Paul was a force of nature. He was my Tuvan throatsinging teacher and one of the major mentoring forces in my musical life, along with Rick Fielding.

If you'll forgive me a little sentimental storytelling, I want tell about a time in which I was priviledged to stand at a crossroads with one hand on the shoulder of each of these two wonderful men.

Rick had been an important person in my life, personally and musically. It was very tough to let him go. In the last few months of his life I was studying Tuvan throatsinging with Paul Pena, and recording tracks for my album Dance To Your Shadow.

As Rick slipped away, Paul listened to much of my sadness about his passing, and sympathized with my feelings of loss. He taught me a song in Tuvan called Eshten Charlyyry Berge-- It's Hard To Lose A Friend. It is a beautiful piece of a cappella from the Tuvan tradition, full of deep emotion and powerful sounds. Paul had recorded it on his album Genghis Blues with Kongar-Al Ondar (also known as K.O.) and Paul said if I wanted to put it on my album he would record it again with me in honor of Rick.

I wanted very much to do this song. I had been invited to perform at Rick's memorial concert, produced in Toronto a few weeks after his death. In addition to singing pieces that Rick I had done together, I wanted very much to perform Eshten Charlyyry Berge there, because I knew Rick would have loved it.

About that time Paul introduced me to members of Huun Huur Tu, the wonderful group of Tuvan throatsingers, and I spent several days with them during one of their tours of California. As I worked with them on the music Paul had been teaching, one of the things I wanted to do was to make sure I was respecting traditions of Tuvan throat singing as I learned. Although the sounds of throat singing are first heard by babies when their mothers sing lullabies to them, women are not allowed to perform certain types of throat singing publicly in Tuva. Whether or not I believe that tradition to be fair or correct, as a person singing te traditions of another culture I felt it was important to be respectful of the wishes of tradition bearers who worked with me on their music.

I asked about which songs it would be permissable for me to record and perform publicly. They gave me a list of examples, and specific songs that I could record. They even shared material with me from field recordings they had made in Tuva that I could include on my CD. But in no way was I allowed to make the sounds of xoomei, or to sing Eshten Charlyyry Berge, it was not appropriate. We discussed it extensively (through an interpreter) over many, many beers-- but the answer was final. No.

I was shocked and disappointed in many ways. Over the next few weeks I wrestled hard with the ethics of voluntarily supporting a cultural prohibition with which I fundamentally disagreed. I wrote to a couple of the women singers of Tuva who have stepped into the public eye and made a name for themselves by performing and recording their music internationally. But in the end, out of respect for the wishes of those teachers who shared their tradition with me, I did not include this beautiful song in my CD, or the concert for Rick. I sang the song for Rick, but only when I was alone or with Paul.

Paul told me he would support either decision I made, and record it with me if I wanted him to, and I was grateful to him for that. On the day that I told him I decided not to record or perform anything prohibited for women in Tuva, Paul asked me another pivotal question in my life-- he asked if I had ever heard of Inuit throat singing. I had not.

"What you need to do is go and study Inuit throat singing." He laughed. "The whole thing is done by women. They wouldn't tell you it's not your place, they'd say it's not MY place!"

I was intrigued. Paul spent the next couple of hours explaining the differences between the two throatsinging styles, and ended with exactly the type of "Now go and do it" speech Rick loved to give--

"You need to go there." Paul said. "You need to find somebody to teach you that mouth music. I'm serious, you should just find a way to do it."

Yeah, right, I thought. I'm gonna go there. It's at the top of the stinkin' world, and I'm gonna just go there. He's crazy. Five months later I was on a plane to Baffin Island, to live in an Inuit village and study throat singing with Madeleine Allakariallak. I owe a lot of that album, and my approach to research, to Paul Pena.

The thing is, it's pretty hard to argue with a man like Paul who figures out a way to overcome whatever odds life throws at him to go learn something from tradition bearers in remote locations. When Rick said "try", you gotta try. When Paul said "go", you gotta go.

It's very hard to resist imagining them singing together tonight, and even harder to imagine a world without either of them as an influence in my life. But I am very, very grateful for their tenderness, and stubbornness, and all the gifts they both gave.

It is hard to lose a friend.

p.j.