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The story of Sephardic music is as remarkable and moving as the music itself. It was for the most part kept privately in the homes of the Sephardim, those Jews exiled from Spain by the Inquisition, and is among the most purely preserved of the world's traditional musics. Most of the songs are still rooted in medieval Spain but display vivid splashes of influence from the Sephardim's newer homes in Turkey, Greece, North Africa, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe. And always, at their heart, whether buoyant wedding song or sad romance, they are Jewish. For 19 years, the locally based Voice of the Turtle quartet
has been As artistic director Judith Wachs said, the group had much to celebrate. With the new release of ''Full Circle'' on the Titanic label, it has completed an epic five-CD series called ''Paths of Exile,'' tracing the resettlement of the Sephardim, who were welcomed to the vast Ottoman Empire after their expulsion from Spain. With a dizzying array of traditional wind, stringed, and percussive instruments, they wedded one tune to another, sounding mysteriously Turkish or Balkan one moment, then medieval and Spanish, only to conclude in cascading lines that were unmistakably Jewish, almost cantorial in sound. Wachs was a charming tour guide, confiding the band's inside jokes, and amusingly claiming her record plugs were in response to some imaginary audience query. Her playing always found the song's guiding emotion, whether the lonely whisper of her recorder, or her saucy quacking on the ancient chalumeau to a comical wife's lament. Derek Burrows was an animated treat, whether wailing a piercing recorder solo or on his knees clanging percussion bells. His rich baritone was a blend of sinewy musicality and masculine puff on an eyebrow-wiggling flirtation and the bittersweet lament that followed it. Each soloist cleverly recited in English just enough of the Ladino, or Judeo-Spanish, lyrics to provide emotional context. Jay Rosenburg read the first stanza of a young soldier's farewell song, for example, making the false pluck and soft sobs in his singing wrenchingly understandable. Lisle Kulbach's warm mezzo was captivating on a wistful love song collected from Sarajevo, but rooted in medieval Spanish ballads that were kept by Sephardic women as lullabies. She also had a grand way of making her violin sound like a raw, homemade instrument for low, rhythmic pulsing, then opening it into high, sweet lines. None are masters of their many ancient instruments, but all are sturdy, graceful players, well able to serve their intent to bring the song center stage. Through their austere virtuosity, the complex emotions and raw, ancient beauty of the melodies were exquisitely displayed. It would have been nice to hear a bit more of the Sephardim's long journey, of how and why these songs were preserved. But as the concert ended in a wildly joyful Hanukkah song that left Spain 500 years ago and had survived ever since in Turkey, it was difficult to argue with Voice of the Turtle's abiding belief that these songs can speak for themselves. This story ran on page C05 of the Boston Globe on 12/22/97.
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