Lucie Páchová - Крънджилица

A Closer Listen

“Do things stay the same where there are no roads?” asks Czech recording artist Lucie Páchová.  She hiked for two days to reach the abandoned Bulgarian village of Zanoga, then spent the night in the neighboring Krandzhilitsa (Крънджилица), population possibly ten; only three year-round.  Once upon a time there was a church, a school, a cultural hall, all now fallen into disrepair.  Enamored with this nearly forgotten location, the artist returned time and again to record the local sounds and stories.

“Všicko zbegalo,” says one of the residents; “everyone has gone.”  But not quite everyone.  Páchová captures the sounds of everyday life, including butter churning, off-kilter radios and many, many cowbells (or more properly, goat bells). There is much wistfulness here, but also laughter, and dignity.  Wandering into dilapidated buildings, the artist picks up makeshift instruments and uses them to prepare her zither, reviving what was once abandoned, resurrecting the life of objects.  The flies buzz, the birds tweet and somewhere in the midst of it all, someone is singing.  There’s still life here, but for how long?

It’s easy to make the comparison to COVID times, in which every land was in lockdown.  The difference is that while the sound sources are sparse, they are so on this recording not because people are sheltering in place, but because there are so few people.  The highest level of civilized activity seems beamed in from radios that (one hopes) Páchová loops – because otherwise the skipping would be another nail in the sonic coffin of the remaining residents.

A pot is boiling over in “Ven.”  As Páchová has spent the track railing on every metal object she can find, she’s likely built up an appetite.  The locals seem attuned to her presence, comfortable enough to share their thoughts.  On every visit, the tracks of the road seem more overgrown, the rust more widespread, the people even older.  Yet on this recording, Krandzhilitsa seems like a hub of activity, replete with traveling minstrels.  Do pigs like flutes?  And are they also wearing bells?

On “Na Terase,” even the dog seems asthmatic (although the cat seems okay).  Our assumption is that everyone is just hanging on.  Yet Páchová’s attention reverses the script.  To stay while others leave or die off can be seen as an act of heroism, a dedication to place.  To work when it would be easier to move seems an act of madness when it may be an act of love.

For a moment in “Venku” when the rain starts to fall, the village seems idyllic.  It’s easy to keep track of ten residents and make sure they are safe.  No one is rustling, no one is hitting anything, and even the animals seem to have hunkered down since the cowbells have stopped.  But then someone decides to ride a motorbike.  Why?  Can’t you wait?  Or perhaps it is the last resident returning home.

Soon the activity picks up again.  One cannot bear the loss of this sonic terrain.  But as the artist asks, what will happen when the last road is overgrown, when no one visits anymore and no one leaves, when the last resident fades into obscurity?  In sonic terms, this tape may be the last will and testament; we only hope it isn’t so.  (Richard Allen)