The Memory of the Echo

Spaces, Places and Resonance – A Bridge Across Time

Echoes of the Ancient 2024–2026

Eero Peltonen

Runosinger | Heritage Educator | Voicework Teacher

The Birth of the Project
– Strange Sounds on the Shore of Kermajärvi

It is a July evening in 2023. Heinävesi Ancient Week is culminating in a concert at which I have also been invited to perform. Accompanied by a drum, I sing the Tuvan song Kongurei, releasing overtones into the air. Lake Kermajärvi gleams in front of the stage. I also perform an incantation about the birth of fire. In the still summer evening, musician Harri Loiva is walking along the lakeside road. His attention is caught by my baritone voice, echoing into a loud, disjointed cacophony. Harri keeps walking, and suddenly all the sounds fall perfectly into place. A perfect harmony is born. The experience is transcendent. There is something familiar about it, and soon Harri recalls the soundscape of Pink Floyd’s concert at the amphitheatre in Pompeii.

Kati Paananen, vice-chair of the Heinävesi Ancient Society, recognises the value of the experience and proposes a project built around it. Chair Mikko Keinonen wastes no time in taking action and starts contacting musician friends both in Finland and abroad. The reception is enthusiastic, and thus the Echoes of the Ancient project begins to take shape. However, the society needs two partners to qualify for EU funding. I suggest the cultural centre “Lauska” from Latvia, whose project managers Daina Zalāne and Juris Zalāns are good friends of mine. I reach out to them, and Lauska joins the initiative, bringing in Carlos Norton and Fungo Azul from Portugal. With this, the framework of the project comes together, and eventually co-funding from the EU’s Creative Europe programme is successfully secured.

The Wonder of Overtones
– Singing Telephone Wires and Sounding Winds

My journey towards the Echoes of the Ancient project began back in childhood. I grew up in a village called Porraskoski, which belonged to Lammi parish. Even before school age, I liked to walk to the centre of my village. One clear winter day, I heard a strange sound coming from the yard of one of the houses. The sound was high and chirring, like a grasshopper’s. I was shy about stepping into the yard, but the sound drew me in. Eventually, I traced the sound to the telephone wires – covered in snow and tuned by the frost – and stayed to listen, spellbound. I still carry that experience with me. Now, I will share where that moment has led me in the wondrous world of sounds, echoes, and resonances.

A significant connection with that experience emerged in the late 1980s at the Kaustinen Folk Music Festival. There, I went to a concert, knowing only that Mongolian folk music was on the programme. Right at the beginning of the concert, I had to figure out where the performers’ incredibly high, arrow-sharp and steely tones were coming from and how it was possible to produce them. I noticed that the men made their low fundamental tones inaudible while at the same time “playing” folk song melodies with high, tin-whistle-like sounds. That experience propelled me into the fascinating world of throat singing and overtones.

I also experienced a major musical awakening in 1992, when I studied harmonic singing under the guidance of Professor Iegor Reznikoff at the Lay Academy of Valamo Monastery. He taught us to locate vowels and chords within our bodies and to follow them with the movements of our hands. Through this, I gained a deeper understanding of the voice and learned to hear and sing overtones.

I later put this skill to use during a visit to Scotland, where I climbed a mountain to a height of about one kilometre. The experience was breathtaking: I was at cloud level, and a brisk wind was ushering rafts of mist that occasionally shrouded the mountaintop. I decided to try generating overtones with the help of the wind. I started turning my head and managed to find a position where, by opening and closing my mouth, I was able to create overtones. I have since used this technique many times while riding my bicycle in windy weather. I simply turn my head to the right angle relative to the wind and make music with it.

Space, Sound and Resonance – Experiences in a Crypt and Caves

I have always liked travelling and getting to know different cultures. Over the years, quite a collection of records has accumulated. I found one particularly important CD in a Dublin record shop, titled Ceol Reoite – Music for the Millennium. On it, 14 composers each dedicate a composition to a historical site of their choice in Ireland. Through the recording, I realised how old buildings and sacred places have their own distinctive acoustics that deserve to be heard. This realisation inspired me to explore the connection between space, place, time, and sound.

Liam Lawton’s composition is titled Heaven’s Door, and it is dedicated to Jerpoint Abbey. He describes his walk through the ruins of the monastery: “An ancient song echoes time and again across the centuries. Its stone carries the memory of times past: the ancient sacred space lives in the present and is transmitted to the future.” Charlie Lennon dedicated his composition to a unique archaeological site called Céide Fields. There, the peat has preserved fields, tombs, and signs of settlement from nearly 6,000 years ago. Lennon also premiered his piece amidst this ancient landscape.

In 1993, I was studying a form of psychology based on Jungian theory in Zurich. One day, my path led me to the Grossmünster church. In its oldest part, the crypt, I immediately noticed the exceptional acoustics. Thrilled, I began to sing the Gregorian chant ”So the Trees Sing”, which I had learned from Iegor Reznikoff. The reverberation, however, was so powerful that I had to slow down my singing. I also began to leave pauses between the verses. Eventually, I found a rhythm where I could join the ancient soundscape of the crypt. In this way, I learned to understand more about the interaction between sound and space.

In 1997, I attended a psychology conference in India, during which we visited the Elephanta Caves on an island near Mumbai. As I stepped into one of the large caves, a Polish friend of mine appeared in front of me and said, ”Eero, there is something here you need to see.” And so, he escorted me to a small, nearly circular chamber inside the cave. I explored the acoustics of that rock-cut chamber, testing how it responded to my voice at various pitches and volumes. To my amazement, the space amplified the faintest sounds the most—such as humming, whispering, or breathing. Just as astonishingly, it responded to loud sounds by dampening them. I became convinced that this chamber, along with a few others nearby, had been designed and crafted for meditation, breath awareness, and the quiet chanting of prayers.

The Sounding Landscape
– Echoes of Juojärvi, Koli, and Northern Finland

I became fascinated by the soundscapes of nature during Iegor Reznikoff’s course at Valamo Monastery. One calm evening, Iegor wanted to test the echo and asked me to row for him. We walked down to the shore of Lake Juojärvi and set off. Iegor showed me how a resonant sound is produced over two syllables: the first syllable prepares for the second, which is higher and sharper, catapulting out of the mouth. He told me that he had once counted as many as 12 echoes on Juojärvi—more than anywhere else. That evening we heard seven echoes, and even that sounded magnificent. A cuckoo also answered our calls, and Iegor was delighted to notice that the pitch of its calling matched our own.

Iegor Reznikoff is also one of the pioneers of archaeoacoustics. In 1983, the French archaeologist Michel Dauvois got interested in a recording Reznikoff had made in a twelfth-century monastery. Dauvois invited Reznikoff to study prehistoric caves in southern France. By singing and humming, they researched the resonance of the caves and discovered that paintings and markings were concentrated in the most strongly resonant locations. Sound, therefore, seemed to guide where the images were painted.

This observation inspired archaeologist Riitta Rainio and her team to research the acoustics of the rock paintings at Värikallio in Suomussalmi and Julma-Ölkky in Kuusamo, as well as the Taatsi seita sites in Kittilä. The steep gorge lakes at these sites are usually quite windless. Amid the silence, people mostly hear the sounds they produce themselves—such as the clatter of a boat, the splash of oars, and quiet speech. In their article Nauravat kalliot (“The Laughing Cliffs”), the team describes how “the tree branches rustling on the edge of the cliffs, the tree trunks cracking in the freezing cold, the singing birds, and other signs of life all seem far away, as if in another world.”

According to the article, quiet conversation, laughter, or footsteps at Värikallio seemed to emanate directly from the painted figures of elks and humans, and it felt as though the images were coming to life. These acoustic reflections could be heard simultaneously from two directions: the original sound source and the rock. They were audible if the listener was positioned at the right angle relative to both the sound source and the rock face.

About five years ago, I visited Taatsinkirkko in Kittilä during the winter. However, I could only test the echo from the top edge of the gorge —there was no way to go down and use the resonance of the cliff wall. The snow also dampened my voice. Even so, this sacred site echoed powerfully. Samuli Paulaharju wrote in 1932: “Water runs there and drips, and it catches an echo as if someone were preaching there. It is like a room.” He also describes why seita prayers were sung there: “Because it boomed, that is why they sang there.”

These observations make me think about how silence was the normal undertone of life in village communities and wilderness areas, even as recently as my grandparents’ time. The silence helped people hear even the smallest sounds—such as drops of water falling, trees creaking against one another, or the distant cry of a loon. The natural light and physical labour also helped people sense their bodily needs and the sounds of the environment.

We experienced this kind of listening wonder recently when a friend and I were running a workshop in Koli. At Ukko-Koli, I introduced an exercise where participants searched for a place where their inner and outer worlds could resonate with each other. I found my own spot quickly: it was filled with green moss, with the bedrock of Akka-Koli right behind me. Suddenly, I became aware of a strange sensation—in the absolute stillness of the air, I could hear all the sounds and speech distinctly from all directions. About 50 metres away, a guide arrived with a tour group. I saw them partially through the trees, but it sounded as if the guide was speaking into a microphone, and her voice came through a loudspeaker. A deeply moving moment was when the group burst into song in that natural amphitheatre, singing the familiar Finnish folk song ”Karjalan kunnailla”.

Shared Voices
– Moon Echoes and Wandering Songs

During the years of the Echoes of the Ancient project (2024–2026), we Finns have had the opportunity to share and seek ancestral echoes together with our Latvian, Portuguese and other international friends. The project has opened up new ways to make music, listen to and record sounds and soundscapes. It has given us the courage to combine musical styles, improvise and experiment. My own role in the project has been wide-ranging. I have performed, lectured, developed ideas, led workshops and built international connections. So many fun, exciting, moving and insightful moments will live on with me – and I know they will with many others as well.

In the spring of 2025 in Heinävesi, the project delivered an unforgettable moment. At the Sister Moon event, sound artist Martine-Nicole Rojina, based in Mauritius, set up a moonbounce connection to the Dwingeloo radio telescope in the Netherlands. We had about 2.5 seconds at a time to speak or sing our message to the Moon. Naturally, I sang a song in Finnish – by Kari Peitsamo: “Kuu, pidä hyvää…” (Moon, take good…). It was magical to hear my own voice return from the surface of the Moon straight into my headphones. I continued singing: “…huolta veljestäsi…” (…care of your brother…). And again, the Moon answered. In this way, phrase by phrase, I dedicated the first verse to the Moon.

It was also thrilling to witness how an underwater microphone captured the music and singing. I saw a hydrophone for the first time in Portugal, when Vasko Gonçalves Ribeiro made recordings on the bank of a small, flowing river, both above and below the water’s surface. I also vividly recall our Latvian sound recordist Kaspars Bārbals walking down the path toward the river while playing the bagpipes. A few days later, he ”had to” leave us to travel back to Riga, where he received a decoration from the president for preserving the country’s cultural heritage.

Last year during Heinävesi Ancient Week, Patrick Tubin McGinley, based in Estonia, used the hydrophone at the Stone Age dwelling site of Hiekkaniemi on Lake Suurijärvi. It was a strange sight: we lay down to sing with our heads right at the water’s edge. It was fascinating to hear our own voices in real time through the hydrophone, as part of the underwater soundscape.

A year earlier, musicians Minna Hokka and Joakim Berghäll had waded into the shallow water at Hiekkaniemi to begin a musical dialogue. Minna’s birchbark horn and Joakim’s saxophone created an echo and a soundscape where antiquity and the modern world joyfully joined hands. At one point, singer Anna Fält joined the fun with her high-pitched calls, which travelled far along the shores of the lake.

And the next memory is also connected to water. Our international group was spending the evening on the sauna dock of our host, Mikko Keinonen. The recordings for the day were already finished. We sang, laughed, and admired the calm surface of Kermajärvi and the setting sun. After a while, we noticed that the vocal group Saucējas went out for a row on the lake. They sang songs from Georgia and their homeland, Latvia. The boat drifted slowly in the summer evening, and the water carried the incredibly beautiful, polyphonic singing of these women. The moment was unique, and everything in life felt just right.

The Forest Answers
– The Resonance of Nature and Human Beings

Our ancestors knew that when you call out to the forest, it will answer. A Finnish folk song says the same: ”Dark forest, bright sky, they hear my troubles.” It is all about interaction — sharing experiences, feelings, and thoughts—giving and receiving.

This modern definition of awareness expresses the same idea: “It seems that there is something in the universe that is trying to become aware of itself by using mirrors.” I can’t remember who said that, but its message may shed light on why echo and resonance have always been so important. To me, it also explains why we learn so much about ourselves by being connected to nature and one another.

It is October 2026, and the Echoes of the Ancient project is drawing to a close. For two years, our international team has explored and recorded sounds, echoes, and songs in Portugal, Latvia, and Finland—moving along rocky hills, lake shores, and flowing waters, through old forests and sacred natural places. Through our recorders and cameras, and within our hearts, we have captured ancient echoes, strange sounds, and the living music of trees, waters, stones, and caves. May this creative spirit live on strongly, and may the project’s documents, lessons, and insights echo far, far, far into the distance…

My journey into the world of sounds began with the singing telephone wires of my home village. Even now, I have not managed to grasp the essence of their song, nor have I been able to join my own voice with the pervasive chirring of the wires. Perhaps the essence of the experience remains a mystery – somewhere beyond the reach of my senses. And though my childhood telephone wires have long since disappeared, I will always recall how they sounded — and keep on listening…

Right now, I am enriched by an Ingrian folk poem from Akuliina Nikolajevna, which Eino Räikkönen recorded in Lempaala in 1917 (SKVR V2 306). In the poem, Akuliina mentions Larin Paraske, the runosinging master of the parish. She describes how groves, deep forests, and sandy shores echo with the sounds of the woods, the singing of birds, and life itself—bringing comfort to a weary soul in the midst of trouble.

Laulo Larin Paraske,
Lettiniska leuhuttelj:
Lintu laulo, lehto liekku,
Soi metsä, kaiku korpi,
Käki kukku, maa kumaji,
Heläjeli hiekkaranta
Miun vaivasen vastahain,
Kohtahain kova-osaisen.

In English:

Larin Paraske sang,
Her braided hair tossing:
The bird sang, the grove swayed,
The forest rang, the wilderness echoed,
The cuckoo called, the earth boomed,
The sandy shore chimed
To welcome me, a weary soul,
To meet me, the ill-fated one.