
were



 non‐Mongolians,
including
people
from
Germany,
France,
England



 and
a
couple
from
Japan,
among
other
places.
Only
a
few
pieces
were
of



 the
so‐called
classical
folk
music,
that
is,
traditional
songs,
instrumental



 pieces
or
dances
that
were
performed
in
more
pre‐modern
ways
.
.
.
.



 Perhaps
the
most
interesting
piece
in
the
program
for
me
was
the



 ensemble’s
arrangement
of
a
long
song.
The
song
began
traditionally



 enough,
performed
by
a
not
unusual
combination
of
two
singers,
backed



 by
two
horse‐head
fiddle
players,
but
soon
the
rest
of
the
ensemble—


 yatga,
shanz,
yoochin,
ikh
khuur,
and
even
snare
drum—joined
in.
It
is



 traditional
for
other
voices
to
join
in
and
sing
in
unison
(though
not



 necessarily
with
the
same
melodic
interpretations)
with
the
singer
who



 began
the
son[g]
[sic].
But
it
is
not
traditional
to
accompany
a
long
song



 with
an
entire
ensemble
of
instruments.
Nor
is
it
traditional
to
accompany



 a
long
song
with
harmonic
progressions—as
the
ikh
khuur
was
doing,
and



 as
the
plucked
instruments
were
creating
through
their
noodling.
Nor
is
it


 traditional
to
interpret
a
steady
rhythm
in
a
long
song—as
the
snare
drum



 was
doing
.
.
.
.

At
the
end
of
the
entire
program,
.
.
.

I
noticed
that
the
large



 double
doors
in
which
we
entered
the
hall
were
closed
and
blocked.
But



 another
set
of
double
doors
were
opened
on
the
other
side
of
the
hall
that



 led
directly
to
an
adjacent
gift
shop.



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 





 
(Marsh
2002:
234‐36)




Not
only
were
all
audience
members
tourists,
but
they
were
led
into
a
gift


shop
after
the
performance
where
various
dolls,
crafts,
and
other
souveniers
of
a


kind
of
essentialized,
consciously
marketed
Mongolian
identity,
including
images,


paintings,
and
dolls
of
Chinggis
Khan,
key
chains
with
gers
on
them,
and
miniature


morin
khuur.
Clearly,
the
above
performance
demonstrates
urtiin
duu’s


transformation
into
a
lucrative
product,
almost
as
if
it
were
one
of
these
souvenirs;


it
has
been
commodified
as
a
cultural
item
for
sale
in
a
growing
market
economy


dominated
by
foreign
tourists.



 Such
commodification
is
but
an
extension
of
the
cosmopolitan
values
fueling


the
separation
of
urtiin
duu
and
other
indigenous
musical
practices
from
daily
life,
a


separation
that
was
increasingly
institutionalized
over
the
course
of
socialist
rule.
In


the
above
example,
the
ensemble’s
director
and
arranger,
Ts.
Pürewkhüü,
was



 87

clearly
influenced
by
modernist‐cosmopolitan
values
in
his
musical
performance.


When
describing
his
arrangement,
his
words
demonstrate
the
extent
to
which
he


equates
the
creation
of
a
Western,
classical‐style
musical
arrangement
of
an


indigenous
song
with
improvement:




 “There
can
be
no
improvement
without
a
base,
without
tradition.
We
must



 improve
the
national
traditions
because
it
is
art.
It
wouldn’t
be
interesting



 without
improvements!
Take
for
example
the
long
song
we
played
tonight
.
.
.




 the
classical
form
of
performing
the
long
song,
as
you
know,
is
with
just
one



 singer
and
one
fiddle
player.
We
didn’t
change
the
song
or
melody
in
any
way,



 we
just
added
an
arranged
accompaniment.
We
think
it
makes
it
sound
better,



 and
also
more
interesting
for
our
audiences.”



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (quoted
in
Ibid.:
237)




 The
boundaries
of
what
a
musician
considers
an
appropriate
stylistic


performance
of
urtiin
duu
has
come
to
be
quite
flexible,
as
the
above
example


demonstrates.
Pürewkhüü
is
not
the
only
person
to
have
created
new,
supposedly


improved
arrangements
of
urtiin
duu
that
stretch
the
boundaries
of
the
genre.
A


1996
recording
of
Norovbanzad
demonstrates
the
kind
of
“improvements”
she


made
on
the
urtiin
duu
Uyakhan
zambuutiviin
naran,
marketing
the
new
recording


to
a
world
beat
audience.
The
studio‐made
track
betrays
a
strong
Western
influence,


utilizing
an
extensive,
synthesized
electronic
background
in
the
vein
of
New
Age


music
to
create
the
perception
of
a
meditational
kind
of
calm
and
tranquility.


Additionally,
a
harmonic,
chordal
background
composed
of
synthesized
tonic
and


dominant
chords
has
been
added
to
the
song,
to
enhance
its
appeal
to
Western


audiences
familiar
with
such
harmonies.
The
CD
is
sold
in
the
larger
tourist
stores
of


Ulaanbaatar.
In
the
recording,
Norovbanzad
uses
synthesized
chords
and


technological
simulations
of
wind
and
other
“natural”
environmental
sounds,
iconic



 88

of
nomadic
Mongolian
life,
to
“improve”
her
urtiin
duu—or
rather,
market
them
to


foreign
tourists.



 In
another
example,
the
world‐beat
music
project
known
as
“Enigma”


sampled
part
of
the
urtiin
duu
“Alsyn
Gazryn
Zereglee.”
This
song
was
sung
by
a


professional
urtiin
duu
singer
named
Adilbish
Nergui,
who
trained
with


Norovbanzad
and
regularly
performs
with
the
ensemble
Tümen
Ekh.
Enigma’s


version
is
called
“Age
of
Loneliness”
and
is
recorded
on
their
1994
CD
Cross
of


Changes.
It
samples
the
urtiin
duu
in
segments,
accompanied
by
a
synthesized


background
and
drum
beat,
and
features
an
instrumental
solo
meant
to
sound
like
a


wooden
flute.
A
whispering
voice
admonishes
the
listener,
“life
is
crazy,
life
is
mad.


Don’t
be
afraid
.
.
.

that’s
your
destiny,
the
only
chance.
Take
it,
take
it
in
your


hands.”


Other
indigenous
Mongolian
musical
practices
have
been
subjected
to


different
forms
of
development.
As
one
blogger
who
self‐identifies
as
Mongolian


writes,



When
visiting
UB,
the
Mongolian
National
Song
and
Dance
Academic
Ensemble's


 show
is
a
must
see.
It
offers
a
great
overview
of
the
Mongolian
songs
and
dances.


I
remember
seeing
their
show
a
couple
of
years
ago,
the
khoomii
singer
was


throat
singing
O
Sole
mio.
I
guess,
foreign
tourists
find
it
quite
entertaining,
since


it's
a
very
well‐known
song.
But,
why
O
Sole
mio?
It
seems
like
most
of
the
khoomii


singers
sing
this
song
at
one
point
of
their
careers.





 
 
 
 (http://mongolianmusic.blogspot.com/2008/09/


 
 
 
 
 
 mongolian‐national‐song‐and‐dance.html)



Additionally,
classical
Mongolian
musicians
are
continually
and
consciously


attempting
to
create
a
national
Mongolian
sound,
and
N.
Jantsannorov
is
at
the


forefront
of
these
reforms.
For
example,
Batchuluun,
the
founder
of
the
State
Morin



 89

Khuur
ensemble
and
a
People’s
Artist
of
Mongolia,
describes
Jantsannorov’s


uniquely
Mongolian
classical
musical
compositions
as
having
the
same
particular


“smell”
as
do
the
Mongolian
people.
“When
I
listen
to
Jantsannorov’s
music,”
he
says,


“I
smell
Mongolia
from
the
13th
century
to
the
present.
It’s
like
when
a
foreigner


meets
a
Mongolian
person
and
can
smell
the
scent
of
meat
and
milk.
In
this
case,
the


scent
is
the
melody.
Jantsannorov
knows
our
traditions
and
he’s
really
proud
of
our


cultural
heritage.
This
pride
comes
out
in
his
music.
That’s
why
people
love
his


work”
(Sumiyabazar
2006).



The
free
hand
with
which
musical
arrangers
and
producers
are
increasingly


marketing
urtiin
duu
to
Western
audiences
is
but
an
extension
of
the
modernist


reforms
and
cosmopolitan
values
they
have
come
to
associate
with
the
genre,


particularly
as
an
emblem
of
Mongolia’s
national
distinctiveness.
Nonetheless,
these


various
reforms
bring
into
question
what
urtiin
duu
really
is
and
whether
or
not
it
is


apt
to
use
this
single
term
for
describing
pre‐revolutionary,
revolutionary,
and
now


democratic‐era
long
song
singing
styles
and
contexts.
The
various
performance


contexts,
styles,
and
meanings
associated
with
the
genre
are
multifold.
It
is


proclaimed
to
be
Mongolia’s
“national
song,”
iconic
of
the
Mongolian
nation
and


performed
in
antiquated,
ceremonial
garb
(reminiscent
of
the
clothes
worn
in


Chinggis
Khan’s
court)
before
every
naadam
sporting
competition
in
honor
of


Chinggis
Khan
and
the
original
Mongolian
nation.
It
is
also
a
nomadic
herding
tool,


used
to
calm
animals
and
help
baby
calves
suckle
from
their
mothers.
It
is


proclaimed
as
an
ancient
art
form
that
dates
back
over
two
thousand
years,
as


UNESCO
claims,
a
tendency
towards
constructing
revisionist
histories
of
urtiin
duu,



 90

all
of
which,
as
we
have
seen,
have
a
questionable
basis
in
fact.
It
is
also
proclaimed


as
an
almost‐extinct
and
endangered
type
of
song
now
performed
for
tourists
in


showy
costumes.
Yet
all
of
these
developments
follow
a
distinct
course,
paralleling


Mongolia’s
history
in
the
twentieth
century
as
a
socialist
state
influenced
by
Soviet


cosmopolitanism,
including
an
ideology
valuing
European‐influenced
aesthetic


tastes,
which
have
been
internalized
by
the
populace
over
the
course
of
decades.


Nowhere
are
these
developments
more
apparent
than
in
the
genre
of
urtiin
duu.


While
urtiin
duu
is
still
practiced
in
the
countryside
in
a
similar
manner
to
how
it


existed
in
the
pre‐revolutionary
era,
it
has
undeniably
been
modified
in
form
and


practice.
Subject
to
modernist
reforms,
it
is
now
proclaimed
a
classical
folk
art,
an


emblem
of
the
perceived
national
essence
of
the
Mongolian
people
that
is


simultaneously
unique
and
modern,
with
a
primordial
Mongolian
essence
passed


down
from
the
warriors
of
Chinggis
Khan
and
his
court.
This
image
has
become
an


important
source
of
economic
and
political
capital,
and
it
is
consciously
maintained


and
exported
to
an
international
audience
in
a
way
that
helps
promote
Mongolia’s


tourist
industry
and
further
its
essentialized
image
as
the
land
of
Chinggis’


ancestors.



Nonetheless,
this
commodification
comes
at
a
price,
for
while
urban
urtiin


duu
artists
are
supported
if
they
adapt
the
aesthetics
of
a
“world
beat”
audience,


rural
urtiin
duu
practice
is
becoming
increasingly
scarce.
And
as
urtiin
duu
is


exported
and
promoted
with
synthesized
backgrounds
and
New
Age
beats,
its


uniqueness
becomes
increasingly
questionable,
much
like
during
the
course
of
the



 91

twentieth
century,
when
modernist
reforms
enclosed
the
genre
in
a
discourse
that


only
allowed
its
success
and
longevity
to
be
judged
in
terms
of
Western
aesthetics.




 The
current
blossoming
of
indigenous
musical
practices
and
religious
beliefs


is
not
a
wholesale
return
to
the
Mongolia
of
pre‐revolutionary
times.

Many
aspects


of
Mongolian
cultural
identity
are
now
promoted
in
a
nationalistic
light
and


consciously
marketed
as
such
to
tourists,
including
romanticized
notions
of
nomadic


life,
icons
associated
with
Chinggis
Khan
and
his
warriors,
and
musical


performances
modeled
after
European
ensembles
that
purport
to
have
a
uniquely


Mongolian
flair
simply
because
they
incorporate
indigenous
instruments
or
songs.


The
current
situation
has
resulted
from
various
factors.
At
once
the
product
of


internalized
modernist
reforms,
it
is
also
due
to
the
continual
promotion
of
a
certain


image
of
Mongolian
culture,
and
thus
the
Mongolian
nation,
which
is
an
important


form
of
economic
and
political
capital
for
a
burgeoning
state
hoping
to
carve
its


place
among
others
in
the
global
order.



 92

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