To hear Estonian accordionist Tuulikki Bartosik play is to bear witness to a manifold, wordless discourse on space, time and wonder. It is to fall, deeply enthralled, into a story of song and sea, laughing light, whispering leaf and unexpected, heart-wrenching tempest. Most of all, it is to find yourself quietly, electrifyingly alive in the present moment.

But, let us rewind a few years. It’s 2018 and I am sitting at a picnic table, surrounded by birdsong and the lush green of summer on the island of Ruhnu, Estonia. Unlike it’s sister island—Kihnu, the so-called ‘Isle of Women,’ who have, in fact, traditionally made up the majority of the island’s inhabitants for generations, and who maintain its’ way of life, dress and culture to this day—Ruhnu is not so well known, outside of Estonia. However, it is no less captivating, overflowing with fascinating cultural heritage and breathtaking beauty. Just a short walk up the hill from where I sit is St. Madeline’s Church—the oldest known wooden building still standing in Estonia. Two meters away, towering over St. Madeline’s, is the (comparatively) new stone church which was consecrated in 1912 and where mass is actually held, now. The inhabitants of Ruhnu are few, during the year—numbering somewhere between 50 and 100. These take turns sharing local responsibilities and the daily upkeep and maintenance of the island. In this magic place, there is a deep love for the history and traditionally quiet way of life, and there are some who want to celebrate and share this with the world.

A few weeks prior, I had been attending the Viru Folk festival in Käsmu, as my friend Irena’s guest/assistant, helping to run her coffee van, where she makes some of the best espresso I have ever tasted. Saturday night, we are invited to join in a jam session after the evening’s festivities have died down. At some point, it is my turn to sing a song and afterwards, a stunning blond woman (who’s violin playing has had me captivated all evening) asks if I am free in two weekends, to play at a small festival. She tells me the festival, called RuhnuRahu, is in it’s third year and is held on an island. What I didn’t know at the time was that the violin player I was speaking to was none other than Karolina Kreintaal, head of traditional and folk music studies at the Estonian Academy of Music, a brilliant photographer and one of the best violinists in the country. She also happens to be passionate about the preservation and sharing of Ruhnu’s fantastic musical heritage, which are unlike anywhere else in Estonia, due to the island’s mixed history with Sweden, Russia, Germany, Estonia and it’s proximity to Latvia.

The night before the festival, our ferry is canceled due to a massive storm and unsafe sailing conditions. So, early that morning, festival participants and attendees cram onto the ferry to take the windy, bumpy ride out to the island. When we arrive, the rising sun paints the trees with an otherworldly glow and the serenity of the island is palpable. Sleep-deprived and nervous, I have no idea who I am supposed to meet, where I am to go or when I am expected to perform, but eventually (trying not to desperately cling to Karolina), I make my way up to the top of the hill, with everyone else. There, I am met by a well-dressed, smiling man in a light suit. He informs me his name is Martin. He is the festival director and kindly thanks me for being there. He offers me a place at a large wooden picnic table outside a beautifully made log house.

“It’s Tuulikki’s birthday,” he informs me. “So we made pancakes. You are welcome to join us.”

Then he disappears. There are children running around, playing, and a young girl is sitting at the table, drawing. I have absolutely no idea who Tuulikki is and I feel quite nervous with all the new faces and my lack of Estonian. I begin to squirm and have the momentary urge to flee into the trees. But just then, a striking woman clad all in cobalt blues and crimson—wearing what I can only describe as some sort of silk kimono—appears out of the massively tall grasses and seats herself across from me. She looks like she has stepped out of an art gallery.

“I’m Tuulikki,” she says.

She offers me some of the pancakes and homemade jam and we strike up a conversation. As we talk, she takes up some of the crayons scattered across the table and begins to draw a picture of flowers. I mention that I am thinking of applying to the Sibelius Academy in Finland, and she informs me that she studied there, in one of the earlier stages of their folk music program. She explains that she lives approximately half the year in Sweden and travels all over the Nordic countries, collaborating with various artists. At some point, the young girl whispers to her and runs inside. Tuulikki also disappears, leaving me alone at the table. But a few moments later, I hear the sound of an accordion. At the far end of the house, on the deck, I can just make out two figures. Tuulikki, sitting next to the young girl who also has a small accordion, is watching and nodding. Then she begins to play a beautiful duet with the girl and, though it is apparent from the first strains that this woman is a master of her craft, there is nothing showy in it—just ease and joy, as though the accordion were an extension of her body.

It’s hard to know how to articulate this well, but I will try. I have visited a handful of countries who have known Soviet occupation. In these places, I was repeatedly struck by a sort of unspoken understanding that we all help one another to survive hardship and make ends meet. But, while in many of the these countries I have also experienced a simultaneous feeling of defeat and a tenacious undercurrent of cynicism in the underbelly of many conversations, in Estonia I found instead an overwhelming feeling of perseverance and hope. Perhaps I am making this all up in my mind. It’s possible. But, perhaps it is because, as a region and a culture, Estonians are so uniquely tied to and surrounded by nature and music plays such a quintessential part of their lives.

In case you didn’t know, in 1987, Estonia was the first country to actively defy the Soviet Union by gathering together to sing banned patriotic songs. Against what had been a massively violent occupation, this protest was a peaceful form of defiance, which later came to be known as The Singing Revolution and resulted in Estonia’s eventual independence, in 1991. Today, Estonia has one of the largest collections of written folk songs in Europe and continues to celebrate their independence every year with massive singing celebrations, where participants number in the hundreds of thousands. Of course, there’s so much more to it than that—but that is for a later episode, and another time.

What I do want to say, though, is that this deep-seated feeling of hope and promise, of possibility and wonder—whether cultural or personal—lies at the heart of Tuulikki’s music, and most especially, the breathtaking experience of her live performance. In these moments, one cannot help but smile at the exuberance she brings to the stage. In her unexpected and imaginative work, she manages to capture that subtle honesty of nature; the stillness of the air as dawn is breaking in a forest or field; the sea crashing upon the shore in a ceaseless, miraculous dance. To hear Tuuliiki Barosik plays to be transported.

Some weeks later, as I (reluctantly) board the plane that will take me back to the states, I find the image of Tuulikki and the young girl—two distant figures with the sun pouring through the trees behind them—still bright in my mind, and I smile at the quiet gentleness of it all. Just then, one of the songs from Upa Upa Ubinakõnõ, by the amazing Estonian artist, Mari Kalkun. I have been listening to this album all summer, and suddenly I realize that the accordion on this particular track sounds uncannily familiar. Sure enough, it is Tuulikki Bartosik playing. I immediately message her and let her know how embarrassed I am for not putting two-and-two together sooner. She just laughs and suggests we should play music together, next time I am in Estonia.

The interview I conducted with Tuulikki Bartosik took place back in October of 2020, when her album Tempest In A Teapot  was just coming out. As readers of Folkworks, you are welcome to watch the uncut video version of our interview, here. Since then, Tullikki has released Fýri (an EP recorded in the forest of Lahemaa National Park) and Robertsfors, which came out in January of this year and is the first single in a forthcoming album, signifying a huge shift in her music. Below, I also thought I would share with you the video from her most recently filmed live concert. In this performance, she plays through the four tracks of Fýri, finishing with one of my favorite pieces, called Coming Home. Tuulikki wrote Coming Home after reading a story about sixteen brave Estonians who took a small sailing boat across the Atlantic, to America, in hopes of finding a new home. They succeeded and, as of today, three are still alive in the US.

 

This month’s FOLKING episode is set to air in the first week of February. If you enjoy the podcast, please consider rating/reviewing it on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or PodcastGuru, or sharing it with friends and on social media. You can support the podcast and my work by heading to patreon.com/songfordarktimes and becoming a patron and you can follow Tuulikki’s work at her website, Tuulikkibartosik.com.