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A word from Ulaanbaatar

khöömei

n. Mongolian throat singing

  • A quiet room
  • A glass of water
  • Ten minutes a day

KHUR-may

Temuulen playing a horse-head fiddle on a rock above the steppe
Fig. 1. Temuulen playing a horse-head fiddle on a rock above the steppe

I’m Temuulen. I sing khöömei and play the horse-head fiddle, and I teach both online. I sell practice guides, backing drones, sheet notation and two video courses.

What it means to learn

Three things to practise with, in the order I would take them.

  1. n. (video course)

    Throat Singing From Scratch

    A video course that teaches the low drone, the high note and a first short song.

    • Video course
    • 6 lessons

    I found my first drone on day four, once I stopped pushing.

    Lone figure on a rock facing a storm over the steppe
  2. n. (download, PDF)

    Home Practice Bundle

    The guide, the drones and the mouth cards to practise with at home.

    • Bundle
    • 3 files

    He put on a drone in G and sang over it until the tea went cold.

    Painterly still life of a horse-head fiddle and tuning fork
  3. n. (merch)

    Merch with my drawings

    Printed to order and shipped by Printful.

  4. n. (free letter)

    The Second Voice

    A short letter every other Sunday, with one thing to try that week.

    Every second Sunday the letter came, and the neighbours heard a little more of it.

  5. n. (video course)

    Morin Khuur for Beginners

    The horse-head fiddle that often plays beside the voice, and a course to learn it.

    • Video course
    • 6 lessons

    The fiddle began, and the old man answered with a low khöömei.

    Hands bowing a horse-head fiddle in warm light

Live

The next show

Doors at seven. Come early for the new songs.

Saturday, November 14 · 7:00 PM

Save my spot

Downloads and courses

Shop

Download as soon as you pay. Yours to keep.

Temuulen, a Mongolian man in a blue deel holding a horse-head fiddle

Origin

Etymology

I grew up among horses on the steppe, where a song was something you sang to the herd at dusk. Nobody called it a lesson. I learned the low voice from my uncle, sitting beside a stove in a ger, and the fiddle from the man who lived two valleys over.

Now I live in Ulaanbaatar, in a flat where the winter smog turns the window orange, and I teach people all over the world through a laptop. I go back to the ger when I can. I keep every lesson slow, because the sound comes from small, quiet changes in the mouth and the breath.