Text: Bulat Khalilov
In conjunction with today’s commemorations, Ored Recordings is releasing a compilation, Shopsh: Circassian Vocal Tradition of Zhiu, which highlights the vocal tradition of zhiu as both a form of remembrance and a possibility.
21 May is the Day of Remembrance for Circassians – or, more directly, the Day of the Circassian Genocide.
In 1864, the Russian Empire marked this day as the official end of the Russo-Caucasian War, which had begun over a century earlier in 1763. What Russia celebrated as victory, most Circassians – and many other peoples of the North Caucasus – remember as loss: a brutal war for independence that ended in exile, devastation and what many now call genocide.
That view isn’t fringe. It’s shared by most Circassian historians and civil society voices. To date, only Georgia and Ukraine have officially recognised this as genocide. But across the Circassian diaspora – from Türkiye and Syria to Jordan, the EU and the US – 21 May is marked with acts of remembrance. And yes, those memories echo back home, too – in Adygea, Kabardino-Balkaria and Karachay-Cherkessia.
However, most Circassians in the North Caucasus are suspicious of these gestures, considering them to be opportunistic and insincere. Their refusal to embrace recognition from other states usually stems from a desire to avoid becoming a pawn in a larger geopolitical game.
Officially, the Russian state doesn’t like to talk about any of this. The war itself is treated as taboo, its memory reframed as a tool of Western propaganda or a threat to national unity. And yet, every year, people still gather. From moderates to patriots, from Nalchik to Cherkessk to Maykop, Circassians take to the streets – sometimes quietly, sometimes defiantly.
At Ored Recordings, we return to this trauma again and again – not to dwell, but to listen. To ask how this wound still shapes the way we live, create and imagine. Every year on 21 May, we release a concept album. One year, it’s heroic songs from the war. Another, it’s diaspora voices from Türkiye. Or wartime songs of the 20th century. Each time, we try to trace how our people processed a colonial wound through music, or indeed failed to do so.
This year, we chose to focus on traditional vocal techniques in Circassian music. At first glance, this may seem unrelated. But in truth, every serious conversation about the state of Circassian culture circles back – if not to 1864 itself, then certainly to the long shadow it cast.
This release is a compilation of mostly unpublished recordings. Think of it as a teaser – a warm-up – for future albums. In those upcoming releases, we’ll dive deeper into each performer’s story and the recording context.
НокIуэ жи!1 A prelude of sorts
This essay – and this release – emerged from a simple question: what’s really going on in Circassian music today?
A big part of the tradition is group singing. Usually it’s men (sometimes women, sometimes mixed groups), gathering to sing. The lead voice carries the main melody, while the others hold a choral drone or a call-and-response. This choral technique is called zhiu or yezhiu.
Like in many cultures, group singing wasn’t just about music – it was a way to be together, to make a space for cultural and social connection.
Most Circassians today learned about this from the elders. From people who sang at weddings and late-night gatherings. Or from those who, as kids, would secretly listen to adults sing into the night. But our main source are still the archives – dusty tapes recorded by Soviet folklorists.
Interestingly, the folklorists’ archives have ended up becoming tradition-bearers in their own right.
Academic work on Circassian vocal music – papers, dissertations, theoretical frameworks – has had almost no impact on today’s performers. Music theory and actual practice in Adyghe communities have mostly run on parallel tracks, rarely intersecting.
But the sound itself – those dusty Soviet-era recordings collected by ethnomusicologists – found a way through. Once digitised, they slipped into public circulation (sometimes semi-legally) and became a strange kind of bridge: not from scholar to scholar, but from singer to singer, across generations.
Those old recordings remind us that the song and its lyrics are guardians of language, poetic style and cultural memory. And yezhiu? That’s the secret ingredient. The thing that gives it punch. Soviet musicologists put it nicely: yezhiu helps the song “reach the hearts of the people”.
There’s even a sharp old proverb: “Ежьур уэрэдым и щIопщ” – yezhiu is the whip for the song. It keeps the rhythm. Holds the structure together. Gives the song its shape.
And yet – despite this deep knowledge and respect for vocal technique – modern Circassian music mostly revolves around instruments. Not voices.
So we asked ourselves: how did a whole new wave of Circassian music appear – something unthinkable even ten years ago – and why does almost all of it seem to avoid yezhiu, the central tool of our tradition?
Not on our watch: the reactive side of the Circassian folk revival
In our work at Ored Recordings – whether in articles, liner notes or side rants – we’ve been talking about the “new wave” of Circassian traditional music or the so-called Circassian folk revival. Or, even more broadly, the folk revival of the Western Caucasus.
Since the early 2010s, musicians from Adygea, Kabardino-Balkaria, Karachay-Cherkessia, geographies/regions/republics located in Western Caucasus and their diasporas have started treating traditional music not as grandma’s porcelain set, but as a living culture. Some try to play in a near-authentic style. Others go full pop. Some mix it with dark folk, black metal or Baroque chamber music.
They’re mostly from the younger generation – anywhere from 17 to 40 – coming from different backgrounds and different relationships with their heritage. Some grew up with epic songs at the dinner table. Others avoided Circassian music until they stumbled across war ballads or Nart legends as adults.
But one thing unites them: they all want to refresh traditional music. Some by adding new elements, others by reviving what’s been forgotten.
And, in that sense, the Circassian folk revival has been reactive, acting in response to rather than following the status quo – especially against the dominant style of “Circassian pop”. Armed with digital beats and sugary lyrics about love, this scene took over the very idea of what “Circassian music” meant. Even when they used traditional songs, the arrangements flattened everything into post-Soviet elevator music. A basic beat. Copy-paste effects. The same accordion on every track.
Young people started pushing back. Or, at least, they didn’t want to stop there. Looking at other cultures – Ireland, Scandinavia, Scotland – they saw music that was diverse, complex and proudly traditional and modern. Even global genres – hip-hop, rock ballads, fantasy soundtracks – showed more imagination than local pop.
“[When it came to our traditional music], there were a lot of things that triggered me,” recalls Aslan Tashu, founder of Myst, a neoclassical and nearly chamber-style ensemble that represents a new generation of musicians striving to discover their own meanings and ways of playing traditional music in the present day. “So many things just begging to be broken, replaced. Things that only existed because no one had stepped up to change them – that really pissed me off. Traditions passed down just because that’s how they used to do it, and now we all keep doing it the same way. It’s like everything’s stuck in this loop, just out of convenience and lack of initiative.”
He adds: “This applies to dance as well. The first thing that came to mind, when thinking about the state of music and choreography, was the smell of the old Dom Kultury (House of Culture). At every event, it was always the same: two people step out with a sheet of paper and read some tired speech. “Good evening, dear friends!” – and so on. I don’t blame the people doing it. But the system itself? That always pissed me off. I wanted to do something that could get past it.”
Circassian music felt stuck. Caught somewhere between Soviet-era kitsch and southern Russian crooners.
To be fair, we’re not blaming the pop musicians. They did what they could. Many helped keep the Circassian language and culture alive. And their songs still mean a lot to a big part of our community.
But for those who wanted more than “starry nights” and “Circassians being Circassian”, this frustration sparked a whole new wave of experimentation. Some reached into the deep past, others created something entirely new. As always, both can be valid ways forward.
Shichepshin as a brand-new ancient artefact
One major influence on this new wave was Zamudin Guchev and his ensemble Жъыу. As he put it in press releases, this was a group focused on ancient instrumental music and songs. They would reconstruct half-forgotten tracks from old tapes, trying to perform them as closely to the original as possible.
For Guchev, poetry was the key. Most of the early zhiu line-up started working with Zamudin when they were just 13 to 15 years old. So, from early on, they were immersed in an environment where the language of traditional songs was – if not exactly second nature – at least a daily working tool. They felt the nuances of folk poetry. They picked up on the subtleties, the tricks, the inside jokes woven into the lyrics.
But Guchev didn’t just focus on singing. He also poured a lot of energy into reviving the shichepshin – a two- or three-string fiddle, the Circassian analogue of the Serbian gusle or Mongolian morin khuur.
The instrument had survived mostly in name. It was more of a museum relic than something anyone actually played. Guchev changed that.
Why did it work? A few reasons
First, there was a cultural hunger for something that felt old and ours. Something physical, something unique.
The Circassians already had their own branded cheese, a horse breed (hotly contested in endless internet arguments with the neighbouring Karachais), a national costume, even a flag whose origins can be traced back to the Russo-Caucasian War.
But in the musical world, there was no clear, tangible symbol. Nothing uniquely ours that you could point to and say – this is Circassian sound.
The horsehair-stringed shichepshin looked perfect – an ancient artefact, a mythical sound.
Was it really that ancient? That unique? Maybe not. But no one cared. It was rare. It was ours. And it sounded cool.
Second, the language of old songs is tough. The phrasing is complex, the phonetics brutal – thanks in part to how Circassian language education got sidelined and exoticised during the Soviet and Russian periods. So instruments offered a way in. Young Circassians could connect to their culture through sound instead of words. The fiddle became an entry point, a new musical identity.
So Guchev hit the mark. He didn’t just revive a forgotten instrument – he opened the door for the next generation.
Instruments, aesthetics – and a little yezhiu on the side
You can still feel Guchev’s impact. Whether they know it or not, young musicians – from Timur Kodzoko of Ored Recordings to Seyit Besli from Türkiye – have started treating the Circassian instrumental tradition as something rich and worth exploring. Something that can evolve – not just be preserved.
That’s a big difference from earlier generations. Soviet-era legends like folklorist Zaramuk Kardangushev or singer-composer Vladimir Baragunov also worked with traditional material. But they filtered it through academic choirs or orchestras. They leaned heavily into Soviet musical values.
So it’s no surprise that many new artists avoid vocal traditions entirely. They want something fresh. Not something that sounds like a state-run choir from the 1980s.
Instead, they’re experimenting – with new instruments, studio effects and unconventional production.
Jrpjej is less a band and more a collective, with only one permanent member: Timur Kodzoko, co-founder of Ored Recordings. Drawing inspiration from all corners – black metal, drone, Azerbaijani mugham, the ballads of Dagestani bards – Jrpjej “bring the gloom back to Circassian folk” using only acoustic instruments. Roughly the way Lankum did for Irish music.
Bashir Khatsuk, curator of online radio Bjami and a key figure in Nalchik’s indie scene, built his sound around the cello – swapping out yezhiu for the deep, rumbling resonance of bowed strings.
Tembolat Tkhashloko, a Circassian hip-hop veteran with a love for local folklore, founded Hagauj – fusing dark electronics and heavy rhythms into a kind of Circassian darkwave with a Nordic twist.
Meanwhile, a group of younger musicians, many from academic and folk dance circles, came together to form Myst. Their debut leaned into chamber pop, while their later work landed somewhere between slick hip-hop and Nart mythology.
There’s also indie rock. There’s dark folk. And yes – there are even the first attempts at local IDM.
This isn’t one sound – it’s a whole scene, with wildly different approaches. Everyone is trying to be contemporary and modern, but without cutting ties to tradition.
Take Hagauj again: in their promo, they argue that Circassian music has always used the instruments of its time – so why shouldn’t we?
That logic runs through the whole movement. Most of these artists still use yezhiu at some level – but few push it further. Still, despite the abovementioned practices, the complex polyphonic styles once common in Circassian singing haven’t really made a genuine comeback.
Folklorist Raya Unarokova once said that traditional yezhiu used to be much more structured and technically advanced. In the early 1980s, people from the tradition remembered choirs where different voices had specific roles. But even then, few still knew how to do it.
“In the 80s in Shapsugia (a region in the western Circassian territories), I still came across a complex, structured performance of what we called the sub-heading yezhiu,” she recalled. “The zhiu there was unique – not just the usual ‘ori-raida’ after four lines and that’s it. No, this was full-fledged zhiu: after the first phrase, the sub-vocalisation would begin at the start of the second, rise between the verses, then settle again. The whole thing sounded complete.”
“This matched all the accounts we have of 19th-century musical traditions. But even then, it was more of an exception – or the last traces of a fading tradition or school. Later, I recorded the memories of [folklore expert] Jeremoko Turkubiy: apart from the casserole [main voice], there were zhyupashe, zhyuk’esh’e – different roles and functions for each singer. It was all encoded in the tradition.”
In some archival recordings, old men harmonise with each other in intricate, almost avant-garde ways. That kind of singing can still be revived. Or at least imagined. Maybe even pushed further.
But right now? Everyone’s too busy experimenting with synths, guitars, baroque instruments and FX chains.
Chapsh might be an exception. They’ve got a bigger vocal line-up and live shows that stick closer to traditional choral structures. Their ezhyu is more varied. But judging by early cuts from their upcoming album, they are even leaning into ambient textures and studio wizardry.
There’s also a practical problem: group singing takes people. Coordinating them, keeping them together. And not falling apart after your first gig.
The old saying “АдыгитI зыгурыIуэу щыIэкъым” comes to mind – roughly: “There are no two Circassians who can agree with each other.”
I always thought of it as ancient folk wisdom. But a quick check through collections of traditional sayings suggests it’s actually a much later, more cynical observation – a kind of verdict on the fragility of horizontal ties in Circassian society.
Still, maybe it’s not just a matter of so-called “ethno-mentality”. Maybe the real issue is more structural: it’s hard to get funding for musical projects. It’s hard to make a living from music without constantly splitting yourself between “real work” and creative work. What starts as a human issue – who gets along with whom – quickly leads to politics. And then to much bigger questions about how we live and what we value.
Voices, feasts and dreams: why we’re releasing this compilation
We’re not thrilled with the current state of yezhiu. No shade – we, at Ored Recordings and Jrpjej, are part of the problem, too.
After all, our own interest in Circassian music didn’t begin with history, poetry, meaning or critical reflection.
In the early days, we were mostly chasing a groovy sound – and, if we’re honest, an almost esoteric urge to uncover some kind of pure antiquity, the pagan roots of a “lost Circassian culture”.
Back then, we completely ignored music from the Soviet period. We even deleted recordings we felt didn’t live up to our idea of what deserved a place in the discography.
So no, there’s no point in pointing fingers. We’ve been there, too.
This release is a gentle shout. A reminder that there are still parts of our music that haven’t been explored. That still holds secrets that could spark something new.
What inspired this? Groups like San Salvador from Occitania (watch their KEXP set!), the UK’s Shovel Dance Collective and Kali Malone’s album All Life Long. All very different – but all centred on voice. All manage to blur the line between ancient tradition and contemporary creativity.
We want to treat yezhiu the same way modern Circassian musicians treat instruments: as a tool for innovation, not just preservation.
It would have been great to release a full concept album with these ideas. But we’re not there yet. We need inspiration first.
So here it is: a collection of Circassian tracks where voice is either the main or only instrument. And yes, yezhiu is present. Sometimes physically. Sometimes as a kind of ghost. A promise.
Some of these are recordings from the field. Just one person, singing into a mic in a home/known environment. That’s not new – back in the 1980s, 1990s and even in the 2010s, folklorists often met elders who said, “This song needs a second voice – but my friends are dead, or sick or away.”
All these recordings come from our expeditions across Kabardino-Balkaria, Adygea, Türkiye – and one track from a live concert in the Netherlands. You’ll hear official village choirs, young musicians and older singers who grew up listening to the tradition.
Let’s call this a starting point. A reminder that even the quietest voice can carry a tradition forward.
This article was edited with the kind assistance of Bella Mirzoeva.
This article is brought to you by 3/4.sk as part of the EM GUIDE project – an initiative dedicated to empowering independent music magazines and strengthening the underground music scene in Europe. Read more about the project at emgui.de.
Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are, however, those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union (EU) or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the EU nor EACEA can be held responsible for them.