The Haizebegi Festival comes to a spectacular close, fueled by the energy of Basque music and song. The stage is set for Julen Achiary and his quartet Haratago, singer Maddi Oihenart, and the duo Kimu Txalaparta. It’s a concert that impresses with its intensity and deep-rooted authenticity. The day before the concert, Julen Achiary shares his artistic vision.
— As a composer, instrumentalist, and singer, you perform the “basa ahaide,” a traditional Basque song. Can you tell us what this type of song is?
Julen Achiary: “Ahaide” is the Basque word for “air” or “melody.” “Basa” is quite difficult to translate into French because it refers to the wild world—not in a pejorative sense, but more like “wilderness” in English. The “basa ahaide” is therefore a song meant to connect with this wild world—an ancestral song that’s hard to date. It has been passed down from shepherd to shepherd in a small Pyrenean valley called Soule. It’s the easternmost and most mountainous of France’s provinces, a summer pasture region where shepherds graze their flocks during the summer.
— How did you come to inherit the tradition of these songs?
Julen Achiary: I come from a family of musicians; my father is a singer. I’ve always been immersed in the world of traditions that are still very much alive in the Basque Country, and I’ve been quite fortunate to be constantly surrounded by singers. Maddi Oihenart, with whom we’re performing at the Haizebegi Festival, is one of the singers I’ve been listening to since I was a child. She’s one of my mentors, so to speak. The tradition was passed down to me first and foremost through listening and soaking it all in, surrounded by many singers. Little by little, I made this repertoire my own. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Later, I decided to form the Haratago Quartet in order to present the basa ahaide in a new form, adapted to the world of music and live performance. Because, originally, this singing is done for oneself and those around us. To present it in concert, we had to find a new form for it, create an entirely new imaginary world—a landscape of sounds and instruments.
— You're a singer and percussionist. What percussion instruments do you play?
Julen Achiary: A wide variety of percussion instruments. I’m a drummer, and I also play percussion instruments from the Caucasus. They’re called nagara in Azerbaijani, dohol in Armenian, doli in Georgian… It’s a family of drums that you play with your fingers and hands. I also play a small frame drum called a daf or daïr.
— This concert is a collaborative event. It features Haratago, your quartet, the Kimu Txalaparta duo, and singer Maddi Oihenart. How did it come together?
Julen Achiary: For Haratago, I asked some friends to join the project—first because of the human connection, but also because they’re improvisers. I wanted something based on musical dialogue. Haratago brings together Nicolas Najot, who is a fabulous clarinetist and doudouk player; Bastien Fantani, who plays the hurdy-gurdy and the banjo; and Jordi Cassagne, who plays the violone and the double bass in the viola da gamba family.
For this concert, Maddi Oihenart, a truly great singer from Soule, will be joining us, along with a txalaparta duo. More than just an instrument, the txalaparta is a form of music born from the dialogue between two musicians. The txalaparta doesn’t exist if you’re alone. It takes two, and the third element is silence. It’s a constant dialogue between two percussionists who strike wooden planks vertically. It’s an extraordinary form of music found only in the Basque Country. More than just an instrument or a form of music, it’s like a philosophy or a way of life.
— Haratago means “beyond.” Why did you choose that name, and what does it bring to mind for you?
Julen Achiary: Basque is an amazing language. Like Turkish or German, you add suffixes to a word and it changes the meaning. “Harat” means “over there,” and “ago” means “further over there.” We use this word to mean “more over there,” “beyond,” or “further away,” and it applies both literally and figuratively. Haratago sets the basa ahaide in motion. We draw a lot of inspiration from Caucasian musical traditions: the structure of long pieces that alternate between sections of long, rubato, unrhythmic singing and rhythmic, dance-like moments. In composing certain pieces, we’ve drawn heavily on this modal structure.
— Haratago’s repertoire straddles the line between tradition and creativity. Is there a balance between the two, given the concern that too much tradition might stifle creativity, or, conversely, that too much creativity might distort tradition?
Julen Achiary: For me, there’s no line between invention and tradition. We’re always reinventing—even with an old song; every time we reinterpret it, we reinvent it and bring it to life anew. Even when it comes to things we didn’t create ourselves, we can still talk about invention and reinvention. For a tradition to live on, it also needs renewal. What is called “traditional” was, in fact, invented… For me, it’s more a way of experiencing things—of inventing them, of reinventing them—but in a way that’s deeply rooted. Because we can’t just do whatever we want. I’m talking more about grounding, roots, and cycles. The great Basque poet Joxean Artze, who also reinvented the txalaparta, wrote the poem *From the Old Spring*: “Iturri zaharretik edaten dut / Ur berria edaten / beti berri den ura / betiko iturri zaharretik.” ” In English: “I drink from the old spring / New water / Water that is always new / From the ever-old spring.” It’s this idea of a cycle, of the relationship between invention and tradition—a virtuous circle. And if there is no more invention, there will be no more tradition either.
— You are the artistic director of Erobiko Festibala, a festival that promotes diversity and cultural exchange. In the introductory editorial, you quote the Martinican poet, novelist, and philosopher Édouard Glissant: “We can change through interaction with others, without losing ourselves in the process.” What does that mean to you?
Julen Achiary: This is one of the most representative statements of what is known as the relationship to creolization. These philosophers drew on their Caribbean Creole roots in their thinking. Their ancestors were deported from Africa; they found themselves in the holds of ships, chained together, with people who could not understand one another. They call this chaos. They start from this idea of creation emerging from chaos and from people who do not understand one another. The idea is, broadly speaking, to extend this observation—this way of thinking—to everything: where does otherness begin? The idea is that we can enter into relationships with others with an open heart, and of course this relationship will change us, but we will remain ourselves. It’s about reaching out to others without fear. And here in the Basque Country, this is an important way of thinking to cultivate, because we live in a rather oppressed culture—France is a nationalist country that has colonized its regions—and the danger lies in turning inward, in retreating into one’s own identity. I think we can nurture our roots, but also extend our branches to reach out to others. It’s a way of saying that we remain true to ourselves, but that living alongside others is essential. That’s what I try to live out and explore through music, poetry, and thought.
Interview by Marie Le Diraison
See: Haratago, filmed in June 2022 at the Fenil de Xorho in Idaux Mendy, Basque Country. This film is part of the TERRITOIRES collection—a film archive of the music of France.
