“Hello, Olev. Your tour is coming to an end, and you’re heading back to Australia. Thanks to your work, folk music has taken on an entirely new meaning for me. What does folk music mean to you?”

Folk music… what does it mean? I don’t know. I think it’s a big, broad question.
It can be societal or individual—it just depends. It depends on the context you’re in. Even if you do it alone, you can still create folk music, because folk music isn’t just one thing; it’s a whole historical perspective.
And if it exists, that means it’s also evolving. I don’t think folk music is something that sits in a museum. That’s why I feel as free as anyone else to do whatever I want with it.
Yes, it can be approached in many ways—socially or individually.

“And in what perspective do you see Veljo Tormis’s music as folk music, and what has it given you as an Estonian in discovering your roots in Australia?”

Well, I didn’t find my roots; my roots found me.
Tormis was the one who brought those old songs and traditions out of the shadows, and everything came through very clearly. How he interpreted it all and built the tonality around it—it was like a mediator, like modern pop—that was his tonality.
It sparked curiosity and interest, and from there I realized that yes, you can do anything with folk music. It’s not just about singing a tune or a verse; you can do so much with it.

But why is this personal? I think it comes from the fact that, in my experience, it’s somehow natural. If you already speak Estonian, you sing it as well.
So Tormis, I think, didn’t do much else. Mostly everything came from song—from Estonian songs and the songs of related kindred peoples. But everything felt familiar, and he knew how to develop it.
To me, and to my ears, it was delightful and mystical.

“When did Tormis first enter your life?”

Through records. My cousin’s daughter came back from Estonia in 1970, carrying a stack of records. There were big choral works. They weren’t strictly folk music. Some were, but for example Hamlet's Songs, The Ballad of Mary's Land, and Three I Had Those Words of Beauty were large, serious works. They had a depth that immediately sparked interest.
There was something very familiar there, and you could already hear how he built the arrangements around folk songs.

“I understand that you also got in touch with Veljo Tormis. What was your impression of him as a person when you met and corresponded with him?”

It was, really, a natural relationship.
What amazed me, for example, when I visited him in Kullamäe, in his workshop, he had something he called a sauna. You weren’t allowed to live near the water in Soviet times, but he called it a sauna. Actually, it was his workroom, with a little piano, where he created his music. I visited around 1992, his 62nd birthday.
I was there with my cousin’s son and Coralie Joyce from Australia, who collaborated with me on the Ingerian Evenings album. Tormis took us all around. He had a keen sense of everything around him.
We even visited low Stone Age burial mounds. I wandered around, thinking maybe we’d take a picture of me lying in a grave. He sensed from afar: no, we won’t do that. He had, as he called it, a “gut feeling.” He sensed what people might do.
He talked a lot about plants, weather, history—music, not so much. He even jumped on a swing. His wife was worried because he had some heart issues and she feared he might hurt himself. But Tormis, as always, had lots of energy.

And he was accommodating, especially with music. When I asked his advice, opinion, or permissions, he was always cooperative.
When my first album reached him, containing one of his pieces—all my synthesizer-based dance folk songs—he said that those worked well, because the sharp sounds matched folk music surprisingly well.

“It sounds like two old friends, just having fun, rather than two professional musicians.”

Absolutely. I never considered myself a formal musician anyway. I just play with elements. I might be more of an artist than a musician.
So my approach, the way I navigate, is broader and freer than anything strictly related to music or playing an instrument.
Tormis wasn’t that way either, I think. He often said he became a composer almost against his will. Maybe he wasn’t someone who cared about the stereotype of being a “great composer.” He found that what he did with folk music was simply natural.
So yes, we definitely shared something in that way.

“How has Veljo Tormis’s music been received in Australia? Tell us about that too.”

When I made electronic folk music, people found it interesting.
The Estonian community didn’t mind at all. Non-Estonians were also curious. It was like exoticism.
When we started with the Kiri-uu choir, Australians really liked it. Since it was in a foreign language, they found it quite exotic.
The Estonians felt we were singing something more refined than usual dance songs and German-style choral pieces. The songs of related peoples had something primitively Estonian.
We started with Tormis’s Calendar Songs. There were so many wonderful vignettes, like Apple Tree.
Simplicity holds the charm. I see folk music as giving a kind of mantra—a mantra for Estonians. In Australia, of course, it’s complete exoticism—our little Estonia.

“Is there any connection between Estonian folk music and Australian life? Or with Indigenous and tribal music? Any parallels?”

No. I often say the Maori singing tradition in New Zealand is more similar to ours because they have choirs, festivals, competitions, and everything is well organized. In Australia, there’s nothing like that.
Indigenous Australian music is more drone-based, like the Estonian bagpipe. They use percussion, sticks, boomerangs, clapping, stomping. It’s more dance-related. Their mythology is perhaps the only similarity to Estonian regilaul, with repetition and a stable level—it doesn’t change.

For the Maori, the singing tradition came from missionary brothers who brought Christianity to New Zealand. Traditionally, they had a strong warrior culture encouraged by inter-tribal conflicts over resources and honor. Australian Aboriginals were nomadic, didn’t claim land ownership, and harmonized naturally with their surroundings and climate. They are very in tune with the land—an ancient culture.

Interestingly, despite the culture’s age, the music is quite simple. Perhaps mythology plays a role. They talk about “story, story time, song lines,” etc.
They have a good understanding of their land and environment. They are fully in tune with it. Urban Indigenous people are of course very different, modern, using all kinds of contemporary tools.
You pointed out interesting parallels. Estonian regilaul is often repetitive and monotonous.
Tormis brought that out beautifully! I’ve noticed that when Indigenous Australian music is orchestrated or arranged, few seem to do it properly. Tormis synthesized folk music in his works so well that it feels natural and authentic.

Of course, there are exceptions. Peter Sculthorpe, from the 1980s onward, integrated Indigenous melodies, rhythms, and instruments like the didgeridoo into his orchestral and chamber music, aiming for a distinctly Australian sound rather than simply copying traditions. Some things in pop music are also done very well.
At one point, Aboriginal people took to country music, as it allowed them to express their struggles. They were oppressed. The British claimed Australia was empty, which was false. Officially, there were issues granting Indigenous people rights; they recently even gained voting rights.
We have the great rock in central Australia, Ayers Rock, or Uluru. It was given back to the Aboriginals. Imagine—their own land, officially theirs! I remember when it was handed back, a prominent tribal leader said he was glad politicians were present and saw that we didn’t run away with the rock.
In Estonia, perhaps there hasn’t been such a struggle. But preserving, highlighting, and working with cultural heritage requires effort, just like for Aboriginal Australians. Otherwise, the language disappears, and the tradition fades.

“What do you think carries Tormis’s music forward in people’s hearts across generations?”

Hard to say. I think it mostly comes from the language itself. I saw this while caring for my mother before her death. I played with the language a lot. I did simple things with regilaul in the background, like going to the toilet or taking a shower—really silly songs. Sometimes I was joking. I wanted to make my mother laugh, though sometimes I might have annoyed her. Sometimes she understood. It fascinated me how it came naturally—I didn’t have to sit and laboriously figure it out.
It just came from using the language. I enjoyed it immensely.
Pulling my mother to the shower was heavy work, so singing somehow made the task more fun. To me, this is the practical part of folk song. There are work songs and other songs. Maybe a little humor too.
I thought a lot about it. It seemed natural—something I would never have done in English. It just came from the language; it flowed out. I also remember all the times we had fun with our group, in the Estonian community there was always a humorous vibe.

“It’s inspiring when singing gives you a drive that helps you in life, wherever you go.”

And even here in Estonia, there are good relationships. I had excellent contacts with strangers who praised my work, and I thought, this is just what Estonian culture has brought out of me. I’m not responsible for it myself. It’s something that naturally emerges. As I said, simple things contribute that you don’t even think about—like the echo in the bathroom at some point.
I’ll definitely reflect when I go home after this intense concert tour. What really happened, how I reacted to it in my heart, what it gave to others, what I learned technically, and how it contributes to my development.
These are all fascinating questions, with plenty to think about. I’m sure something good will come of it in the future.

“I hope you’ll come back soon, so we can talk again.”

Exactly. We’ll wait for the next time.

Photo: Olev Muska at Veljo Tormis's home (1992).

Interview: Olev Muska, Paula Hakkaja (August, 2025) - Veljo Tormis Virtual Centre