A low drone opens first, almost floor-level, before the frame drums claim the room with slow, heavy strikes. The pulse is spare and ceremonial: each hit lands with hide weight and a long decay, enough to seat the body without locking it into dance. Wooden taps gather around that core, dry and close, thickening the surface while the drone keeps swelling underneath like held breath.

When the low male voice enters, it does so as another dark layer more than a lead—soft chant grain riding the same slow grid, close enough to feel chest-warm. Other voices stack soon after, not in bright harmony but in thick low mass, vowels fused into the drone until the line blurs into throat tone and overtone shimmer. The drums never hurry; they keep offering the same measured pocket while the vocal surface turns brighter and thinner above them, a piercing upper partial gliding free of the floor.

A phrase drops back, air opens, and the ambient bed thins to nearly nothing—just residual hum and room. Then the choral body returns as sustained open vowels, hall-wide and solemn, pressure held rather than driven. The motor grip softens here; weight stays present in the harmonic mass, but the strikes recede and the listening floats on tone alone, grand and unhurried.

Drums reclaim the floor later with the same martial patience, and a solo folk voice cuts clearer over them—stronger attack, more forward presence—before harmonized lines swell into a denser wall. The low end thickens again; the body is captured once more by that settled pocket, comfort modest, grip firm. Surface density rises without breaking the grid: chant, drone, and hide working as one sustained force.

Near the close the percussion eases out. What remains is resonant choral hum, thinning into single sustained tone, then the room itself. The pulse loosens, attention releases, and the last sound decays into clean silence with nothing left to hold.