When jazz slinks into the embrace of Siberian folklore, something extraordinary happens—like vodka poured over a crackling campfire. Ekaterina Ungvari, a singer with the soul of a philologist and the voice of a midnight blizzard, has stitched together her latest album, "Siberian Songs", from threads of tradition and rebellion.
Ungvari’s music is a shapeshifter—part lullaby, part tempest. Her septet, a coven of virtuosos, breathes life into melodies that twist like river ice in spring. "We’re thieves," she admits with a grin, "stealing fire from folklore and repaying it with jazz." The album’s opener, "Zorka", is a lovesick incantation; "Viyuga" rattles like a troika through a snowstorm. By the time "Severnaya" arrives, the listener is spellbound—a willing captive to Ungvari’s sonic sorcery.
Raised on her grandmother’s knee with folk tales humming in her veins, Ungvari once dismissed traditional music as "museums in sound." But motherhood rewired her. "Singing lullabies to my children," she reflects, "I realized these songs are wolves in sheep’s clothing—quiet until they bare their teeth." Her "Summertime" epiphany—linking Gershwin to Slavic cradle songs—ignited the album’s spark.
This isn’t revivalism—it’s alchemy. Ungvari and her guitarist husband Matvey Baydikov treat tradition like a borrowed coat, lining it with dissonant harmonies and pockets full of rock grit. "Folklore isn’t a relic," she insists. "It’s a shapeshifter—just like jazz."
Find the album where streaming platforms whisper secrets. As for Ungvari? She’ll be somewhere between a Siberian hearth and a Moscow jazz cellar—reinventing roots one note at a time.
