JARI KASAR

The fingers are so rough that they could be mistaken for roots - at the factory, at the market, in the sweat of labor. The song smells of grease and hot iron, with the wheezing of pies from the nearest canteen and the banging of a hammer on the anvil of justice. There is no glamour or cocktail invitations here: only the whisper of the crowd, the roar of the choir and a rhythm that pushes forward stronger than any slogan.

There is a warm simplicity and playful directness in this: a call not to romanticize, but to get up from your knees and work for your future, but with a noticeable dose of stubbornness and irony - enough of looking to the West, enough of selling the land piece by piece. The voice, like a clenched fist, assures us that strength lies in aggressive steps, not in pretty words; and in the end, you want to sing along, because sometimes honest anger sounds better than any political speech.