If you're the kind of listener who thinks a cappella music is just a bunch of folks harmonizing in a church choir, buckle up. "Ukouk: Round Singing Voices of the Ainu" by Marewrew is here to challenge everything you thought you knew about human voices, and maybe reality itself. This album isn’t just music; it’s a time-traveling portal into the rich, long-silenced world of the Ainu people from northern Japan, with an eerie, hypnotic twist that might leave you questioning whether you’re listening to an ancient ritual or avant-garde sound art.

The female vocal group Marewrew has been carrying the torch for Ainu culture in a way that is both reverent and rebellious. Their name means "butterfly" in Ainu, but don’t be fooled into expecting something delicate or fluttery here. These voices are tough, raw, and deeply connected to nature - not the domesticated kind, but the wild, unforgiving forces of earth and sea that the Ainu people have lived with for centuries. From the first track, "Honkaya (Boat Rowing Song)", which clocks in at just over a minute, you realize this is not music made to fill time or space, but to bend it. Each track feels like an invocation or a spell.

One of the album’s most striking qualities is its use of "Ukouk", the traditional Ainu form of round singing. Imagine a vocal canon, but instead of the polite elegance of, say, a Renaissance choir, you get something more akin to vocal echoes that could be mistaken for dub production - except, as the liner notes sharply point out, this is all sung live, without the magic of electronics. The voices are so tightly interwoven that it’s almost disorienting, especially on tracks like "Sikata Kuykuy (Snow Falling from a Tree)" and "Haw Sa (King of Round Singing)", which morph into spiraling, trance-like mantras that could make even the most cynical listener believe in something greater.

And while the voices are front and center, don’t let the "a cappella" tag fool you into thinking this is a stripped-down or minimalist affair. The "Ukouk" technique creates an ever-evolving sonic space that feels anything but empty. It’s like watching snowflakes fall -each one distinct, yet all contributing to a mesmerizing, shifting landscape. The result? The album draws you into its orbit, where time slips and slides, much like the rhythmic back-and-forth of the "Etukuma Kara (Dance Practice on Ice)".

The group’s mastery of dynamics is another standout feature. The album flits between moments of intimate storytelling, like the poignant "Hunpe Yan Na (A Whale Ashore)", which feels like a whispered ode to the tragic beauty of nature, and bold, ceremonial pieces like "Kanerenren (Bear Ceremony Song)", which thunders with primal energy. The emotional breadth here is staggering: one moment, you’re lulled into a soft trance by "Orouru Roahun (Lullaby)", and the next, you're hit with the intense rhythmic pulse of "Horippa (Dance Song)", which feels like it could summon gods - or at least send you into an ecstatic dance frenzy.

It's hard to talk about Marewrew without acknowledging the presence of Oki Kano, the visionary Ainu musician and producer behind the iconic Tonkori harp. Though he mainly stays behind the scenes on this release, his fingerprints are all over the album. The careful production makes sure the voices remain the focal point, but with subtle additions like nature sounds and occasional percussions that give tracks like "Yaykatekara (Wedding Song)" a surprisingly pop-like twist, or even cumbia vibes in "Kanerenren". It’s a testament to how seamlessly Ainu tradition can blend with contemporary experimentation.

However, the emotional core of the album isn’t just in the songs themselves but in the philosophy behind them. Mayunkiki, one of Marewrew’s singers, reflects on the delicate balancing act between preserving tradition and evolving it. She talks about how the group started with the idea that they had to perform “in an Ainu way”, only to discover that sticking rigidly to that concept could suffocate the very tradition they’re trying to keep alive. Their voices have changed, and so has their way of singing. It’s a poignant reminder that tradition is not a museum artifact but a living, breathing thing - capable of transformation while staying true to its roots.

The compilation nature of "Ukouk"—which spans over a decade of recordings from 2012 to 2024—offers a beautiful snapshot of this evolution. With unreleased tracks and new versions of older material mixed in with the previously released CDs ("Mottoite Hissori Ne", "Cikapuni", and "Mike Mike Nociw"), it feels less like an album and more like an evolving conversation. Tracks like "Pon Repun Kamuy (Little Orca Sea God)" and "Tacuro (Birds)", the latter of which is a delightful, whimsical mini-tribute to bird songs, are just as much about nature as they are about the human spirit, intertwining both with a deftness that’s hard to find in more self-conscious “world music” offerings.

In the end, "Ukouk" is a bold reminder that the voice - ancient, unadorned, and raw - is still one of the most powerful instruments we have. The Ainu people’s history has been one of suppression and marginalization, but Marewrew’s music speaks not just of survival but of resilience and transformation. Their voices transcend language and time, looping through centuries of cultural memory while remaining firmly rooted in the present. And isn’t that the ultimate goal of music, to transcend the boundaries of what we know while reminding us of where we’ve come from?

So, go ahead, dive into "Ukouk", but don’t expect a casual listening experience. This is a deep, spiritual dive into a world most of us have never known but should. If music can indeed “round” us, this is the sound of something ancient, alive, and beautifully cyclical.