Call of the Valley — Listening as Landscape (2012)

Rafi Mercer
2026-02-06T09:52:49+00:00

Call of the Valley is the kind of record that settles rather than announces itself. On a quiet Friday morning, it feels less like an album and more like a landscape opening slowly — santoor notes drifting, vocals moving with the patience of tradition, rhythm carried by footsteps rather than force. Nothing here is in a hurry. The music waits, listens back, and invites you to do the same.

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A gentle, grounded record that treats listening as a way of entering place rather than consuming sound.

By Rafi Mercer

Friday morning is a good time for this album. The week has softened, the noise has thinned, and Call of the Valley arrives without urgency. It doesn’t ask for attention — it earns it slowly, through patience, restraint, and an almost geographical sense of time.

This is music shaped by land. Kashmir is not invoked theatrically here, nor romanticised into postcard imagery. Instead, it’s felt in the pacing of the melodies, the way phrases rise and fall like footpaths rather than crescendos. The santoor work of Rahul Sharma is central to that feeling. Notes are allowed to breathe, to decay naturally, to blur into one another. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is forced to resolve too quickly.

Vocally, Chintoo Singh Wasir carries something older than performance. These are songs that feel inherited rather than authored — pastoral, devotional, shaped by repetition and memory. The voice doesn’t dominate the music; it moves within it, like a figure crossing a wide landscape rather than standing at its centre.

There is rhythm here, but it is walked rather than struck. Percussion feels hand-led, human, almost incidental — a reminder that this music comes from movement, from people travelling, tending, listening as they go. Tracks such as Nomads in the Valley unfold with a cinematic quality, yet the drama is entirely internal. The power comes from stillness, from how little is added rather than how much.

What’s most striking is the album’s refusal to modernise for effect. Call of the Valley isn’t a fusion record, and it isn’t nostalgic either. It sits somewhere quieter: tradition presented with clarity, respect, and enough space for the listener to step inside. That’s why it feels so suited to an unhurried morning — it aligns itself with your breathing rather than your schedule.

This is not music for distraction. It’s music for orientation. You don’t finish the record feeling entertained; you finish it feeling placed — gently reminded that listening can still be a form of arrival.