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Kömei throat-singing is an attribute of neotraditional Kazakh music that fuses the sounds of revived folk instruments with Western popular music styles. A vocal practice not historically documented among Kazakhs, kömei was introduced to Kazakhstan from the Altai region of southern Siberia at the beginning of the twenty-first century and has since been reconfigured as a national sound, emblematic of the Turkic nomadic origins of Kazakh culture and spirituality. This paper traces the history of the kömei revival in Kazakh music, asking: What forces have propelled its proliferation from a creative borrowing by one musician to a prominent feature of a local music scene? How are we to account for this new musical development that draws from a practice with no traceable roots in the indigenous culture but originating among kindred ethnic groups and claims to restore an ancient tradition in a distinctly modern format of world music creativity? In a culture replete with regional styles of epic recitation and sung poetry, what is the appeal of this imported vocal practice as a sonic icon of indigeneity? The paper examines the current global circulation of kömei discussing contesting meanings ascribed to it by musicians, scholars, and audiences in Kazakhstan and beyond. Drawing on Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1981) concept of chronotope, I argue that, by invoking a Turkic sound and spiritual world in new forms of creativity, contemporary artists strive to expand the temporal and spatial horizons of Kazakh music and thus project a vision of a nation both connected to its ancient roots and attuned to globalized modernity.

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In 1930s Soviet ballet there was a shift due to the demands of Socialist Realism to base ballets on literature, in a genre termed drama-ballet (drambalet). The trend began with ballet librettos based on classic Russian works from the nineteenth century and then, with an eye on the international stage, began adapting classics from the world literary canon. Simultaneously, while Moscow shifted its sights to the global stage with successes such as Romeo and Juliet, ballet companies of the Soviet republics followed a similar trend of adapting literary works from their own language and cultures to reach regional audiences.

Examining this trend, I propose to focus on the Georgian dancer and choreographer Vakhtang Chabukiani and three of his ballets: the first Georgian national ballet, Heart of the Mountain (Mzechabuki, Serdtse gor, 1938), Gorda (1949), and Othello (1957). I argue that Chabukiani’s ballets, noted for their blending of classical ballet and traditional Georgian folk dancing, follow a similar trajectory of the main ballet companies within the Soviet Union, the Kirov in Leningrad and the Bolshoi in Moscow, in priming audiences for ballets through the use of literature. In the 1930s many of the ballet companies of the Soviet republics were creating national ballets, utilizing musical folk motifs, folk dance, and national literature. However, due to Chabukiani’s success both as a dancer at the Kirov and as the choreographer of the production of Heart of the Mountain in Leningrad, Chabukiani at the time was the only native of his republic to be given the authority to make these creative decisions. Other republics followed the model of a Russian artistic director from Moscow or Leningrad creating a republic’s national ballet. I will examine how Georgian identity is represented and identified through these three ballets, and moreover, the international reception of Chabukiani and his works.

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D. Namdag's "Howl of the Old Wolf" (Khögshin chono ulisan ni) is a novella by the noted author written in the mid-1960s but was banned from publication due to its subversive nature. The story is about an old grizzled three-legged wolf and his life with his daughter and her mate, and their struggle to survive. Why was this novella so subversive? Understanding the history of the wolf in Mongolia, the extermination campaigns against wolves in socialist Mongolia, and Namdag's own biography is key to understanding "Howl of the Old Wolf."

Despite a pervasive popular and scholarly narrative that frames wolves as an object of spiritual reverence, the history of human-wolf relations in Mongolia is primarily antagonistic, which reached its height in socialist Mongolia's wolf extermination campaigns. Namdag's sympathetic portrayal of the wolf must be understood as flying in the face of official and popular anti-wolf sentiment. His work falls into a historical genre of wolf apologia literature, which empathizes with the suffering of the wolf, who are compared to as thieves and criminals. The old wolf who escapes traps that ensnares younger wolves is also a venerable trope in not only Mongolia but all wolf hunting countries, including the United States. Namdag's grizzled patriarch is also almost certainly an avatar for himself. He was imprisoned twice by his own government, once in 1932 Lunar New Year, the second in 1941 for alleged Nazi ties due to his education in Germany. Like the old wolf, he was persecuted by the Mongolian government and survived, but not unscathed.

Namdag's "Howl of the Old Wolf" was a banned work whose subversive nature requires a proper understanding of not just Mongolian history but specifically the history of the wolf and the pervasive anti-wolf sentiment in Mongolia. When put into the proper context, it is clear that Namdag's work was banned for equating the treatment of people like Namdag with the treatment of wolves, both of which were unacceptable to socialist censors. This helps us understand the treatment of both humans and animals in the Mongolian People's Republic.

This paper is dedicated to the memory of György Kara.