Performance in Java and Bali

SCHOOL OF ORIENTAL AND AFRICAN STUDIES

PERFORMANCE IN JAVA AND BALI

PERFORMANCE IN JAVA AND BALI Studies of narrative, theatre, music, and dance edited by

Bernard Arps

SCHOOL OF ORIENTAL AND AFRICAN STUDIES UNIVERSITY OF LONDON 1993

Published by the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, Thornhaugh Street, Russell Square, London WC1H 0XG This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © School of Oriental and African Studies1993 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0-203-98512-5 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 0 7286 0217 2 (Print Edition)

Contents

Acknowledgements

vi

Contributors

vii

A note on spelling

xi

Introduction BERNARD ARPS

1

1

Po-té-hi: the Chinese glove-puppet theatre in East Java VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

11

2

The seblang and its music: aspects of an East Javanese fertility rite PAUL A.WOLBERS

33

3

Jaipongan: the making of a new tradition JEAN HELLWIG

47

4

Character types and movement styles in traditional Javanese theatre CLARA BRAKEL

59

5

Dance drama (wayang wong) and politics at the court of Sultan Hamengkubuwana III (1812–14) of Yogyakarta PETER CAREY

73

6

Traditional Balinese performing arts as yajnya MARTIN RAMSTEDT

79

7

Golék Ménak and tayuban: patronage and professionalism in two spheres of Central Javanese culture FELICIA HUGHES-FREELAND

91

8

Semang and Seblang: thoughts on music, dance, and the sacred in Central and East Java R.ANDERSON SUTTON

123

9

Sung epic narrative and lyrical songs: carita pantun and tembangSunda WIM VAN ZANTEN

145

10

Coordination between music and language in Balinese shadow-play, with emphasis on wayang gambuh

163

v

TILMAN SEEBASS 11

The dramatic principles of Javanese narrative temple reliefs EDI SEDYAWATI

175

12

Sléndro and pélog in India? RICHARD WIDDESS

187

13

Notes on the acoustics and tuning of gamelan instruments ALBRECHT SCHNEIDERANDREAS E.BEURMANN

199

14

Rassers’s comparison of the Panji tales to The tempest: an early case of anthropology of performing arts KEES P.EPSKAMP

219

Index

235

Acknowledgements

Preliminary versions of the papers in this volume were presented at a sympo sium on Indonesian performing arts held at the School of Oriental and African Studies, from 30 July to 3 August 1990. It was organized by Drs E.Ulrich Kratz, Nigel G.Phillips, and the editor, of the Department of the Languages and Cultures of South East Asia and the Islands, and Dr David W.Hughes of the Centre of Music Studies. Not all papers read at the symposium are included here. Others have appeared in the journal Indonesia Circle Nos. 54, 1991, 3–38, and 56, 1991, 48–55. The editor would like to express his gratitude to the following persons who have contributed to the preparation of this volume: Miss D.M.Johnson, for her meticulous copy-editing and correction of the English of several of the articles; Miss Amanda Kent, for her assistance in preparing the typescript; Mrs Robina Maguire, for answering several queries about English and German; and Mr Martin Daly, for his help in getting the book through the press. The organizations that have made possible the symposium and the publication of this book through financial contributions are: the School of Oriental and African Studies by way of its Research and Publications Committee, the Nuffield Foundation, and especially the British Council (Jakarta). Their support is gratefully acknowledged.

Contributors

BERNARD ARPS, Professor of Javanese Linguistics and Literature in the University of Leiden, lectured in Indonesian and Javanese at SOAS from 1988 to 1993. His research interests are Javanese language, literature, and performance, especially their anthropological-linguistic facets, and he has published Golden letters: writing traditions of Indonesia (with A.Teh Gal-lop, London and Jakarta, 1991) and Tembang in two traditions: performance and interpretation of Javanese literature (London, 1992). Currently he is working on a transcription and translation of a shadow-play performance. ANDREAS E.BEURMANN studied musicology and physics at the University of Göttingen, where he also received his doctorate. He has worked as a record producer and electrical engineer. Teaching at the Musikwissenschaftliches Institut of the University of Hamburg since 1972, he was awarded an honorary professorship in 1988. He is involved in research on the acoustics of musical instruments. He has written several of his articles jointly with Albrecht Schneider. CLARA BRAKEL’S research is concerned with Asian theatre and music. She has a special interest in Javanese dance, which she also performs and teaches. She obtained her doctorate from the University of Leiden, and has taught there and at Monash University. Her publications include Seni tari Jawa: tradisi Surakarta dan peristilahannya (Jakarta, 1991), The bedhayacourt dances of Central Java (Leiden, 1992), and numerous articles on dance and theatre. Affiliated with ILDEP (the Indonesian Language Development Project) as a researcher, she is currently preparing a study of nineteenth-and twentieth-century Javanese treatises on the performing arts. Dr PETER CAREY is a Fellow and Tutor in Modern History at Trinity College, Oxford, and has a special research interest in the history of early nineteenth-century Java. He has published widely on the background to the Java War (1825–30) and is working on a biography of Prince Dipanagara. His books include: Babad Dipanagara: an account of the outbreak of theJava War (1825–30) (Kuala Lumpur, 1981), The archive of Yogyakarta, vol. 1: documents relating to politics and internal court affairs (Oxford, 1980), and The British in Java, 1811–16: aJavanese account (Oxford, 1992).

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Dr VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL read cultural anthropology at the Free University of Amsterdam and Javanese at the University of Leiden. She has also taught at these universities. Specializing in the performing arts of Java, she is the author of The dalang behindthe wayang: the role of the Surakarta and the Yogyakarta dalang in Indonesian-Javanese society (Dordrecht, 1985), Wayang theatre in Indonesia: an annotated bibliograpghy (Dordrecht, 1987), and Volksvertoningen op Java (Leiden, forthcoming), a critical study of T.G.T. Pigeaud’s Javaanse volksvertoningen. KEES EPSKAMP joined the staff of the Centre for the Study of Education in Developing Countries (CESO) in the Hague immediately after obtaining his Master’s degree in social anthropology in 1977. He received his doctorate in political and cultural sciences from the University of Amsterdam in 1989, publishing his thesis, entitled Theatre in search of social change:the relative significance of different theatrical approaches, at CESO (1989). He acts regularly as a guest lecturer in the Department of Theatre Studies of the University of Amsterdam. JEAN HELLWIG is an anthropologist and film-maker based in Amsterdam. Film and music are his main fields of interest; his regional specialization is Indonesia and West Java in particular. As a film-maker he works independently (Hellwig Productions Audiovisuals) or in cooperation with scholars producing anthropological and scientific documentaries. His work includes Sundanese popular culture alive!!! (Amsterdam, 1989), a documentary about jai-pongan and other performing arts of Sunda. FELICIA HUGHES-FREELAND is a Lecturer in Social Anthropology at the University College of Swansea and a Research Associate of the SOAS Centre of South-East Asian Studies. Her research interests include culture and society in Indonesia, performing and plastic arts of South-East Asia, representations (theoretical and practical), religion and ritual systems, ideology and social change, and tourism. She has published The dancer and the dance, an ethnographic film about palace dance in Yogyakarta (1988), and articles in Indonesia Circle,Anthropology Today, Indonesia, and Visual Anthropology, among others. She is currently revising her 1986 PhD thesis (SOAS) for publication. MARTIN RAMSTEDT is ‘Lehrbeauftragter’ at the Institut für Völkerkunde und Afrikanistik of the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universitat München. His research interests are political anthropology, anthropology of the arts, Indonesia, especially Bali and Java, and anthropology of religion. He has published ‘Revitalization of classical Balinese dance and music’, in M.P.Baumann (ed.), Music in the dialogue of cultures: traditional music and cultural policy (Berlin, 1991) and ‘Kulturtourismus— Erziehung—Identitat: indonesische Kulturpolitik und die Entwicklung der balinesischen Darstellende Künste’, in W.Suppan (ed.), Schladminger Gespräche zumThema Musik und Tourismus (Tutzing, 1991). Dr ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER is Professor of Systematic Musicology at the Musikwissenschaftliches Institut of the University of Hamburg. His research is concerned with comparative musicology and anthropology of music. He is the

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author of Musikwissenschaft und Kulturkreislehre (Bonn, 1976), Analogie und Rekonstruktion: zur Methodologie der Musikgeschichts-schreibung und zur Frühgeschichte der Musik (Bonn, 1984), and various shorter studies, a number of which were written in collaboration with Andreas Beurmann. Professor Dr EDI SEDYAWATI is Head of the Department of Regional Literatures in the Faculty of Letters of the University of Indonesia and Head of the Centre for Social and Cultural Research at the same institution. Her main research interests are the iconography of ancient Javanese statues and temple reliefs, and the history of Javanese dance. She is the author of Pertumbuhan seni pertunjukan (Jakarta, 1981) and numerous articles, and has edited Seni dalam masyarakat Indonesia: bunga rampai (with Sapardi Djoko Damono, Jakarta, 1983) and Tari: tinjauan dari berbagai segi (Jakarta, 1984). Dr TILMAN SEEBASS is Professor of Musicology at Duke University, Durham, N.C.He has published on various topics in Indonesian music (articles, films, records, and, together with Indonesian authors, a small book). He has also worked on topics in Western music history, such as musical autographs, the history of concert life, and in particular musical iconography, in which field he wrote a book on Musikdarstellung und Psalterillustration im früherenMittelalter (Bern, 1973) and a number of articles. He is the editor of Imago Musicae: theInternational Yearbook of Musical Iconography. Dr R. ANDERSON SUTTON is Associate Professor of Music and Director of the Center for Southeast Asian Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He is also resident director of the University of Wisconsin gamelan ensemble. His primary area of research interest has been the music of Central and East Java. He has published on the gamelan traditions of these areas in Ethnomusicology, Yearbook for Traditional Music, Asian Music, Indonesia, and several edited volumes. His Traditions of gamelan music in Java: musical pluralism andregional identity was published in 1991 (Cambridge), and his Variation in Central Javanesegamelan music is in press. Dr RICHARD WIDDESS is Senior Lecturer in Ethnomusicology with reference to South Asia at SOAS. His main area of current research is South Asia (historical sources, notations, vocal music, modal systems). He is also interested in musical connections between South and South-East Asia, musical instruments in both areas, and musical traditions of Burma and Thailand. His publications include: (ed. with R.F. Wolpert) Music and tradition (Cambridge, 1981), (ed.) Musica Asiatica, V (Cambridge, 1988), and ‘Historical ethnomusicology’, in H.B. Myers (ed.), The new Grove handbook of ethnomusicology (London, 1992). PAUL WOLBERS gained his PhD degree from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign with a dissertation entitled ‘Maintaining Using identity through musical performance: seblang and gandrung of Banyuwangi, East Java (Indonesia)’ (1992). His research interests include Banyuwangi, music and ritual, Balinese music, and nineteenth-century Western music. He is the author of ‘National music’ in Bruno Nettl, The Western impact on world music (New York, 1985), as well as several articles on the performing arts of Banyuwangi. At present

x

he is Visiting Assistant Professor at New College of the University of South Florida, where he lectures in ethnomusicology and Western music history. Dr WIM VAN ZANTEN graduated in theoretical physics, and taught mathematics at the University of Malawi from 1967 to 1971, where he also investigated the music of southern Malawi. Since 1971 he has been lecturing at the Institute for Cultural and Social Studies of the University of Leiden. From 1976 to 1979 he taught statistics for the social sciences at the University of Indonesia, and he published two books in Indonesian on this subject. His Sundanesemusic in the Cianjuran style: anthropological and musicological aspects of tembang Sunda appeared in 1989 (Dordrecht). He is currently preparing another book about tembang Sunda Cianjuran.

A note on spelling

For Sanskrit and Old Javanese words the common scholarly orthography has been used. The vowel/e/in Balinese, Indonesian/Malay, Modern Javanese, and Sundanese has been represented as é. Depending on the language and dialect and on its position within the word, é is pronounced [] or [e]. An e without an accent stands for schwa . Otherwise the orthography follows the guide-lines laid down by the Indonesian Department of Education and Culture for the language in question. The names of individuals and institutions are spelled in accordance with their own preferences, as far as these could be ascertained from their writings. As a rule, terms in languages other than English are printed in italics. How-ever, when a term features prominently throughout a chapter, it has been italicized only upon its introduction.

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Introduction BERNARD ARPS

The studies in this book examine traditional performance genres in the Indonesian islands of Java and Bali.1 They cover puppet and human theatre, dance, sung narrative, narrative temple reliefs, and vocal and instrumental music, span a period of more than a thousand years, and range over four cultural complexes: Sundanese in western Java, Javanese in central and eastern Java, Chinese in eastern Java, and Balinese in Bali. In spite of this variety these essays are unified by more than geography alone. The cultures involved are akin in several respects. Like their vernaculars, they are Austronesian (with one exception in chapter 1). Secondly, in the course of the last millenium and a half they have also been subject to the same external cultural influences, broadly speaking Hindu-Buddhist, Islamic, European, and American. Being located in two neighbouring islands, they have also interacted among themselves. A particularly strong current has emanated from Java: Javanese culture has long influenced Sunda, Bali, and also the Chinese in Java, and continues to do so. In the fourth place, those that are alive today are subject to the cultural policies of the Republic of Indonesia. Finally, on a different, ahistorical plane, there are typological parallels between them. The same points can of course be made for the performance genres themselves, providing further common ground. We shall find, to mention just three examples, that the dance genres jaipongan in Sunda (chapter 3), tayub in Central Java (4 and 7), and seblang in easternmost Java (2 and 8) share several salient formal features as well as social functions, that the performance practices of dance theatre and puppet theatre display close links both at a Central Javanese (4 and 7) and at a Balinese court (10), and that the influence of ancient Indian musical and kinaesthetic theory can be detected in reliefs on the ninth-century Lara Jonggrang temple in Central Java (11) as well as in the metrical and melodic structures of today’s Javanese and Balinese gamelan (12). These studies, then, can be read for the analyses they give of individual genres or performances, and, taken together, for the picture they paint of the diversity of performance in Java and Bali or for the connections and similarities between genres. But the most important feature that pulls these essays to gether is of a more general theoretical nature; they are all, in one way or an-other, concerned with performance.

2 BERNARD ARPS

Now the notion of performance is elusive. The term is used in various senses by different scholars, and the contributors to this book are no exception. They diverge in their personal interests and their disciplinary back-grounds (ethno and systematic musicology, history, various branches of social and cultural anthropology), and work in diverse academic traditions (in Germany, Indonesia, the Netherlands, the United Kingdom, and the United States). This provides us with a spectrum of analytical approaches. What unifies the ways in which performance is conceived here may be captured in a number of propositions.2 Performance is a mode of action, in which performers display skills. It is a temporal process rather than an entity, taking place in the flow of human action. It is bounded within and set off against preceding, following, and accompanying action by means of formal, spatial, and often material markers. Performance invites simultaneous interpretation and/or evaluation by spectators or an audience: these are enticed to involve themselves mentally in the performance process. This may in fact take the form of physical participation. A particularly important feature of performance is its reflexivity: the act of performance is designed to call attention to its own construction and to the formal resources on which it builds (language, gesture and other movement, natural sound, artefacts). This reflexivity correlates with a view of performance as especially significant behaviour; performance has strong ideological connotations, religious, political, or otherwise. Performance not only engages its audience, it also invites contemplation, leading to the articulation of explanatory and normative theories of performance, its structure and components, and its functions. Performance manifests itself in different genres, which can be conceived as blueprints for its enactment, its evaluation, and its development in time. Performance thus takes place against the background of what is perceived as a tradition. (Whether this tradition is ancient or has been recently created is, of course, open to investigation.) Performance genres rarely utilize but a single form of action: they are composed of sung and spoken discourse, body movement, and often instrumental music and the manipulation of objects. Finally, these genres are not closed systems, absolute and autonomous wholes, but interact; they tend to influence each other both intra-and inter-culturally. The focus in this book is on performance that is intended to provide pleasure. This is not so much the pleasure that can be derived from perceiving or displaying physical skill—as, for instance, in sport—even though virtuosity does play a role in

1

Thanks are due to Peter Carey, Nigel Phillips, Albrecht Scheider, and Tilman Seebass for their helpful comments on an earlier version of this introduction. 2 My formulation of these propositions is influenced by Richard Bauman’s work, which is one of the most rigorous attempts so far to theorize the notion of performance. Initially Bauman’s work was concerned with what is sometimes called oral literature (Bauman, 1984), but more recently it has been broadened to cover other performative genres as well (Bauman, 1992). This formulation also incorporates insights arrived at in my own studies of performance (Arps, 1985 and 1992, esp. pp. 30–38), and, needless to say, many findings of the contributors to this volume.

INTRODUCTION 3

some genres. Nor is it primarily the pleasure that may be derived from intellectual dexterity—as in academic or political discourse—although many genres articulate a particular point of view. Nor is it solely emo tional gratification of the kind that may follow from the successful completion of a religious ritual. While virtuosity, rhetoric, and ritualism have important roles to play in the genres scrutinized here, the pleasure that is most prominent in them is the pleasure of form. Performance being defined as a mode of action, this is the form of human behaviour. Performance entails stylized human behaviour. These genres may thus be called performing arts. Even so it should be noted that characterizing these genres as primarily artistic is a matter of perspective (what are the interests of the performers and other participants, as well as other observers?). There is no fence around performing arts isolating them from other kinds of performance and from other less self-conscious modes of behaviour. While performance is a process, there may also be overlap between performing arts and static arts such as sculpture, as we shall see. The essays in this book have been arranged around three broad analytical themes. We move from ethnographic description of particular performance genres, via a focus on the ways performance operates in a socio-political order, to the relations and analogies between different performance components and different genres. None of the chapters is exclusively concerned with a single theme, however, and others are touched upon as well. The first chapter, Victoria Clara van Groenendael’s study of po-té-hi, the Chinese glove-puppet theatre in East Java, is above all ethnographic in intent. The author describes an Indonesian genre that has hitherto been very little studied. (This may be due partly to the fact that it is not regarded as autochthonous, while it is current state policy to repress Chinese expressive media in an attempt to Indonesianize the Chinese and to offset the importance of Chinese commerce in local and national economies.) After an enquiry into po-té-hi’s origins in China and its development in Java, Clara van Groenendael surveys the setting and structure of performances and the roles of the performers. Finally, she calls for further research, especially into the links between performance and its circumstances. In the second chapter, Paul Wolbers gives an account of the sequence of events in one performance of seblang. This is a female trance dance unique to two villages in rural Banyuwangi, a region in the eastern extremity of Java that is the locus of a distinctive variant of Javanese culture. Wolbers points out that seblang is probably the oldest extant local performance genre. In this connection he gives special attention to the musical structure of the songs that accompany the dance. Seblang demonstrates how a community that in the eighteenth century was almost wiped out by other Javanese states and especially by the Dutch East India Company, has succeeded in perpetuating and elaborating its cultural integrity. In several respects, seblang resembles other genres in Java and other Indonesian islands. Thus, Wolbers’s essay shows that certain elementary performance components may be shaped and made to function in different ways in different communities. Jean Hellwig’s chapter contains an ethnographic description of jaipongan, a Sundanese dance and music genre developed in the early 1970s on the basis of older

4 BERNARD ARPS

kinds of dance and music. Jaipongan has come to be extremely popular not only in West Java, where it strongly influences other genres, but also in other parts of Indonesia. Hellwig reports on its history, its links with those other genres, the contexts for its performance, and the main performance procedures. There are now two varieties, one staged, usually in male-female pairs of dancers but also performed solo, another a participatory one in which male members of the audience dance in turn with a professional female singer-dancer. Through his description, Hellwig provides a critique of simplistic yet common classifications of performance genres into contrasting types such as classical versus popular, traditional versus modern. In spite of jaipongan’s youth, it has already been adopted into the Sundanese cultural canon. Especially important for its spread has been the cassette tape. Its creator manages a cassette company that has brought out many jaipongan recordings. Cassettes have become reference points for dancers and drummers (who, as in many Indonesian forms of dance and theatre, accentuate the movements). Before a performance they establish the movement and drum patterns to be used by mentioning the title of the cassette on which those patterns were introduced. Cassette tapes are a powerful standard-setting medium in the Indonesian performing arts, including the shadow theatre (see Arps, 1985:47–51). With chapter 4 we proceed to a series of essays exploring ways in which social, political, and religious concerns inspire and permeate performance. Clara Brakel outlines the classification of theatrical characters and their associated styles of movement in Central Javanese court dance and wayang wong (dance theatre). By means of an examination of Javanese theories, she suggests that character typology reveals a link between performance and traditional social organization. While the theory of the Yogyakarta sultanate presents characterization in wayang wong as basically a modification of that in wayang kulit (shadow theatre), theories from Surakarta, the other court city in Central Java, present dance as an autonomous tradition. Brakel finds indications that this tradition reflects the ancient classification into four social groups that is well known from Hinduism. Brakel’s essay emphasizes that performance is not just ‘entertainment’, that it does not just serve to distract attention temporarily from everyday worries. It has marked ideological connotations, in this case religious and philosophical as well as political. Her study also exemplifies the depth that explicit traditional theories of performance may attain. Peter Carey’s succinct essay is concerned with specific historical events at the Yogyakarta court in 1812. As recorded in a contemporaneous Javanese chronicle, shortly after British forces attacked and looted the palace and awarded a Javanese ally and contender for the throne his own subsidiary court alongside the sultanate, the sultan sponsored a number of dance and theatre presentations. By drawing parallels between the principal characters in a wayang wong play on the one hand and prominent political figures on the other, Carey argues that the play was staged as an allegory in the hope of defusing political tension. The staging of dances created several decades earlier under the patronage of the first sultan of Yogyakarta was meant to signal that circumstances in the state were getting back to normal. As

INTRODUCTION 5

Carey’s essay shows, performance items may have been composed and staged to express political messages. Links of this kind between performance and context are likely to be widespread. They are also found in other genres. As has been argued elsewhere with reference to the sung performance of traditional literature in Central and East Java, the interpretations that are most highly valued by Javanese audiences establish parallels between narrative elements and the sociocultural circumstances of the performance. If this fit between text and reality cannot be found through literal interpretation, it is sought by reaching beyond overt meanings (Arps 1992:351– 406). In the sixth chapter we turn to the Balinese, the fourth cultural complex represented in this collection. Contrary to most other contributors, Martin Ramstedt does not limit his attention to a single or two comparable genres. He discusses the social and ideological functions of all the performing arts that were sponsored by the rulers of pre-colonial Bali. The rulers derived their legitimacy from their embodiment of religious concepts central to Balinese life. Ramstedt argues that rituals were intended to prevent or remedy a state of micro and macrocosmic imbalance. Instrumental music, the chanted recitation of literature, dance, and various types of theatre were all performed in the context of yajnya (comprising devotional, reverential, propitiatory, and life cycle rituals, dedicated to gods, ancestors, demonic forces, and living humans, respectively). Here these performance genres contributed to achieving the desired state of mind in participants and audiences. Thus, through their sponsorship of them, the rulers created the harmony, justice, and prosperity from which their legitimacy derived. Ramstedt shows how performance genres functioned in a cultural system. An analysis such as his necessarily implies a certain measure of homogenizing abstraction from the complexities of actual social life—even in Bali where, as Ramstedt makes abundantly clear, a socio cultural order is articulated to a high degree. Yet this vantage point on the contextual links of performance is perceptive precisely because it reaches beyond individual genres. In her wide-ranging and incisive essay (chapter 7), Felicia Hughes-Freeland critically examines the sociopolitical implications of cultural policy in modern Indonesia—which, it should be borne in mind, is a young and culturally diverse state actively attempting to formulate a ‘national culture’ and ‘regional cultures’. She does so by means of detailed accounts of performance events and their backgrounds in two Central Javanese dance/theatre genres. Golék Ménak in the court city of Yogyakarta is a dance drama modelled on the wayang golékMénak rod-puppet theatre. Tayuban, by contrast, is a performance in which female dancer-singers (lédhék) dance with male spectators for payment. It takes place on ritual occasions, now in a few rural areas only. Hughes-Freeland argues that changing patterns in the patronage of these genres affect the status of performers and their livelihoods: the court ethos of performance as honourable service to the prince, with token payment only, is being adopted by the state as a policy. It is to be applied also in such cases as tayuban, which have tended to follow a very different model of remuneration.

6 BERNARD ARPS

It is worthy of note here that the reflexive nature of performance to which I drew attention above can have fateful consequences. As in the case of an analogous Sundanese genre, ketuk tilu, discussed by Hellwig in chapter 3, tayuban attracts censorship because it displays elements that clash with official prudery. A result is the recontextualization of tayuban to which Hughes-Free-land points. It is being detached from its ritual and participatory contexts and recontextualized as a staged Art. The essays by Hughes-Freeland and R. Anderson Sutton (chapters 7 and 8) head a series addressing relations between different performance genres or different performance components within a single genre. The relations—similarities as well as differences—pin-pointed in these contributions are viewed as areal patterns, as due to historical influence or intentional creation, or as reflecting generally human faculties and concerns. In his investigation of Javanese notions of the sacred expressed in performance, Sutton describes and juxtaposes two Javanese genres—which he characterizes by the felicitous term ‘performance rituals’—that at first appear to be radically different. The bedhaya Semang of the Yogyakarta sultanate is an extraordinarily complex female group dance surviving only in the form of a written score, while the seblang of the village of Bakungan in Banyuwangi is the trance dance encountered earlier in chapter 2 (which concerns the other village that has seblang). Sutton analyses the musical accompaniment to the bedhaya Semang and attempts to interpret its highly opaque song text, and also gives a description of the course of events in one seblang presentation. Underneath their contrasts he detects important correspondences. Sutton does not explain these as due to mutual or shared external influence. His concern is typological; he identifies a range of elements in Javanese conceptions of the sacred that underlies both performance genres. In chapter 9, Wim van Zanten compares two Sundanese genres as an example of the influence of contextual features on the make-up and content of performance. Carita pantun is narrative recitational chanting interspersed with more melodic songs. Tembang Sunda, also known as Cianjuran after the town of Cianjur where it originated, is the singing of short poems with legendary, lyrical, and other themes, consisting of suites of rubato songs concluded with a metricized song. These two genres are clearly akin: from the perspective of form, both carita pantun and tembang Sunda are the singing of verse with zither accompaniment, and it is widely claimed that the latter was developed from the former. Van Zanten describes musical, textual, and contextual facets of both and provides a detailed comparison. As far as possible in view of the paucity of documentation about earlier stages, he describes how certain performance practices have changed. Van Zanten’s study underscores again that performance genres may have pronounced ideological properties. This is particularly so in those that include the use of language, as do carita pantun and tembang Sunda. Sutton in chapter 8 focuses on two genres that are unlikely to have influenced each other directly, arguing that they share basic religious concepts. Van Zanten’s juxtaposition of carita pantun and tembang Sunda, on the other hand, demonstrates that formally and historically related genres may reflect and support different ideologies. He calls tembang Sunda a secular

INTRODUCTION 7

music genre, though one with a philosophical import for some, while carita pantun is ritualistic. It can, for instance, be used for purification, and a performance is begun with an Arabic prayer as well as an invocation of non-Islamic deities. With the tenth chapter we leave the focus on sociocultural considerations in performance that was prominent in chapters 4–9 and return to the components, techniques, and structures of performance. We do, however, maintain a comparative perspective. Tilman Seebass points out that wayang and other forms of theatre require coordination of the performative actions of participants (dancers, puppeteer, instrumentalists, singers). He concentrates on wayang gambuh, a rare Balinese puppet theatre, presumably derived from the gambuh dance drama which has the same repertoire and music. Seebass examines how the musical component of gambuh dance drama is adapted to wayang gambuh with its idiosyncratic performance techniques. On a more general level, he analyses the forms and roles of music in relation to discourse and movement in Balinese puppet theatre. Musicians and puppeteer must mutually adjust. Exactly who adjusts to whom depends on the type of music played, and this is in turn related to the relative weight, in successive segments of the performance, of puppet movement vis-a-vis speech and song. Seebass concludes with some observations on the place of music and song in gambuh dance drama and in Balinese puppetry genres other than wayang gambuh. Seebass’s focal point is artistry. This topic seems to have fallen from favour in many recent studies of performance; the trend has been to foreground other matters, power and politics in particular. Seebass’s essay is a welcome demonstration that Balinese performers have given ample thought to the internal coherence of their art. Although ‘beauty’ may not be the most appropriate concept in many cases (see, for instance, Arps 1992:191–94), the aesthetic properties of performance are important to performers and audiences in Java and Bali, and therefore need to be addressed in studies of performance as well. In chapter 11 we move back in time. Edi Sedyawati discusses a medium that in itself is not performative, but does bear a close affinity to dance and theatre. She reliefs on the Lara Jonggrang temple at Prambanan queries whether the (second half of the ninth century A.D.) in Central Java reflect the prescriptions for body movement and pose set out in the Indian treatise on dance, drama, and music (probably antedating 500 A.D.). In other words: did the the or similar theoretical sources provide the sculptors of these reliefs with guide-lines for their work? Sedyawati finds that this was indeed the case, but there are also differences to be observed between the Indian prescriptions and the reliefs. These may have been modifications and refinements introduced by the Javanese artists. Reliefs in stone strike the lay observer as inherently static, and thus far removed from performance which by nature is a dynamic process. There are two ways, however, in which this impression must be modified. The first, to which Sedyawati devotes much attention, is that the reliefs under consideration represent action: petrified action, to be sure, but not immobile postures. The reliefs are arranged in

8 BERNARD ARPS

sequence, while their subject-matter is derived from a narrative with which the viewers were probably familiar (as many will be today). This leads to the second affinity between the stone reliefs and performance, to which Sedyawati alludes briefly, which is that their interpretation is likely to have been a sequential process. ) of the temple, pilgrims When making a clockwise circumambulation ( would have experienced the narrative in essentially the same way as a storytelling session, a literary recital, or a dramatic play. Moreover it is conceivable that some kind of oral performance was involved, for instance in the form of a running commentary by a temple guide. is also a source for Richard Widdess, who is concerned with The the historical development of musical practices. This field shows substantial differences between modern India and Java and Bali. But temple reliefs suggest that ancient Indian instruments were once known in Java. By means of a comparison and those between basic rhythmic and melodic features presented in the of gamelan music, Widdess investigates the possibility that certain facets of early Indian musical practice, lost in India, were retained in Indonesia. In the rhythmic sphere, grouping of beats into units of two, four, or eight is present both in the Indian concept of kala and in the gatra metrical frames of gamelan music. Larger units of regular length are also found in both traditions: tala in India, gongan (phrases concluded by gong strokes) in gamelan. And a practice resembling irama (integral expansion and condensation of the metrical framework, implying doubling and halving of the number of pulses within a metrical frame) turns out to be present in as well. In the melodic sphere, too, there are parallels. According the belong to the to Widdess’s analysis, the two pentatonic scales in the same ‘pentatonic types’ as sléndro and pélog in Java and Bali. The Indian pentatonic scales each have three modes, which also applies to the pathet of Central Javanese gamelan. Widdess does not claim to have proved that the melodic or rhythmic systems of gamelan originate from India—this is probably impossible for lack of data. The information he presents is nevertheless suggestive. In the last two chapters we shift our focus from particular performance practices to more basic matters of general theoretical import: one in musicology, the other in structural anthropology. The paper by Albrecht Schneider and Andreas E.Beurmann concerns an aspect of the very perception of musical sound. It has been a matter of controversy whether or not the sléndro scales in Sundanese, Javanese, and Balinese music are equidistant. Much of the discussion has been based on tono metric analysis of fixed-pitch gamelan instruments. Schneider and Beurmann call into question the empirical basis of these analyses, arguing that the bar-and gong-shaped idiophones of the gamelan produce complex sounds, of which it is in many cases impossible to measure the ‘pitch’. Pitch is a cognitive construct rather than a physical datum, and, in addition, it may vary with different playing techniques. The authors suggest that the model of ‘virtual pitch’ should be invoked to account for the perception of pitch in gamelan idiophones. Reacting against those ethnomusicologists who consider scientific research into gamelan tunings less relevant than participants’ views, they argue that

INTRODUCTION 9

this kind of research may elucidate the appreciation and evaluation by instrument makers, performers, and audience of the sound quality and tuning of gamelan instruments. In the concluding chapter, Kees P.Epskamp discusses unpublished notes of the Dutch anthropologist W.H.Rassers (1878–1973). Rassers compared the so-called Panji stories (which provide the repertoire for several theatrical genres in Java and Bali, and are also found in written and oral literature) with Shakespeare’s Tempest. As Epskamp illustrates by means of surveys of their story-lines, Rassers detected several identical themes in them, suggesting that their basis is a universal primeval myth in which struggle and initiation alternate, leading to the ultimate unification of the male and the female principle. However reductionist and conjectural some may judge them to be, Rassers’s ideas grow from a problem confronting all thinkers about performance genres: how to make sense of parallels between them. Epskamp’s chapter points to one possible approach: to search for signs of universality. Performance has burgeoned in recent years as a topic of scholarly enquiry, while Java and Bali seem to be particularly fertile ground for performance: the contributors make mention of over a hundred different genres, and many more are alive or have become obsolete. The harvest of essays collected here not only presents new knowledge and insight into particular performance genres, their history, their social, cultural, and political import, their techniques, and their artistry, it also draws attention to theoretical concerns central to the study of performance as an especially significant human mode of action. These studies provide instantaneous pictures, both as regards the research on which they are based and the development of the genres with which they are concerned. They are offered here in the hope that they will inspire continued exploration. References Arps, B. 1985. Volkstradities en instituties in het middenjavaanse wayangtheater. (In Epskamp, C.P., ed.Theater op Java.Zutphen: de Walburg Pers, 28–55. (Scenarium, IX.)) Arps, B.1992. Tembang in two traditions: performance and interpretation of Javaneseliterature,London: School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. Bauman, R.1984. Verbal art as performance.Prospect Heights, 111.: Waveland Press. [Reprint. First published 1977.] Bauman, R.1992. Performance. (In Bauman, R., ed. Folklore, cultural performances,and popular entertainments: a communications-centered handbook.New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 41–49.)

10

1 Po-té-hi: the Chinese glove-puppet theatre in East Java1 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

Introduction When we speak of the puppet theatre of Indonesia we usually have the Javanese wayang theatre in mind. The leather puppets of the wayang kulit or the threedimensional puppets of the wayang golék are more than well known. We often see them depicted, on all sorts of objects, as a kind of trademark of Indonesia. The puppet shows of the Chinese minority in Java are far less known. According to reports this group possessed (or still possesses) three kinds of puppet show, namely a shadow-play, one with rod-puppets, and one with glove-puppets. In this article I will concentrate on the glove-puppet theatre. As I was in the middle of research into the Javanese horse-dance (jaranan) in East Java at the time I came across this Chinese puppet theatre, I could not undertake a thorough research into it. What I will present here are a few preliminary observations in the hope of arousing some interest in this subject. The questions that I will discuss in this aiticle are: 1. Where is the cradle of this glove-puppet theatre; when and how did it come to Java? 2. What is its history in Java? 3. For whom and by whom is it performed, on what occasions and where? 4. What does this glove-puppet theatre look like and what are its stage properties? 5. How are the performances organized? 6. What stories are enacted, in what way(s) do the puppeteers come by their stories, and how are the plays structured? 7. What language is used in the performances? Before proceeding with the glove-puppet theatre I will give a survey of what I have been able to find about the Chinese puppet theatre in Java in the literatuie in general.

12 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

The Chinese puppet theatre in Java Seltmann wrote an article on the Chinese shadow-play wayang thithi (Seltmann, 1976). The set that he studied originated from a Yogyakarta Chinese puppeteer born in Java, who died in 1967. To the article are attached illustrations of the puppets made by this player, Gan Dhwan Sing, and from them it appears that he was influenced by the wayang kulit. In many respects they deviate from the shadow puppets common in China. Although the repertoire consisted of tales about Chinese heroes, the language of the performance was not Chinese but Javanese. As an example Seltmann gives a translation of the summary written by the puppeteer in Javanese characters of the story ‘The marriage of Emperor “Tig Jing”’, a scion of the Northern Sung dynasty (960–1279). I have not been able to find information about any other set or sets of wayang thithi or performances of it. Because Seltmann’s article is restricted to Gan Dhwan Sing’s wayang thithi, we cannot check whether its Javanized character is typical for the Chinese shadow-play in Java or was an idiosyncrasy of this one performer. In any case, the wayang thithi of Gan Dhwan Sing differs from the other types of Chinese puppet theatre in Java, the rod-puppets (also called three-rod puppets) or the glove-puppets, which have remained Chinese in all aspects, except sometimes the language. The rod-puppets, called wayang golék or wayang in Java, are manipulated by rods of iron or wood (or bamboo?) that are attached to the wooden head and the wooden hands, and go through the empty body of the puppets (see Fig. 1). This type is said to have served as a model for the Javanese wayang go-lék (Oetoyo, 1895: 396). However, its technique is quite different from that of the wayang golék, and the puppets are made of cloth instead of wood, except for the head, hands, and feet. In this respect they are like the Chinese glove-puppets. The correspondence with the

1

This article is based on material I collected during my research in East Java from September 1984 to June 1986, sponsored by the Programme for Indonesian Studies (PRIS) at Leiden and the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI) at Jakarta. I could not have proceeded without the help of many, of whom I can mention only a few: the puppeteers Ki Bejo Purnomo of Kediri, his pupil Ki Santoso (Giok Sam) of Tulungagung and Ki Gunawan (Liem Sing Tjwan) of Gudo (in Jombang), and Pak Pek of the Chinese temple at Tulungagung, who so kindly wrote for me in Chinese characters the names of the theatrical characters given him by Ki Santoso, thus allowing me to check these later with a Sinologist and the available literature. I am very grateful to all the musicians and temple servants of Kediri, Tulungagung, Blitar, Malang, Gudo, Tuban, and Surabaya for their hospitality and explanations during the preparations as well as during and after the actual performances. To the Sinologist Drs Robin Ruizendaal and Dr S.O.Robson I am for ever indebted. Robin helped me to find background information on puppet theatre in mainland China. Stuart Robson not only did the translation of the original text as presented at the conference, but also made many stimulating suggestions and encouraged me to go on with the project. Finally I thank Mr M. Nooy for his corrections of the final draft, and Dr Marijke Klokke for her help with the illustrations.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 13

Figure 1. Rod-puppet

Figure 2. Glove-puppet

Chinese shadow-theatre is found in the fact that the head can be separated from the body, and thus can be exchanged for another head. I have not seen a performance of this type either, and informants (from East Java) could not give me further details about it. They said that it did not occur (or no longer occurred?). The third kind, on the other hand, the glove-puppet theatre, was highly popular during my stay in East Java (in 1983 and 1985–86). I witnessed performances on various occasions, sometimes by accident (in Blitar and Gudo [in Jombang]), but mostly on purpose (in Kediri, Tulungagung, Tuban, and Surabaya). This type of puppet is worn over the hand of the puppeteer as a glove. The index finger is placed in the hollow, wooden head, the thumb in one of the sleeves, and the remaining three fingers in the other sleeve (see Fig. 2). In this way the puppeteer can move the head and arms of the puppet, while his hand is covered by the puppet’s clothes. So the English name ‘glove-puppet’ is quite appropriate. This is the type which I shall discuss in the rest of this paper. The glove-puppet theatre In Java the glove-puppet theatre is called po-té-hi, wayang po-té-hi, wayanggolék Cina, or even wayang Cina, and in popular diction (perhaps also in the literature) is sometimes confused with the rod-puppet theatre mentioned

14 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

Figure 3. The bag under the stage

above. The name po-té-hi, also spelt pu-tai (or tay)-hsi, or po-tay-hie, is the Hokkien pronunciation of the Chinese budaixi, which has been translated as linen bag theatre’ (Hazeu, 1897:92–93) or ‘play of the linen bag’ (Moens, 1949).2 Over the years various answers have been given to the question of why this form of theatre bears that name. De Groot was of the opinion that it was due to the linen bag which hangs under the stage (Hazeu, 1897:92; see Fig. 3), and Serrurier also connected the name with this linen bag, ‘because the puppets are brought out of the linen bag’ (Serrurier, 1896:141). Moens debated this explanation and thought that the name might be derived from the bag in which the puppeteer hid himself, since during a one-man show (in China) the performer covered himself in a blue linen bag which was tied together at his feet, but opened out towards the top in order to allow the player room to move. This bag was fixed to a wooden box which fitted over the puppeteer’s head and served as a stage (see Fig. 4). Robin Ruizendaal, a young Sinologist from Leiden who has been studying the Chinese marionette theatre of Fujian, suggested to me yet a third explanation of the name budaixi, which may be closest to the original meaning. According to this explanation, the name originates from the puppet which, when undressed, has the form of a little bag which fits over the puppeteer’s hand and to which the wooden

2

The literal meaning is ‘bag-theatre’. I do not know why it was translated as linen bag theatre for the puppets are made of cotton, and so were the bags under the stage.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 15

Figure 4. Puppeteer in the bag

Figure 5. Undressed glove-puppet

head and hands, and cloth legs with wooden shoes, are attached (see Fig. 5). This bag forms the basis of the puppet—the ‘actor’, who still has to be clad in a costume. The costume and head-dress in which this cloth character is attired determine which role he or she will play in the story. The face, painted on the wooden head, indicates which kind of role is appropriate for the ‘actor’. Finally, the explanation given by the Kediri puppeteer Ki3 Bejo is that the real name of this puppet theatre is in full mok (wood) do (head) so (hand) tay-hi (play), meaning more or less ‘(puppet) with wooden head played with the hand’. This explanation may be regarded as a typical example of Javano-Chinese folk-etymology. The cradle of the po-té-hi is to be sought in China, where it has been known for many centuries among the Hokkien-speaking population of southern Fujian (opposite Taiwan), the region of origin of the majority of the Chinese immigrants to Java (Hazeu, 1897:93). More specifically, it has been performed around the old harbour city of Quanzhou till now, and also in the area of Zhangzhou a little further

3Ki,

an abbreviation of Kyai (an honorific title in Java for a man) is placed before the name of a respected artist. Ki Bejo Purnomo, usually shortened to Ki Bejo (whose Chinese name is Ong Ing Teng), is the Javanese name chosen by this Chinese puppeteer in accordance with the policy of the Indonesian government for the Chinese minority to assimilate. The other Chinese puppeteers I met also each had a Javanese name.

16 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

to the south. From here it spread from the seventeenth century, via Amoy,4 over wide areas of East and South-East Asia, including Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Java. How old the glove-puppet theatre of China is cannot be said with certainty, as reports of it are rare. Like the marionette theatre kuileixi, with which it has much in common and which is also popular among the Hokkien of southern Fujian, it belongs to popular culture, and the imperial scholars of old China as well as the intellectuals of the modem People’s Republic have displayed little interest in or appreciation of popular traditions.5 Both the puppet theatre and the shadow theatre have a long history in China, however, and were already practised under the T’ang dynasty (618–907). During the Sung dynasty the big cities had extensive entertainment quarters where the puppet theatre, marionettes, and shadow-plays could be found alongside acrobats and beartamers (Idema and Haft, 1985:119). The history of the po-té-hi in Java It is also not clear in what year the Chinese glove-puppet theatre was introduced into Java. Brandon considered that it was possibly not earlier than the beginning of the twentieth century, when large groups of Chinese immigrants arrived in Java (Brandon, 1967:49). He mentioned Semarang and Surabaya as the most important centres of the puppet theatre. My main informants for the Chinese glove-puppet plays of East Java, the puppeteer Ki Bejo of Kediri and the temple official Pak6 Pek of the Chinese temple (klenthéng)7 at Tulungagung, were of the opinion that the Chinese glove-puppet theatre became popular in Java not earlier than the last decades of the nineteenth century. Ki Bejo told me, for example, that among the Hokkien Chinese immigrants in the 1880s there had been a puppeteer from Fujian who had brought his puppets with him. He settled in Semarang where he began to give performances that were so popular that pupils flocked to him from everywhere. Ki Bejo in his turn had learned the art of puppetry from Tang Ang Ang, a pupil of this great master. It appears that at the beginning of this century Semarang was indeed a centre for the glove-puppet theatre. In his article on ‘the play of the linen bag’ (‘het spel van den linnen zak’) Moens describes a performance that was given in

4

Quanzhou, in the time of the Sung dynasty the biggest port in Asia, silted up in the seventeenth century and its maritime activity moved to Amoy, the present Qiamen. 5 Unless otherwise stated all information on China is based on conversations with Robin Ruizendaal. The official transcriptions of the Chinese characters in the rare cases I have not given the transcriptions supplied to me by my Chinese-Javanese informants, are from his hand. 6Pak, an abbreviation of bapak (Javanese and Indonesian for ‘father’), is the usual polite term of address and reference for adult men, regardless of their social position. Pak Pek’s full name was Pek Tiong Lu. 7 This term is apparently a ‘deformation of Guan-yin-ting or Guan-yi temple’ (Salmon and Lombard, 1977:viii).

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 17

about 1949 in Yogyakarta by a peranakan (that is, Java-born) Chinese from Semarang, who had learned the art from an Amoy Chinese (Moens, 1949:1). From a questionnaire by Serrurier from around 1895 it appears that Chinese puppet theatre was known in Java earlier than suggested above, however. Various answers gave China as the origin, or Chinese puppet theatre as the model on which the Javanese wayang golék was believed to have been made, but only from Batang (near Pekalongan) was the wayang po-té-hi actually mentioned as such. Information from Klaten gave China as ‘inventor’ of the wayanggolék, and in Blitar it was said that golék puppets are round, ‘like those of the wayang Cina’ (Serrurier, 1896:141), although it is not clear whether the glovepuppets or the rod-puppets are intended by this. Seeing that in around 1895 China was considered to be the cradle of the Javanese wayang golék, Chinese puppet theatre must have been known in Java well before that date, for the authoritative Surakarta text Serat pakem SastraMiruda (probably compiled about 1875) puts the origin of the wayang golék in aka 1506 (A.D. 1584). However, according to this text, the wayang golék was created by Sunan Kudus on the model of the wayang (kulit) purwa (Seratpakem Sastra Miruda, 1930:14). No mention is made of a Chinese influence. In any case, it is certain that the history of the Chinese glovepuppet theatre in Java goes back to at least 1869, as the earliest reference I have found to it dates from that year. In an article from 1873 Poensen stated that when Kediri was afflicted by an epidemic of smallpox in 1869 the Chinese temple organized a series of po-té-hi performances which lasted a whole month (Poensen, 1873:163–64). It looks as if po-té-hi fulfilled an exorcistical role then. During my research in Central Java, from 1976 to 1978 and again at the beginning of the 1980s, I never heard of a Chinese puppet show being performed, either in Surakarta or Yogyakarta, or in Semarang. According to Ki Bejo, the reason for this must be sought in the aftermath of the attempted Communist coup of 30 September 1965, as this event led to rigid restrictions being laid on the freedom of movement of artists. Although these measures initially applied equally to both Javanese and Chinese artists, according to Ki Bejo, in the course of time they were applied more leniently to the Javanese while for the Chinese it was still not so easy to perform. On top of this came the new measure, in 1967, that forbade the public display of Chinese culture so that it became even more difficult for Chinese artists such as puppeteers and musicians. Ki Bejo believed that these measures had led to the decline of Semarang as the Central Javanese centre for Chinese culture, as many artists then moved to East Java, especially Surabaya, where the situation for Chinese artists was more favourable. As evidence he cited the fact that the younger generation of puppeteers, in contrast to him and his contemporaries, now all learned their craft in Surabaya. The supporters of the po-té-hi I have already referred to the fact that the representatives of the central or higher tradition in China regarded the puppet theatre as an inferior form of popular

18 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

entertainment. The puppet theatre then pertained to the amusement of the less educated, often illiterate farming and working classes, the population group from which the greater part of emigrants to Java came. One of the reasons why the central tradition looked with suspicion on the puppet theatre is that it functioned as an exorcistical ritual (Ruizendaal, unpublished). In Java too in the past there may possibly have been a link between po-té-hi and exorcism as has been suggested by Poensen’s article (see above). I have no conclusive evidence of more recent exorcistical practices, however. The performances which I saw in the mid-1980s in East Java all took place in or in front of the temple and their supporters belonged to the religious communities associated with the various temples. But performances also occurred outside this religious context, at least formerly. The po-té-hi performance that inspired Moens’ article about ‘the play of the linen bag’ took place at the Javanese annual fair (pasar malam) in Yogyakarta in a little theatre erected specifically for this purpose. And around 1963 one could regularly find a po-té-hi company in Semarang which gave spontaneous shows in places such as markets and at bus stations where many people gathered. The stage was placed on an ox-cart (grobag) so that the players could take it with them without having to dismantle it and set it up again somewhere else.8 Since such public performances have since been forbidden (see above), po-té-hi can now be witnessed only in the temples. Nevertheless this does not mean that the po-té-hi is sponsored only by religious leaders. In 1985 an important Maecenas of the po-té-hi in Kediri was the manager of the Gudang Garam cigarette factory (he died in 1986), who, as Ki Bejo told me, took the expenses of a large number of performances upon himself. The biggest group of supporters, coinciding with the religious community centred on a temple, likewise came from the Chinese commercial class: small traders, owners of shops, or managers of backyard factories, for example for making the widely famed tahu Kediri (a soya bean product). They all belonged to the Chinese whose families have often lived in Java for generations and sometimes through marriage also have links with the local population. They are often called peranakan Chinese and in the past were thus distinguished from the singkéh Chinese, who were born in China (or elsewhere?) and only came in Java in adult life. The meaning of the term peranakan seems to have changed, however. In an article on the causes of the rise of a Chinese minority in Cirebon in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Hoadley has characterized the peranakan as ‘Indonesian-born Muslim Chinese’, who could scarcely be distinguished from the local (Javanese) population in matters of clothing, conduct, language, and customs, and often bore a Javanese name (Hoadley, 1988:234). Sometimes representatives of these thoroughly assimilated Chinese occupied high positions in the local political and official bureaucracy.9 From the many examples given by Pigeaud, a number of patrons of the Javanese (performing) arts were to be found among these assimilated Chinese.10

8

Oral communication from Hersri S., May 1990.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 19

In contrast to the peranakan, according to Hoadley there was another group of Chinese who were primarily engaged in mercantile occupations, often recently arrived from China, and who continued to adhere to Chinese customs, language, and religion. These Chinese were concentrated around the temples (Hoadley, 1988). The supporters of the po-té-hi are to be found mainly among this second group, now usually also called peranakan but often calling themselves pribumi (meaning ‘native’).11 The puppeteer of the wayangthithi Gan Dhwan Sing from Yogyakarta whom I mentioned earlier seems, in view of the Javanized nature of his puppets and his use of the Javanese language, on the other hand to have belonged to the assimilated peranakan Chinese as meant by Hoadley. Data on the supporters of the po-té-hi are hard to find, however, and my assumption is that in practice one cannot (or can no longer?) speak of a clear dichotomy. The reason for giving a po-té-hi performance Invariably the reason given me for holding a performance of the po-té-hi was the redemption of a vow (kaul). The Javanese also have the custom of giving a performance as a means of redeeming a vow, and as a rule this involves a wayang play. They generally wait till some solemn event in the family is to be celebrated, for example the marriage of a daughter or the circumcision of a son. With one exception, which I will return to shortly, for the Chinese community of East Java the period when such a vow could be redeemed in the 1980s was invariably opened by the annual festival of the local temple. At a temple festival the foundation of the temple concerned is celebrated, and as a rule this coincides with the birthday of the god or goddess to whom the temple is dedicated. Such a temple festival mostly lasts several days. The series of po-té-hi performances (they are always given in a series, but more on this later) which is introduced by this festival usually lasts much longer. In 1985 the series of performances at the temple in Kediri took almost three months, in Tulungagung in the same year a good one and a half months, and in Tuban even five months. Surabaya turned out to be a specific case. The temple official of the temple in the heart of the Chinese trading quarter at Jambatan Merah (Red Bridge) related that because of the central position of this temple performances were even held there the year round. They were usually given by pupils, and sometimes, but by no means

9

See Hoadley, 1988, and Carey, 1984. Mentioned as patrons of Javanese arts, in particularly the masked drama (topéngi) and the song-and dance-drama wayang wong, are, for instance, p. 114, Tan Tjin Kie, ‘Major of the Chinese’ of Cirebon (died in 1919); p. 136, Tjoa Sien Tik, ‘Captain of the Chinese’ of Gresik; and p. 141, Hoen Ting Tjoen, owner of the sugar factory Tanggulangin in Sidoarjo (Pigeaud, 1938). 11 Ki Bejo, for instance, would not acknowledge a link with China as his family had lived in Java for many generations, and when asked about his origin would answer ‘pribumî, meaning that he was an Indonesian. 10

20 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

always, under the critical eye of an established puppeteer. This temple was now regarded as the school for Chinese puppetry, a function which, according to Ki Bejo, had formerly been reserved for the main temple in Semarang. Contracting the players Each year before the festival begins the temple concerned contracts a puppeteer (usually the same one over the years), and he in turn makes agreements with his fellow performers. Alongside the puppeteer, a group usually consists of four people: three musicians and one helper, as a rule a pupil of the puppeteer who assists him during the shows. In Kediri I once saw four musicians playing, apart from Ki Bejo’s little son who regularly acted as a drummer for a while. During the festival season (which for the different temples does not always coincide but can overlap) the puppeteer and the musicians often have agreements with more than one temple or puppeteer, and often travel from one temple to another to give their services. If there is much demand for performances at a temple, it can happen that the different contracts overlap. If this happens it is the responsibility of the puppeteer to provide a replacement at one of the two temples where he has to appear. In 1985 when Ki Bejo still had to perform in Kediri while his contract with the temple at Tuban had already begun, he arranged for a former pupil of his to replace him for one day so that he could open the series of performances in Tuban. After that he came back to Kediri to complete the performances there and arranged for a substitute in Tuban for that time. When his obligations in Kediri ended, he travelled with his effects and some of his musicians to Tuban where he boarded for the duration of his appearances. Only from time to time did he then return to Kediri to see his family. On various occasions I saw one or another of Ki Bejo’s musicians playing in other places too, such as Tulungagung and Gudo. This seems to indicate that the number of musicians familiar with the po-té-hi was not very large. I have not been able to obtain any figures for the number of Chinese puppeteers and their musicians, however. The po-té-hi theatre Apart from the contract with a puppeteer, the temple also provides the theatre. The description that Moens gave of the po-té-hi theatre, which he called ‘panggung’ (Moens, 1949:2), agrees in broad outline with the little theatres I saw being used in Kediri, Blitar, Tulungagung, and Gudo, although the ones I encountered there were of wood instead of bamboo as seems to be the case with the theatre described by Moens (1949:2). The theatres stood on poles, about one metre above the ground. They were about three metres wide, two and a half to three metres deep, and two metres high. The roof was usually made of corrugated plastic or iron. There was an opening in the front wall measuring approximately one and a half metres wide by one high, and which could be closed with a shutter. In one of the side walls of the structure there was a door with a little stair leading down to the ground. High in the

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 21

side and back walls there were shutters to admit light and air but preventing the audience from looking in. These theatres were the property of the temples. They consisted of panels that could easily be assembled and then pulled apart. After a series of performances they just lay like a heap of planks somewhere in the temple grounds, and before the beginning of the festival they were brought out again by the temple attendants, put together and set up so that the front of the theatre stood directly opposite the main entrance of the temple. In Kediri a roof of corrugated plastic was erected between the theatre and the temple entrance, and beneath it there were rows of wooden benches where the audience could sit, protected from the sun or rain. In Tulungagung and Gudo the audience took up places in the open front gallery of the temple. The theatres themselves were for the puppeteer, his group, the stage, and the props. At the temples in Tuban and Surabaya that I visited I did not find such freestanding structures on poles; there the theatre was a permanent feature of the temple complex. In the temple at Tuban, built on the shore looking out over the sea, the po-té-hi theatre occupied the upper storey of a concrete building at the side of the main temple. The stage was so high that the spectators had to strain to see anything of the play. In Surabaya the theatre of the temple at Jambatan Merah was built into one of the side walls. Two doors, one on either side of the stage, gave access to the theatre which was scarcely above ground level.12 The furnishing of the theatre and the stage The inside of each of the above-mentioned theatres was arranged in the same way. The actual stage on which the ‘actors and actresses’ enacted their roles was, in general, the property of the puppeteer, together with all the props.13 This stage, resembling a Chinese altar, hung in front of the opening in the front wall of the theatre. It was suspended on cords from the roof-beam or ceiling of the theatre. This kind of floating stage, the region where the actions are supposed to occur, symbolizes, Ki Bejo told me, the world of imagination—neither on earth, nor in heaven. The stage was about one and a half metres wide, thirty to forty centimetres deep, and approximately one metre high. The wooden and painted ceiling was generally supported by pillars which were often very finely worked. In the upper part of the back wall there were three gates with wooden doors which could, as required, serve as town gates, entrances to a fort, or the balcony doors of a palace. The lower part of the back wall and both its side walls were closed off by thin, transparent cotton curtains. The players could see out through them but the spectators could not see in, because of the relatively dim light inside the theatre. In the front part of the floating stage across the whole width of it was a wooden plank between this floor and the backdrop the puppeteers could manipulate their puppets without their arms being seen by the audience (see Fig. 6). Directly below the stage and right across its width two shelves were attached to the inside wall of the theatre 12 Robin Ruizendaal informed me (26 June 1990) that the different kinds of theatre described here are also found in China today.

22 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

on this the puppeteer could put such items as cigarettes, lighters, and snacks. ; Beneath the stage and again over the whole width, there hung a deep cotton bag, over the top of which a long, round pole was fixed. On this were hung the puppets that the puppeteer needed out of the way for a moment. In the bag were props such as tables, chairs, carriages, boats, various animals, and other objects needed during the play. Finally, in front of the backdrop of the stage (seen from the audience) there hung, suspended from the wooden upper half of the stage, two wooden open-work panels, one for the puppeteer and one for his assistant. They hung exactly at eye level of both players who thus could see what they were doing on stage as well as keep an eye on the audience outside. The puppeteer and his assistant sat next to each other on a large wooden bench placed under the stage. Behind this bench stood two chests, one for the puppets and one for the costumes and other attributes. Above these two chests, immediately behind the puppeteers, there hung a triple rack and at the side of this a rectangular, open box. On the rack were hung, in a fixed order, all the puppets and costumes that would be needed in the course of the per formance. In the box lay all sorts of properties such as drinking vessels, flags, weapons, banners, books, rolls of parchment, and so on. The various head-dresses for each ‘actor’ or ‘actress’ were tied to the four cords on which this box for the small stage-properties was hung from the ceiling, again in a fixed order. In this way, all the ‘actors’ and props for the performance were within easy reach of both players. They only had to turn around to be able to take what they needed. The members of the orchestra sat directly behind the two chests, above which the triple rack and the prop-box were suspended. Sometimes, when there was enough room, one or two musicians sat by the side of the puppeteer.

Figure 6. Ki Bejo Purnomo and his assistant in action 13

For the duration of Ki Bejo’s series of performances his stage and the other properties were kept in the theatre, to which he had the key to close it up after each performance.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 23

The orchestra and the musicians The most important instrument of the po-té-hi ensemble was the dong-ko (Jav. tambur),14 a small drum with skins stretched on both sides, hung loosely in an iron frame. On this frame, at right-angles to the drum, was fixed the piakku, a wooden block. The piak-ku and the dong-ko were beaten alternately with one or two sticks. The first one gave a loud, dry sound. As in the wayang theatre, in the po-té-hi the drummer is the leading musician. The effect of the actions of the puppeteer, especially during the battle scenes, depends to a large extent on the co-operation between him and the drummer. The latter always has to sit in such a position, preferably to the side of the puppeteer, that he can keep a close eye on both him and the puppets on the stage. Because of the transparent nature of the side and backdrops he is not hindered by these, especially as during the daytime performances as well as during night shows the puppets pick up the light of sun or lamps, while inside the theatre it is relatively dark. Besides the dong-ko and the piakku, the drummer of the Kediri group, to which the present description specifically applies, also played the pan, a pair of wooden clappers, twenty to thirty centimetres long. When struck together with a quick movement of the wrist they made a clear sound. The second musician of the Kediri group played the twee (Jav. trompét),15 a kind of oboe, and the twa-gwak (Jav. kecér), two pairs of little metal cymbals of which the lower one lay on a cotton ring that was tied to a stool or chair to stop it from shifting. The top one, a sort of lid, each had a loop attached that fitted over the musician’s finger. When both parts were struck together this gave a high, resonant sound. Finally this musician also played the sio-loo (Jav. théng-théng), a kind of horizontal gong which was struck with a flat stick and gave a somewhat dull sound. In front of the third musician stood the twa-loo (Jav. gembréng), a small gong hung vertically on a wooden standard and played with a stick with a padded, round head hanging from the musician’s finger, producing a high, very vibrant sound. This musician too had a twa-gwak, albeit somewhat larger or smaller than his colleague’s. Beating the twa-loo and the twa-gwak was alternated with playing the ol-hu or cin-hu, both being two-stringed violins (Jav. rebab), but each with a differently shaped body. In contrast to the Western violin or the Javanese rebab, the hairs of the bow were between the strings and the body of the instrument. Finally there was also a bamboo flute that was blown by one musician or another as opportunity offered. In Kediri, Ki Bejo himself generally played the ol-hu, the larger of the two ‘violins’. On the other hand the young puppeteer Ki Santoso of Tulungagung

14 Within brackets I give the Javanese equivalent of the Javanese-Hokkien names, following in both cases the information given to me by Ki Bejo.

24 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

accompanied the songs on the san-sien, a plucked instrument with three strings16 and an especially long neck. An odd feature was that in all the theatres where I have been the musical instruments were always attached to a cord hanging from the rafter or the ceiling, or in the case of the oboe or flute, hung on a nail in the wall when not being played. The explanation given for this was the same as for the suspended stage: this custom was supposed to suggest that the po-té-hi is not of this world. The ‘actors’ and the division of labour within the group The actual ‘actors’ of the po-té-hi are the puppets. Sometimes dozens and often well over a hundred, they are kept in a special chest. Before each performance, depending on the piece to be played, a choice is made from this collection. The puppets selected are then dressed. The head-dress pertaining to the costume is put on and then they are hung on one of the racks ready for their entrance in the play. If it happens that one (or more) of the actors has to change during the performance, the costumes needed are also taken out of the costume chest and hung ready within easy reach on one of the racks. These costumes often consist of richly embroidered brocade garments on the classic Chinese pattern. Although the actors depict particular persons they are more manifestations of types than individuals. There are four broad categories of such types: men (sheng), women (dari), clowns (chou), and the ‘painted faces’ (jing), themselves again divided into various sub-types.17 The costume, head-dress and, in the case of the jing characters, the face-painting, each provide identification of the type to which a particular actor or actress belongs. When a character gets another costume and appropriate head-dress during a performance, this indicates the transition from one role to another (as from soldier to spy), or from one rank to another (for example a prince or princess becoming king or queen, respectively). Changing costumes during the play, something that always has to be done in a twinkling, was generally the task of the puppeteer’s assistant, but if more than one actor had to be dealt with at the same time the puppeteer, one of the musicians, or even a casual visitor in the theatre would as a matter of course lend a hand. In theory, as Ki Bejo told me, the puppeteer should speak the parts of all the characters. But in his own group and in other groups that I have seen performing it repeatedly struck me that one or more members of the group, an assistant or one of the musicians, would still make a good showing in the verbal presentation. This was always the case when many characters (both on stage and from the wings) made themselves heard, as in battle scenes. Sometimes, when the puppeteer’s voice was not very suitable for producing the voice associated with a certain part, this would be spoken, or sung, by one of the other members of the group. Ki Bejo, for

15 16

Another, more commonly used Javanese term to designate this instrument is slomprét. As Ki Santoso told me, san-sien means ‘three strings’.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 25

example, had quite a high voice which was excellently suited for producing women’s voices but came over less well in a role where a deep man’s voice had to be imitated. So such a part was filled by one of the musicians, or, when a song had to be sung, by his assistant. The young puppeteer of Tulungagung said that he did not feel sure enough yet to sing, and therefore one of the musicians took care of the songs. This musician cum singer also provided the comments, remarks, encouragement, or questions of the clown servant who appeared especially in palace scenes. At the performance in Gudo that I attended there was no singing at all. The puppeteer, Ki Gunawan, told me that songs were not necessary, but it was not clear to me if this applied just to the piece being played that afternoon or he meant it to apply to the po-té-hi as a whole. I think the former. In Gudo too the voices of the musicians, including an old acquaintance from the Kediri group, regularly joined that of the puppeteer during the tumult of battle. The collaboration between the puppeteer and his assistant is largely dependent on decisions made on the spur of the moment, for example when one should take over a puppet from the other, when a combat should be ended by delivering a fatal blow, an item should be passed, or the characters should be brought on or taken off. To guarantee smooth team-work the assistant should possess a good knowledge of the whole story and the prelude to the particular piece being played. Besides, the assistant’s familiarity with the style of performance of the puppeteer is most important, and generally the assistant is also his pupil. At the one performance I saw in Gudo the puppeteer had to make do without his assistant for this once, and whenever more than two actors had to appear on stage the puppeteer was aided by one of his musicians, who kept having to exchange his place in the orchestra for one on the bench next to the puppeteer. During the play the contact between puppeteer and musicians was carried out in various ways. Firstly, this could be done by means of key words that he put into the text, for example, ‘step in!’ (su bow), ‘run!’ or ‘be off!’ (cou); or by breaking off the story with the expression suo lay,18 which would be a sign for the twee player to begin. Secondly, he used his hands to give a sign to the musicians to play louder or softer, faster or slower, or to stop altogether. Ki Bejo, when accompanying himself on the ol-hu during his songs, frequently sat on the bench half turned away from the stage, and sometimes even with his back to it, so that he could look his musicians in the eye, while his assistant manipulated the puppet or puppets. I never saw him get up from his seat, any more than the other puppeteers. The musicians, though, were much more mobile: as far as the play allowed now one and then another would go and lean out of one of the openings in the side or back wall of the theatre to smoke a cigarette, or even leave the theatre to

17

Communication from Robin Ruizendaal, July 1990, who added the information that the Chinese opera from its beginning has used such stereotypes, so that the audience can immediately recognize each particular character.

26 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

Figure 7. Invitation for the temple festival at Kediri

relieve himself. But wherever they were they took care to be back at their instruments in time. The opening of the po-té-hi season in Kediri in 1985 The festivities on the occasion of the 133rd anniversary of the temple Makco Thian Sang Sing Bu (which thus dates from 1852)19 were opened in 1985 (on Saturday 11 May) not with a po-té-hi performance but with a Javanese wayangkulit (see Fig. 7). 20 The puppeteer (Jav. dhalang) Ki Manteb Soedharsono of Sragen was invited for this purpose. This puppeteer who belongs to the Mangkunagaran tradition, presented the piece de resistance of this court tradition, the play Wahyu makutha Rama (The divine gift of Rama’s crown’) in the version of the famous Surakarta dhalang Ki Wignya Sutarna. In keeping with ancient custom, the performance lasted all night, but it was interrupted at midnight for prayers together by all those present in front of the main entrance of the temple. Many sticks of incense were burned, prayers murmured, and bows made to the four points of the compass and in particular to the west where the river Brantas flowed past the temple,21 and finally money was burned in the two pagoda-shaped incinerators in the front courtyard of the temple. After this religious ceremony, which took about an hour, the puppeteer

18 The Chinese expressions noted between brackets here were written down by my informant Pak Pek from what the puppeteer Ki Santoso said. Robin Ruizendaal added to this the following information. The twee in standard Chinese is called suona; as lai means ‘come’; suo lai could mean ‘come in suona’, which is an acceptable interpretation of the term suo lay (Robin Ruizendaal, personal communication, July 1990). 19

It is not inconceivable that the series of po-té-hi performances given in 1869 as mentioned by Poensen was held in this very temple. There are, however, other Chinese temples in Kediri, and Poensen did not indicate where exactly the performance was held.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 27

continued his performance while most of those present gathered in a room at the side of the temple for a meal together. Only a handful of spectators stayed behind to watch the play. The next day, Sunday, the festivities were resumed at 10 a.m. with the appearance of the po-té-hi group of Ki Bejo. They opened the first of a double series of performances with the prelude to the story ‘The foundation of the school of self-defence (persilatan) Siauw Liem Sie’.22 This show took two hours. It was followed again by a religious ceremony which, as far as I could see, was identical to the one the night before. On this occasion too a communal meal followed, after which there was a short siesta. At 3 p.m. the second of the double series of po-té-hi performances was initiated with a fragment from the play The birth of Tong San Ong’.23 This performance lasted till about five o’clock. In the evening the celebrations were rounded off with an appearance of a kulintang orchestra consisting of Chinese women. This kind of kulintang orchestra was being actively pushed by the Indonesian government at that time, in particular among schoolchildren and the wives of officials. The orchestra consists of xylophones of various sizes tuned to the Western scale, and used to play all sorts of popular Indonesian songs. It reminded me of the Dutch recorder classes of my youth. The organization of the performances and the repertoire The second day of the temple festival marked the actual start of the Kediri poté-hi season for 1985. From that day on Ki Bejo and his group would give two performances daily for almost three months. During the first month in the afternoon performance, which usually began at 3.30 p.m. and always lasted one and a half hours, an episode from the history of Si Kong24 was performed. At the evening performance, which lasted twice as long, from 7 to 10 p.m., the puppeteer unfolded the adventures of the self-defence group Siauw Liem Sie. In contrast to the wayang theatre, the episodes performed each day in the po-té-hi are not rounded wholes that could be called ‘plays’ and have their own name. Although a good puppeteer strives to achieve a balanced performance, the structure of his daily presentations is largely determined by the place of each particular episode in the story as a whole—a discussion between the king and his ministers in the palace about the policy to be followed to counter an attack from barbarian invaders; an army camp in a remote area; a feast on the occasion of an important victory or a

20 This was probably done in deference to the policy of the Indonesian government that strove towards the assimilation of its Chinese minority. 21 The temple was dedicated to the patroness of seafaring men whose name, according to de Groot, is Ma-Tsow-Po (de Groot, 1882:207). 22 Siau Liem apparently stands for Shaolin, a famous monastery and cradle of Chinese martial arts, which occurs in Kung-fu films (information from Robin Ruizendaal, 26 June 1990).

28 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

religious festival; and so on. From one day to the next one could therefore be treated to endless discussions, to a succession of fights interspersed with short deliberations between friendly factions, or to a procession and noisy celebrations. In general the puppeteer will need between twenty and thirty performances and the same number of days to complete a story. It took Ki Bejo twenty-five days, for example, to relate the story of the self-defence school Siauw Liem Sie. The repertoire of the po-té-hi, Ki Bejo said, is mostly taken from classic Chinese stories about gods, such as for example ‘Fung Sen Pang’ (Feng Shen Bang),25 myths about the origin of Chinese civilization,26 well-known episodes from Chinese history, such as the tale of Si Kong (spelt ‘Sie Kong’ by Ki Santoso) which is set in the T’ang dynasty (618–907), or ‘Sam Kok’ (San Guo), a story of the Three Kingdoms (c. A.D. 200),27 or accounts of self-defence groups such as the one mentioned above, which are set in the Qing dynasty (1644–1912) at the time of the Emperor ‘Kiau Liong’ (Qian Long), or the story ‘Swie Hu‘(Shuihu zhuan)28 about a band of noble bandits who resisted corrupt officials but stayed loyal to the dynasty. Ki Santoso said that he often took his material from Chinese ‘comic-books’ based on classical Chinese literature. In particularly the story ‘See-yu’ (Xiyou ji), in Western parlance better known as The journey to the west’, which is a favourite theme of such comics, provided him with a welcome subject for his performances. The pranks of Monkey (Su Wukong), one of the main characters from the story,29 gave him every opportunity to display his talents. The structure and the language of the performance Even though the separate performances did not each form a complete whole, they did have a number of ingredients in common with each other. These were: an introduction; one or more musical interludes; monologues; narrative passages in which the puppeteer gave a survey of the preceding events, sometimes ‘off stage’ but more often through one of the characters; dialogues; fights; and almost always several songs. A comic figure also usually appeared, sometimes in one of the scenes, and always to conclude the performance.

23

I have not been able to identify this character who played a role in the very popular story of Si Kong (see below). 24 In standard Chinese the name of this young and rather irresponsible hero is Xue Gang. He helped to overthrow the empress Wu (684–704), who lived during the T’ang dynasty (letter from Robin Ruizendaal, May 1990). 25 The Chinese words between quotation marks are given in Ki Santoso’s spelling; the standard Chinese spelling placed between brackets is from Robin Ruizendaal. 26 These mythological tales were adapted as popular novels in the late Ming dynasty (information from Robin Ruizendaal). 27 In China plays based on this story constitute a good 50 per cent of the repertoire of the puppet theatre (Robin Ruizendaal, 26 June 1990).

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 29

As introduction to the performance of 21 May 1985, Ki Bejo had one actor come on, representing a minister, who performed a ritual dance of welcome to the accompaniment of a fixed piece of music, lasting several minutes. This dance, reminiscent of the religious ritual during the temple festival, consisted of a large number of bows to the four quarters. However, Ki Santoso told me that he for the same introductory scene always had a group of four actors appear who together performed the same ritual dance. This group depicted the four gods: ‘Lam Kiek Sian’, 30 the curer; Thai Pek Kim Seng’, the helper; ‘Lie Lo Thia’, the god of fire; and ‘Sian Hay Lo Mo’, the god of the sea. According to Ki Santoso these gods stood for the south, the stars, the heavens, and the sea, respectively. They descended to where the play was being performed to bless it with their presence. The Hokkien blessing ‘Kai kwan’ which he uttered during this ritual dance was as follows: Jiao jiao ha san way Sian hwa man ti khay Hok lok cai cu siu Hui hap cong sian lay Which, according to the Indonesian translation by Ki Santoso,31 reads: Quietly we descend from the mountain. Fresh flowers bloom on earth Giving prosperity, good luck, and long life. The gods come and gather in this place. After this ritual dance by the four gods, Ki Santoso had a clownish actor (locally known as ‘god of the theatre’?)32 come on stage carrying a special prayer for the sponsor of the performance. In Kediri I saw as bearer of good wishes the same minister that performed the opening dance. In both cases this messenger bore a small red cloth that he unrolled while reading it out. Having read it, he attached the roll to the backdrop of the stage, where it stayed for the whole performance. The message which was read out in Ki Santoso’s performance on 29 May was as follows: Fuk rhu tung hay Sou pi nan san Which according to his translation33 reads:

28 Known in the West under the English title The story of the water margin’ (Idema and Haft, 1985:131). 29 Various episodes from this story, relating the journey of the Buddhist monk Xuanzang with his disciples to the west to fetch the holy books for the Emperor, were depicted in panorama in the Tju Tik Kiong temple in Tulungagung.

30 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

Good fortune as abundant as the eastern sea A life as long as the southern mountain.34 In Kediri these special good wishes for the sponsor, together with his name, occupation, and the date of the performance, were also written on a sheet of red paper and glued to the front panels of the theatre for everyone to read. As a rule a new scene was introduced by the twee, or oboe. The songs were accompanied on the stringed instruments, the ol-hu or the san-sien. The fights were punctuated by the dong-ko, the drum; the twa-loo, the small gong; the two twa-gwak, the larger and the smaller cymbals; the sio-loo, the horizontal gong; the piak-ku, the wooden block; and the pan, the clappers. Although the performances were now always in Indonesian due to ‘modern developments’, as Ki Bejo euphemistically put it, initiated by the New Order,35 the main characters would first introduce themselves in Hokkien Chinese, immediately followed by the translation. The songs were sung in Chinese without translation, and in general the audience did not understand them. Their function was merely to communicate a certain mood. They were usually sung by an actor (or actress) when he (or she) was on a journey, or in anticipation of a particular turn of events such as the result of a consultation or a fight. Ki Bejo distinguished two types of song, the sie-bi, sung to express happiness, and the jie-hong, depicting anxiety or sadness. The end of the performance was invariably announced by the same little, clownish figure, presumably again a ‘god of the theatre’,36 who, like a ‘jack-in-abox’, would suddenly jump up as if the puppeteer had run out of time and bid the audience farewell. For instance, the afternoon show in Kediri by Ki Bejo on 10 August 1985 ended as follows: Well, dear audience, dear spectators, seeing that the time has come, we end our programme here, the story will be continued tomorrow afternoon, then we will continue again. Best wishes, good afternoon, go safely home, enjoy your shower, we shall meet again tonight. Thank you….37 With these words of farewell I would like to end this exposition. A study of the po-té-hi of Java is a worthy subject, especially if one takes account of the role it plays in the Chinese community. Unfortunately, I have not been able

30 Here again the Chinese names in quotation marks are from Ki Santoso. I have not yet been able to identify their standard Chinese names. 31Dengan diam-diam [kami] turun dari atas gunung. Bunga segar mekar di bumi,memberi kemakmuran, rejeki, usia panjang, Déwa-déwa datang bertemu di tempat ini. 32 According to Robin Ruizendaal there are various ‘gods of the theatre’ known in China, depending on the region. and it is therefore difficult to identify a particular god. 33Rejeki berlimpah seperti laut timur, usia panjang sebagai gunung selatan.

THE CHINESE GLOVE-PUPPET THEATRE 31

to touch on this at all, and the same applies to the use of lan guage, Hokkien Chinese and Indonesian/Malay, in the performance, which should be investigated further. However, this can only be done by, or in close co-operation with, a Sinologist. Besides, knowledge of Chinese literature might reveal whether the stories played are more or less faithful renderings of the classic Chinese stories, and whether a distinct double meaning can be detected by the audience in the choice of particular episodes, characters, and so on. In other words, is it possible that here too, as in the wayang theatre, one can speak of allusions to current events or situations? References Brandon, J.R.1967. Theatre in Southeast Asia. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Carey, P.1984. Changing Javanese perceptions of the Chinese communities in Central Java, 1755–1825. Indonesia,37, 1–47. Gericke, J.F.C., and Roorda, T.1901.Javaansch-Nederlandscb handwoordenboek, vermeerderd en verbeterd door Dr. A.C.Vreede met medewerking van Dr. J.C.H.Gun-ning.Amsterdam, Leiden: Johannes Müller, E.J.Brill. 2 vols. Groot, J.J.M. de. 1882. Jaarlijkse feesten en gebruiken der Emoy-Chineezen.Batavia: W.Bruining. (Verhandelingen van het Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappen, XLII.) Hazeu, G.A.J.1897. Bijdrage tot de kennis van het Javaansche tooneel.Leiden: E.J.Brill. Hoadley, M.C.1988. The making of a minority in Indonesia: Chinese, Peranakan and Javanese elites at Cirebon. (In Mörner, M., andSvensson, T., ed. Classes, strata andelites: essays on social stratification in Nordic and Third World history.Göteborg: Gothenburg University, 233–66.) Idema, W., andHaft, L.1985. Chinese letterkunde: inleiding, historisch overzicht enbibliografteën.Utrecht, Antwerpen: het Spectrum. Moens, J.L.1949. Een Chineesche poppenkast en het spel van den linnen zak. Jade, XII (3), 1–15. Oetoyo. 1895. Beantwoording der vragen, gesteld door Mr. L.Serrurier, Directeur van ‘s Rijks Ethnographisch Museum te Leiden, over de verschillende soorten wajangs in de Afdeeling Batang, Res. Pekalongan (een weinig vermeerderd met eenige opmerkingen omtrent in andere gewesten voorkomende wajangsoorten). Tijdschrift voorhetBinnenlandsch Bestuur,X (1–6), 361–406.

34

According to Pak Pek the ‘southern mountain’ (nan san) is one of the five sacred mountains of China; I have not been able to locate it, however. 35 Of president Suharto, as opposed to the Old Order of Ir. Sukarno, the first president of the Indonesian Republic. 36 Information from Robin Ruizendaal 26 June 1990. 37Marilah para hadirin dan penonton yang terhormat, berhubungan waktu sudahsampai di sini acara ini kami tutup terlebih dahulu. Kemudian cerita bersambungan padabésok soré kita sambung kembali. Sekian. Selamat soré selamat pulang selamat mandi, nantimalam berjumpa lagi. Terimakasih…[?]! The final words (in Hokkien?) were unintelligible.

32 VICTORIA M.CLARA VAN GROENENDAEL

Pigeaud, T.G.T.1938. Javaanse volksvertoningen: bijdrage tot de beschrijving van landen volk.Batavia: Volkslectuur. Poensen, C.1873. De wajang. Mededeelingen vanwegen het Nederlandsche Zendelingengenootschap,17, 138–64. [First part of the article in no. 16, 1872.] Ruizendaal, R.E. Unpublished. Marionetten in het huidige Quanzhou. [Research proposal to NWO under supervision of Professor Dr W.L.Idema, 1990.] Salmon, C., andLombard, D.1977. Les Chinois de Jakarta: temples et vie collective.The Chinese of Jakarta. temples and communal life.Paris: SECMI [Société pour l’Etude de la connaissance du Monde Insulinde]. (Cahier d’Archipel, 6.) Seltmann, F.1976. Wajang titi—chinesisches Schattenspiel in Jogjakarta. Review of Indonesian and Malayan Affairs,X (1), 51–75. Serat.1930. Serat pakem Sastra Miruda.Solo: de Bliksem. Serrurier, L.1896. De wajang poerwa, eene ethnologische studie.Leiden: E.J.Brill.

2 The seblang and its music: aspects of an East Javanese fertility rite PAUL A.WOLBERS

Introduction When Damarwulan, the popular hero from Majapahit, is defeated outside the kraton of Blambangan by the ruler of this East Javanese state, Ménak Jingga, his body is left behind in the assumption that he is dead. Ménak Jingga’s wives, who had met with the charming prince before, are very upset upon hearing the news of his death. They rush outside, pick up the lifeless body, and carry it into one of the sleeping quarters. Inside, they inspect the body, but cannot discover any wound or scar. And yet, the prince does not give any sign of life. Then the princesses recite prayers and perform all sorts of other acts, which eventually revive the prince. Subsequently, Damarwulan kills the king of Blambangan and returns triumphant to Majapahit. The story of Damarwulan has become a popular subject for theatrical performances in Central and East Java. Even in Banyuwangi, the legitimate successor of Blambangan, this story is much beloved and often performed in jangér theatre.1 Texts of the prayers that were uttered by the princesses of Blambangan and that finally revived the dead hero, were included in an edition of the poem Damarwulan published by van Dorp in 1873 (Hazeu, 1901:104–05). They are similar to some of the song texts used in a ritual, still carried out around Banyuwangi, called seblang. In essence, they are an appeal to the widadari, the heavenly nymphs who bring life, fertility, and well-being, to descend into a medium, or, in the case of Damarwulan, into the lifeless hero. Before explaining the seblang ritual, let me first give some contextual information. The Dutch annexation of Blambangan (then the last Hindu state of Java, situated on the eastern part of the island) around 1770 resulted in an almost complete eradication of the local inhabitants, the Using. Although I have not been able to find references to court entertainment like dancing, puppetry, or or chestral music, the Hindu court of Blambangan undoubtedly had these traditions. With the destruction of the state, the Dutch then also destroyed its entertainment. In the course of the nineteenth century the area was repopulated with migrants from primarily Central Java and Madura.2 The Using, who came to populate the new administrative centre,

34 THE SEBLANG AND ITS MUSIC

Banyuwangi, did not mix with the outsiders.3 Gradually their numbers grew, and in the early twentieth century we come across the first bibliographical references to a typical Using musical tradition, gandrung.4 Nowadays Banyuwangi is considered the centre of Using culture: there are some twelve different musical and theatrical genres in the area. These, of course, are not all purely Using—there is, for instance, a substantial Balinese influence—but they nevertheless have a number of unique features.5 Gandrung Banyuwangi is undoubtedly the best-known local performance genre.6 It developed, in the form as we know it today, some 100 years ago as a combination of two traditions, gandrung and seblang.7 The former was a social dance in which a male audience could dance with a transvestite boy, similar to the Balinese gandrung tradition; seblang will be dealt with in the course of this paper. The new gandrung tradition features the gandrung (a female dancersinger), a drummer with two kendhang (double-headed drums), a kempul/gong (small and large hanging gongs) player, two violinists with biola (Western violins), a player of a pair of kethuk (two small damped gong kettles), and a kluncing (triangle) player, who also functions as a clown, or badhut. This ensemble is usually hired for wedding parties where they will play from 8 o’clock at night till about 5 in the morning. The gandrung alternates between singing songs at the tables of the male guests and dancing with those guests. The gandrung repertoire, which was based upon songs of the seblang and the boy gandrung, has grown to several hundred songs, which are also played by other kinds of ensembles, thus making it very influential. Since little has been published about seblang, one of the most important roots of gandrung, I found this a good opportunity to describe the ritual and to discuss some of the results of my research. I hope that it becomes apparent that a study of seblang could not only shed light upon the development of the music in Banyuwangi, but that it could, for instance, also teach us something about the history of the area. Seblang is a fertility rite and is in all likelihood the oldest living performing tradition in the area. Because nowadays only a few villages perform it once a year, Western authors have for a long time presumed that it no longer existed.8

1

Although it probably took its name from Balinese jangér, this theatrical form in Banyuwangi is quite different. Also known as kesenian Damarwulan, jangér features a nightlong performance of the Damarwulan story. The actors use dance and dialogue to advance the drama. A Balinese gamelan accompanies the performance. During the last twenty years or so, female actors began to play the female characters (until then the cast had been all male) and other stories were included in the repertoire. 2 For a concise history of Blambangan, see Lekkerkerker, 1927. 3 For demographic studies of the area, see de Stoppelaar, 1927; Atmosoedirdjo, 1952; and Tennekes, 1963. 4 Jasper, 1902, and Soerawidjaja, 1907. 5 Brandts Buys, 1926, deals with various genres. For more contemporary publications on the performing arts of Banyuwangi see Crawford, 1980; Sudjadi, 1986; and Wolbers, 1986 (which also deals with the Balinese connection), 1987, and 1989.

PAUL A.WOLBERS 35

The word seblang refers both to the tradition and to the woman or girl who has to dance for a number of hours during this ritual. The real meaning of the term seblang is not known; according to some informants from Bakungan, one of the villages with a seblang tradition, the word is composed of the elements sepi and langen, meaning ‘silent’ and ‘always’, thus referring to the fact that the seblang, who is in trance, does not speak during her dance.9 Some authors have indicated that formerly these sessions often centred around a wo man or girl who was recovering from an illness, in order to give thanks to the gods.10 Professional seblang were sometimes hired in these cases, but also to retrieve stolen goods, to indicate certain cures for illnesses, to answer questions with respect to agricultural problems, etc.11 The contemporary seblang traditions are conceived to be a ritus kesuburan or ‘fertility rite’, emphasizing the well-being of man and his crops. Nowadays, Bakungan and Olehsari, the two villages that still have an elaborate seblang ritual, have tied its execution to the Islamic calendar. In the past, however, it was performed as a part of the bersih désa (ritual cleansing of the village), which took place after the harvest. In the Olehsari tradition which will be discussed here, it is carried out during the week after the month of fasting (Puasa). The seblang ritual of Olehsari Every year, Sut, an elderly woman in Olehsari, gets a vision in which she is being told by a sétan (‘satan’, a generic term for any village spirit) which girl will be the seblang during the yearly village festival. In the spring of 1988, Ariah, 15 years old, was chosen. It is said that girls of Olehsari have never re fused to become seblang, but it is also known that she who refuses brings herself and her relatives into danger.

6

Publications on gandrung include Jasper, 1902; Soerawidjaja, 1907, and Wolbers, 1986 and 1989. For information on related West Javanese ketuk tilu, see Jean Heliwig’s paper in this volume (chapter 3). Another related Javanese tradition, tayuban, is discussed in Felicia Hughes-Freeland’s paper, chapter 7 in this volume. 7 See Scholte, 1927:149. 8

Scholte’s ‘reconstruction’ of the ritual (1927) may have given Kunst the impression that seblang no longer existed (see 1973, 1:282). Crawford was also under this assumption, when he wrote The s•blang…was a religious dance…’ (1980:205). 9 De Stoppelaar, who studied the adat (customary laws) of the area, could not translate the word either. However, he describes the use of the word nyeblangaké, a verb derived from seblang: ‘When one needed advice on moments when spirits chose not to manifest themselves, one thought of means to coax them; this, one found in the nyeblangaké’ (1926: 413). Ben Arps has directed my attention to another possible explanation of the word seblang. The seblang in one village executes certain dances during which she throws a sampur (dance sash) into the audience; whoever is hit has to dance with her. In another village, the seblang uses her sampur to ‘catch’ children from the audience, who then have to participate in the ritual. These actions may, according to Ben Arps, point at a relationship between the word seblang and the morpheme seblak, from which the verb nyeblak is derived. The meaning of this verb is ‘to hit’, or ‘to hit with a whip or branch’.

36 THE SEBLANG AND ITS MUSIC

The dhukun (a kind of shaman) for this ritual is Pak Asenan, who has been fulfilling this function for the past four years. This is the only occasion where he functions as dhukun. In addition to the dhukun there are some other men who help during the ritual, as well as a man who functions as a clown, called tukang mongmong (caretaker) in Olehsari. A chorus of 7 elderly women sing the 27 songs that are a necessary part of the ritual. They barely understand the meaning of some of these songs, because apart from the fact that they use an archaic bahasa Using, itself a partly archaic version of Javanese, they also employ a lot of metaphors which are no longer always understood.12 The singers are accompanied by a small orchestra, consisting of two saron (metallophones); one kendhang (drum); and one large gong, which, when damped with the free hand, is also used as a kempul. The women help the seblang to get dressed and make her a fresh omprok every day. An omprok is a helmet-like headdress, made out of banana leaves, coconut leaves, little mirrors, paper flowers, and real flowers (see the illustration in Wolbers, 1989). It covers the head and shoulders, but leaves the face free. The seblang dances in white socks (like the gandrung), wears a wristwatch around the left wrist, and has bells tied around her left ankle. A dance sash is tied to her belt made out of silver plates. Short account of the ritual in May 1988 Around 2 p.m., the seblang, the women, the dhukun, and bystanders gather in front of the house of the dhukun. Then the party sets off in single file to the space where the performance is to take place. First comes the dhukun, holding his incense burner, then a woman holding the omprok; she is followed by the seblang who has a transparent shawl over her head and who shelters herself with an old umbrella. Then follow the other women. They have to walk some 500 metres through narrow alleys where street vendors have unpacked their merchandise. Soon the procession reaches a square where a temporary shelter has been erected. Before they enter, they have to wait for the gamelan to play an ostinato pattern, and then they proceed to the shelter. On the back wall of this structure is a board supporting various sajén (offerings) such as bananas, hulled rice, and coconuts. The omprok is placed among the offerings. Under the roof of the shelter hang all sorts of products that the land yields; there are representatives of hanging fruits, fruits from the earth, and fruits from creeping plants. A number of folding chairs, intended for the chorus and the seblang, have been placed under the shelter. In front of the shelter a high pole, ornamented with fresh greenery, is erected. It serves as the centre post of a large awning that is also attached to the shelter. Facing the chorus, the musicians sit around the centre post. A large audience is assembled in

10

See de Stoppelaar, 1926:413, and Scholte, 1927:149. Sudjadi, 1986, mentions the fertility aspect of the ritual. 11 De Stoppelaar, 1926:413.

PAUL A.WOLBERS 37

a wide circle around the musicians. The seblang has to dance in the circle between the audience and musicians. While the seblang and the chorus are sitting under the shelter, the dhukun holds the incense burner under the omprok, held by one of the women. Subsequently he circles it three times above the omprok. Then he walks three times around the musicians, thus sanctifying the space where the seblang is to dance. The women remove the veil from the seblang’s head and put the omprok in place. The girl gets up and faces the musicians. She holds a round rattan tray in both hands. The dhukun crouches in front of the seblang with his incense, and one of the women stands behind her. Then the chorus begins to sing the first song. While this song is repeated many times, the woman who stands behind her takes hold of the seblang’s head and moves it forcefully from side to side to the rhythm of the music. Soon the entire body of the girl takes over these movements, and the woman releases her grip. The tray falls out of her hands, a sign that she has entered her trance-state. The seblang’s eyes are closed, and will remain so for the coming 3 hours. The tempo of the music slows down and a woman of the chorus speaks to the seblang, telling her not to be afraid and to follow her. She leads the seblang, who keeps making dance movements, counter-clockwise around the orchestra. The dhukun and other male trance specialists are ready to resolve any problems that might arise. Twice they circle around the musicians. After the second round, the girl dances in one place in front of the shelter; then she moves backwards towards her chair and sits down. This entire session has lasted only about three minutes. The same procedure is repeated with every song, and whenever the seblang has had enough, she goes to her chair, and the music stops. Even when seated, she keeps making dance movements with her arms and head that seem spasmodic in nature. Between every number, the dhukun will come and circle the incense burner over her head. During the third song the girl is apparently not satisfied with the tempo; she stands among the musicians and hits them over the head with her sash, thus knocking off their caps. During the next song she steps on one of the saron, thus causing it to fall. The man who is to function as clown has arrived. The clown is the real intermediary between the audience and the seblang; he leads her by dancing in front of her while shouting and throwing his dance sash against her face. Moreover, he 12 The problem with an oral tradition like seblang is the fact that when it comes down to transcribing the words which are being sung, there is often no agreement among the singers. Some texts are quite easy to transcribe, other prove to be a source of disagreement. On many of my field recordings one can clearly hear that different singers pronounce certain words differently from each other, or even use different words altogether. When individual words have to be explained the same problems arise; often singers and musicians give conflicting meanings. Finally, the participants in the rituals are highly reluctant to interpret the texts; it is generally agreed that these are ‘very old’ and that they are mandatory for the ritual. The exact meaning (if there ever was one) is long forgotten, but this is totally irrelevant to them. (I suppose that research into the former use of Latin in the services of the Roman Catholic church would have yielded some remarkable parallels.)

38 THE SEBLANG AND ITS MUSIC

also restrains the girl’s behaviour, which can be rather vicious, and comforts her. This is all done in a humorous way that often makes the audience laugh.13 Whenever the seblang finds the bystanders too noisy, she will turn towards whoever she thinks responsible and holds a finger before her lips. If she is more annoyed, she will slap people, pull their clothes, pinch them with considerable force, or really attack them. Often the clown and dhukun have to intervene in these situations. Children are scared by the seblang when she comes close to them, although an encounter with her is considered to be beneficial. Sometimes the seblang will inquisitively touch an onlooker’s face, hands, and clothes, and the clown will then shout ‘tamu, tamu’, thus indicating that this is a guest. After the eighth song, the dhukun holds his incense burner under a tray with fresh pecari flowers,14 murmurs some spells, puts his right hand on his heart and then on top of the flowers. Subsequently he takes one of the flowers, which are attached to three-pronged bamboo skewers, and sticks it into the pocket of his shirt. A copper bowl is brought to the front; it will serve to collect the money paid by those who want to buy a flower from the seblang. She, in the mean time, sits motionless on her chair (there is no music) and is given the tray on her lap. The chorus begins to sing the song that is always sung during this part of the ritual. While the seblang stands in front of the musicians—the tray in one hand—the dhukun, the clown, and some other persons sell the flowers, which they take from the tray. An old man holds the bowl in which the money is deposited. One preferably pays with coins, so that the seblang hears them fall into the bowl. After a while, the seblang starts to dance around the tray, until all the flowers are sold. Most of these are given to children and are believed to have a wholesome effect on them. This part of the ritual lasts about a quarter of an hour. Next, the seblang has to dance on a table with male members of the audience. Another song is begun; the girl dances to the table, which has been placed among the onlookers, and via a chair she climbs on top of it. In her right hand she holds the veil that covered her head before she wore the omprok. She squeezes it into a ball and all of a sudden hurls it into the audience, while pointing in its direction. A boy appears, with the veil that had hit him, and climbs on the table. They face one another while each of them holds an end of the sash. The seblang keeps making dance movements while the boy just stands there looking sheepishly. After perhaps 30 seconds she dismisses him with a firm nod of her head, and the whole procedure is repeated again. The seblang determines the tempo of the music; if she does not like a particular tempo, she will refuse to dance and/or shake her head or hand, thus indic ating that she is not satisfied. The drummer has turned around in order to monitor the girl.

13

On the role of the clown see Wolbers, 1989. or cempaka (Michelia champaca L.) is a big tree which is very common in East Java. It is planted for its fragrant yellow flowers which women wear in their hair. These flowers are also used to scent the oil with which women anoint their hair. 14Pecari

PAUL A.WOLBERS 39

The seblang is as particular about her partners as she is about the music; the next to appear on the table is a nervously giggling woman. The girl senses the hilarity in the audience, feels the breasts of the woman, and sends her away. Some ten young men are hit by her veil, and the reactions of their comrades get louder all the time; this is clearly the most-appreciated aspect of the ritual. The seblang subjects her partners to different treatments; one is slapped in the face, another sees money disappear from his breast-pocket, after which he is pinched in his nipples, and a third one is thrown off the table by the girl who gets more and more annoyed by the gay atmosphere. The by-standers make sure that whoever is hit by the veil makes an appearance on the table. This session lasts 20 minutes after which the girl indicates that she has had enough; one of the women lifts her off the table, and the clown escorts the seblang back to her chair. The music stops. After a short intermission the song is begun that is intended to break the trance. The seblang gets up from her chair and follows the clown and the dhukun with his burning incense, while a man and a woman escort her. Three times they circle the musicians while a mat is spread out on the ground. All of a sudden the music increases in tempo and the procession catches up speed, until the girl feels the mat under her feet. Then she stands still on it and suddenly collapses flat on her face while the man and the woman try to break her fall. At the moment she hits the ground the music slows down and stops. The girl remains flat on the ground for a while. Two women sit with her, as well as the dhukun, who burns new incense. A man has taken a microphone and the brass bowl; through the sound system he solicits money for the seblang. While the next song is played, some bystanders throw a few coins into the bowl. The collected coins are wrapped in a handkerchief which is shoved into the girl’s hand. The seblang gets up almost immediately, dances a little, and goes to her chair. After the dhukun has once again circled his incense burner over the head of the girl, she dances a moment and sits down again. It is announced over the sound system that the session is over, and that next day there will be another seblang ritual. In the background the chorus sings the final song. The orchestra switches to the same quick ostinato pattern that was played when the procession entered the field. One of the women removes the omprok from the girl, who sits motionless on her seat. Some of the participants in the ritual remove flowers from the head-dress; it is believed that they will protect their owner.15 The veil is put over the girl’s head. She looks as if she has just woken up from a deep sleep; her facial expression is totally blank. The same procession is formed once again and proceeds in the opposite direction. When they reach the road, the music stops.

15

After the last day, people tore the offerings from the shelter, and a woman sold fragments of the omprok. Some men told me that they were going to attach these to the rear view mirror of their car, in order to be protected while on the road.

40 THE SEBLANG AND ITS MUSIC

This ritual is repeated for six days. The final day differs from the other ones, because half-way through the programme, before the table dances, the seblang and all the other participants will go through the village, where she dances at all the important intersections, the graveyard, the village pendhapa (pavilion/auditorium), etc. Thus the entire village will be sanctified, and it is hoped that the next year will be a healthy and fruitful one. The dancing virgin assisted by the old women, the offerings and the fruits from the land, the dances with the young men, all these factors illustrate why seblang is perceived as a ritus kesuburan, or fertility rite. Seen in this light, it is understandable that gandrung became such an important form of entertainment for wedding parties. The music of the seblang Music is a vital ingredient of the seblang ritual; without it the girl cannot be brought into trance, she cannot dance, the songs cannot be sung, the procession cannot proceed to the performance space, and the trance cannot be broken. Because seblang is the oldest surviving musical tradition in the area, it can be assumed that its musical repertoire is also older than the repertoires of other local traditions. This assumption is confirmed by indigenous musicians. It should be remarked here that there is a substantial difference between the music of the two seblang traditions. In Bakungan the vocal line is supported by a Western violin (like in the gandrung ensemble) and the music is more melismatic and more ornamented than the music of Olehsari, which has a more rigid pulse. In Bakungan, one can choose from among some 50 songs, which are not subject to a particular order like the ones in the Olehsari tradition. Both repertoires share a great number of songs, but have also certain songs that are unique for each of them. Both begin the ritual with the same song. It is hard to determine which of the two traditions is the older; participants in both rituals claim their tradition to be the more authentic one. The musicians and the singers of Bakungan are also active in gandrung Banyuwangi. This does not seem to be the case in Olehsari which, moreover, is more isolated than Bakungan. Their music, accompanied by the two saron, has a sound quality that is distinctly different from that of the gandrung with its two Western violins. About half of the 27 songs of the Olehsari repertoire are still used by the gandrung Banyuwangi, as well as in instrumental genres such as angklung or patrol.16 Even the purely Islamic genre Burdah makes use of seblang melod ies.17 The use of these old songs is even more remarkable when one takes into consideration that there is an enormous outpouring of newly composed songs and dances, partly inspired by a booming cassette industry as well as by government patronage of the local arts. Most of the gandrung songs are characterized by subdivisions into eight beats, often quatrain-like texts, and an almost exclusive use of the sléndro scale (a roughly

16Angklung

Banyuwangi is named after the two large bamboo xylophones that are

PAUL A.WOLBERS 41

equidistant five-tone scale). When looking at some characteristics of the music of Olehsari, a point can be made that this must be an older repertoire indeed. (See the example.) 1. Although many of the songs have a total number of beats that can be divided by 8, the units are often 7, 8, or 9 beats long. For instance, 11 of the songs have a 56 beat pattern that can be subdivided into 8+7+9+8+7+8+9 beats; the strokes on the gong are usually 8 beats apart (see the example). These subdivisions can also still be found in some of the traditional gandrung songs. 2. It is hard to determine the length of the verse lines because the meaning of the texts is often unclear. The music, however, often subdivides the texts into 7 units, which may be grouped into 2 or 3 larger units (see the example); contemporary gandrung songs are more symmetrical. 3. In some songs, a singer in Olehsari had a tendency to alter certain intervals, in spite of the fact that she was sitting next to the accompanying saron. This resulted in a pentatonic scale which employed seconds that were almost minor, and thirds that were almost major, thus giving it a distinct pélog flavour.18 I should emphasize once again that nowadays pélog is hardly ever used in Banyuwangi, save in the case of the Balinese gamelan that accompanies the jangér theatre. Kunst, however, claims that the entire district was once dominated by pélog.19mixed with a number of metallophones (see Crawford, 1980, and Wolbers, 1986). The orchestra accompanies dances, or two orchestras meet in an angklung caruk (a sort of competition; see Wolbers, 1987). The name patrol, derived from the night watch system of thevillages, is used for a variety of orchestras which consist entirely of bamboo instruments.These perform only once a year, after the fasting.It should be remarked here that two songs employ a 4 note scale, and one just a 3 note scale. This too might point at a higher age for these songs. 4. The range of the songs of the seblang is very limited, usually not exceeding an octave (in the example, the range is only a major sixth). In the gandrung tradition, where emphasis is placed upon vocal qualities, the range has substantially expanded in the newer songs.

17

There are only a very few Burdah groups left in the area. The one that I know consists of 9 men, most of whom are middle-aged. They chant from a book written in Arabic characters, which deals with episodes from the Prophet’s life. They accompany themselves on terbang (round frame drums) of various sizes; their chants employ a number of local, popular melodies. 18 In pélog, the octave is subdivided into seven intervals, differing in size. Usually, however, only five pitches are used, just like in sléndro. It is the irregularity of the intervals that makes pélog so remarkably different from sléndro. 19 See Kunst, 1973, 1:21, 22, as well as Appendix 57 (D.4) in II:568, 569, and the loose maps (Appendix 58A/B). I find it hard to believe that only two generations ago the entire Banyuwangi area would have been pélog territory, as Kunst claims. His distinction between a sléndro and a pélog gamelan gandrung, an orchestra in which the two carriers of the mel

42 THE SEBLANG AND ITS MUSIC

Example. The seblang song ‘Padha nonton’ (Olehsari, 1988)

5. A great number of the 27 songs employ the same musical material; musical units of one song may be used in other songs. The syllables of the words are repeated as often as necessary to make the text fit the melody (see, in the example, how the sound m is repeated in the word sempal). This is in contrast to the newer repertoire, in which text and melody are more compatible. Let me conclude this section by making a few remarks about the song texts: The seblang texts are rather problematic; as I stated previously, the singers are hardly aware of their meaning.20 Moreover, since these women cannot read or write, it requires an extraordinary amount of patience to come up with a written version of a sung text, and its subsequent interpretation.

ody are Western violins, is also hard to understand, because of the capability of these instruments to play in any mode (see Appendix 57 D.4). Kunst’s assumption that pélog in the region was ‘backed by Bali’ (1973, 1:21) does make sense; even today, pélog is chiefly associated with Balinese music. Some Balinese traditions had a profound influence in Banyuwangi, especially on gandrung. According to one of my informants, it was only some 30 years ago that the introductory solo dance (which has a pélog accompaniment) of the gandrung was changed from a pure Balinese style into what was considered a local style. The desire to ‘purify’ certain musical genres from Balinese associations may indeed have led to a greater prominence of the sléndro system. This, however, does not automatically imply that only 60 years ago most of Banyuwangi’s music was in the pélog scale. See also Ben Arps’s article on the old local tradition of chanting the lontar Yusup; most of the melodies used in this tradition are also in a sléndro scale (Arps, 1990).

PAUL A.WOLBERS 43

Most of the song texts do not seem to bear a clear relationship with the parts of the ritual that they accompany. They deal with various things; some appear to be critical of the colonial power, others are invocations to the widadari, some seem to deal with local historical events, and again others have a mildly erotic quality. References to plants, flowers, geographical locations, and names of widadari seem to be the most common ingredients. An illustration of the problems that arise when trying to interpret a text is seen by the fact that the most famous song of Banyuwangi, ‘Padha nonton’, has been explained as a protest song against the use of forced labour by Daendels when constructing the notorious postal road through Java around 1810; it has been interpreted as a metaphor that deals with the gandrung and her dance partners; and some see in it a song that is about heavenly nymphs and bathing children.21 Yet, I feel that it is extremely important to penetrate the meaning of these texts because they can provide us with cultural and historical information about the region.22 Conclusion In conclusion I would like to remark that in Banyuwangi we have the interesting opportunity of studying musical traditions together with what can be labelled as their ritual predecessor. Comparison of these traditions and their music can provide us with valuable insight into how a group of people, once almost threatened with extinction, have managed to maintain and expand their cultural integrity. That these traditions are by no means isolated phenomena that should be studied only within their own local context is something I have indicated in earlier publications.23 Comparisons to other traditions of other cultures in the archipelago should be made, if possible, in order to come to a fuller understanding of the cultural development of the group of people and their traditions under consideration.24 This brings us back to the Damarwulan poems that appeared to be related to the texts of the seblang songs. Actually Hazeu, who quoted these Damarwulan texts, was establishing another connection, namely between these texts and songs used in the now seldom played Javanese girls’ game nini thowong.25 If we compare this game

20

In 1901, when collecting song texts of the nini thowong tradition, Hazeu had to conclude that the singers often had no idea of the meaning of their songs (1901:92). 21 Sudjadi, who does not give a translation of the text, interprets it as an allegory dealing with the relationship between the gandrung and her male audience (1986:76). A translation of the text in the programme of a gandrung performance in Bandung in 1921 gives the impression that it deals with flowers and bathing and children fishing (Programma, 1921: 11). Oetomo (1987) writes about the song, and also gives a translation. According to this author, ‘Padha nonton’ was written in 1780 as a protest against the V.O.C. (1987:115–17). My own informants mentioned the resistance against Daendels’s road as the source of inspiration for the song. 22 A team involving representatives of different disciplines is really necessary for a successful completion of a task like this.

44 THE SEBLANG AND ITS MUSIC

and its songs26 with the seblang tradition and its songs, we have to come to the conclusion that they are similar in many respects, and that both probably find their roots in old fertility rites, which in many cases became extinct, or, as in the case of the nini thowong game, became children’s games. That the seblang tradition is still felt to be a life-bringing force for the entire community was illustrated by a musician in Bakungan who said that they needed it every year, otherwise their village would cease to exist.27 References Arps, B.1990. Singing the life of Joseph: an all-night reading of the lontar Yusup in Banyuwangi, East Java. Indonesia Circle,53, 34–58. Atmosoedirdjo, Slamet Prajoedi.1952. Vergelijkende adatrechtelijke studie van Oostjavase Madoerezen en Oesingers….Amsterdam: Studentendrukkerij ‘Poortpers’ N.V. Brandts Buys, J.S., and Brandts Buys-van Zijp, A.1926. Over muziek in het Banjoewangische. Djåwå,VI, 205–28. Crawford, M.1980. East Java. (In The new Grove dictionary of music and musicians.London: Macmillan, IX, 201–07.) Hazeu, G.A.J.1901. Nini towong. Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,XLIII, 36–107. Jasper, J.1902. De gandroeng Bali. Tijdschrift voor het Binnenlandsch Bestuur,XXIII, 414–18. Kunst, J.1973. Music in Java: its history, its theory, and its technique. Third enlargededition, edited by E.L.Heins.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. 2 vols. Kunst, J., and Kunst-van Wely, C.J.A.1922. Over Bali’sche muziek. Djåwå,II, 117–46; 194–96. Lekkerkerker, C.1927. Balambangan. (In Encyclopaedie van Nederlandsch-Indië.Tweede druk.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, V, 38–45.) Oetomo, Sri Adi.1987. Kisah perjuangan menegakkan kerajaan Blambangan.Surabaya: Sinar Wijaya. Overbeck, H.1939. Javaansche meisjesspelen en kinderliedjes.Jogjakarta: Java-Instituut. Pigeaud, T.G.T.1932. Aanteekeningen betreffende den Javaanschen oosthoek. Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,LXXII, 215–313. Programma.1921. Programma voor het congres van het Java-Instituut te houden teBandoeng van 17– 19juni1921. [Weltevreden: G.Kolff en Co.] Scholte, J.1927. Gandroeng van Banjoewangie. Djåwå,VII, 144–53. Soerawidjaja, R.S.1907. Gandroeng lan gamboeh.Batavia: Landsdrukkerij. Stoppelaar, J.W.de.1926. Een paar aanteekeningen over Banjoewangi. Kolaniaal Tijdschrift,XV, 413–19. Stoppelaar, J.W.de.1927. Balambangansch adatrecht….Wageningen:H.Veenman en Zonen. Sudjadi. 1986. Asal-usul dan keadaan kesenian gandrung Banyuwangi dewasa ini. (In Soedarsono, ed.Kesenian, bahasa, dan folklor Jawa.Yogyakarta: Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, 65–80.) Tennekes, J.1963. De bevolkingsspreiding der residentie Besoeki in 1930. Tijdschriftvan het Aardrijkskundig Genootschap,2de Serie, LXXX, 309–423. Wolbers, P.A.1986. Gandrung and angklung from Banyuwangi: remnants of a past shared with Bali. Asian Music,XVIII (1), 71–90.

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Wolbers, P.A.1987. Account of an angklung caruk,July 28, 1985. Indonesia,43, 66–74. Wolbers, P.A.1989. Transvestism, eroticism, and religion: in search of a contextual background for the gandrung and seblang traditions of Banyuwangi, East Java. Progress Reports in Ethnomusicology (SEMPOD Laboratory, Dept. of Music, University of Maryland, Baltimore), II (6), 1–21.

46

3 Jaipongan: the making of a new tradition JEAN HELLWIG

Introduction In 1988 I did anthropological research in Bandung and its surroundings (West Java) on the Sundanese popular music and dance genre known as jaipongan. In the last month of my stay, my cameraman Frank Krom came over to Indonesia and we shot the material for a documentary on video called Sundanese popularculture alive!!!. It is a documentary about jaipongan and other Sundanese art forms. The title of the documentary aptly describes the state of the arts that I encountered during my stay: Sundanese culture is a dynamic culture in which categories like ‘classical’ or ‘traditional’ seem to be quite out of place. In this paper I will describe the short history of jaipongan as well as the way the music is organized. The beginning of jaipongan dates back to the late 1970s when one particular artist from Bandung launched his creation with well-considered vigour. Within a few years several dancing schools were teaching jaipongan to enthusiastic youth and many cassette companies released cassettes of jaipongan music. Jaipongan also became popular as dance music at festivities. Jaipongan is based on typical Sundanese art forms and does not make use of Western instruments. Elements from various music and dance types from West Java are integrated in this genre. Though its origin lies in Bandung, its popularity soon started to spread to the rural areas of West Java. However, performances there are very different from those in Bandung. Jaipongan is also performed in the national capital of Jakarta but again in a totally different context. As jaipongan spread as a popular art, it started to influence the older arts from which it had sprung. But jaipongan itself is still in development and is also influenced by new art forms. By having a close look at jaipongan and other performing arts we get an idea of the dynamics of Sundanese culture and how the different art forms interrelate. In this paper I will sometimes refer to the documentary Sundanese popularculture alive!!!. In the documentary, demonstrations and explanations are given by various artists concerning various characteristics of jaipongan. Both video and film are obviously a medium that is very different from the written word. I hope that anyone who is interested in jaipongan and Sundanese arts will be able to see the

48 JEAN HELLWIG

documentary because there is so much information in moving pictures that can never be described in words. The musical culture of West Java The musical culture of the Sunda region in the province of West Java is a rich one. Many different music genres and dance styles are found here. The great variety of musical culture in West Java can be explained by the relative isolation in which Sundanese communities used to live under local rulers. Communications and trade in the mountainous and formerly densely forested areas were difficult until quite recently. As a consequence the regional styles of performing arts could develop independently from one another and differ markedly over distances of only a few dozen kilometres (Hugh-Jones, 1982:20). Jaap Kunst noted (1948:54) that Sundanese culture started developing quite late. According to Kunst this was due to the absence of a strong court culture in Sunda as existed in central Java. For many centuries, the sultans’ palaces (kraton) in central Java were centres where poets and artists worked on the refinement of the arts. HughJones (1982:19) states that the Sundanese sometimes remark that their civilization is rakyat séntris (centred on the people) as opposed to that of central Java which is kraton séntris (centred on the court). In order to present a clear picture of the multiplicity of folk music and dance types found in Sunda, various categories are used such as ‘old’ versus ‘new’, ‘folk’ versus ‘court’, ‘traditional’, ‘classical’, ‘pop’, etc. Unfortunately these categories prove to be imprecise and ill-defined. They relate to concepts with complex meanings and can be easily misinterpreted. Nevertheless, these categories can be very meaningful as long as we admit that they tell us more about the people who use them than about the music or dance itself. This is why van Zanten (1987:5) stresses the importance of research on the musical concepts of musicians. Jaipongan is a typical Sundanese art form that is difficult to categorize. It is strongly associated with Bandung, the capital of West Java, from whence the popularity of the genre started to spread. The name jaipongan refers to the music style as well as to the dance style, but it is also used to indicate the specific rhythms of the genre. The beginning of jaipongan dates back to the late 1970s. In spite of its short history many Sundanese include jaipongan among the traditional arts. This is due to the fact that the music is played on a traditional gamelan in saléndro tuning and that the dance is derived from various older dance forms. At the same time, the popularity of jaipongan among the youth as dance music would justify the use of the term pop music. However, in West Java this term is exclusively applied to foreign and Indonesian music that makes use of Western band instruments, the latter being inspired by Western pop music. The jaipongan songs are sung in Sundanese. Also the playing techniques of the gamelan instruments are typically Sundanese. This does not mean that the popularity of jaipongan is limited to the Sundanese region: it is well known in other parts of Java and other islands of the Indonesian archipelago. It is quite unusual for a

JAIPONGAN: THE MAKING OF A NEW TRADITION 49

regional music style that does not make use of any Western instruments to become a new popular genre. Dangdut music for example, extremely popular in the 1970s, makes use of Western instruments. So too does the popular music of the 1960s, on the whole called orkés Melayu, of which kroncong, though centuries old, was very popular in the 1950s. The fact that it has roots in old Sundanese arts and is a new and popular genre at the same time, makes jaipongan a very interesting phenomenon that is worth having a closer look at. Researching its history leads inevitably to Gugum Gumbira who, to a large extent, is responsible for the present popularity of jaipongan. He is an artist and businessman from Bandung, whose cassette company Jugala is considered to be the most important one as far as jaipongan music is concerned. Towards a new dance music Coming from an artistic family, Gugum Gumbira grew up with the Sundanese arts. The traditional music of Sunda however could not satisfy his requirements for dance music. In the documentary Sundanese popular culture alive!!! (Hellwig, 1989) he tells about his urge to create something new which he relates to a prohibition on Western dance music when he was younger. This has to be set against the political background of the late 1950s, when cultural life was very much dominated by LEKRA (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat), the cultural organization of the Communist party PKI. Its Marxist ideology did not leave much room for artists whose work was not serving the proletariat, and as a consequence the borders were closed to the American dance music of that time. He thus looked for specific elements of the folk arts that he could use for a new dance creation. In the late 1970s Gugum Gumbira presented his new composition and choreography in West Java and in 1978 at a festival in Hong Kong. It was called Ketuk tilu perkembangan (‘ketuk tilu in development’ or ‘expanded ketuktilu’), and was heavily inspired by the Sundanese ketuk tilu1 folk dances. These are social dances in which women and men mix. In most Sundanese dances this is not the case. A very important feature of social dances for Gugum Gumbira was the improvisation of the dance movements which he aptly demonstrates in the documentary. This enabled him to integrate dynamic movements from the martial arts (pencak silat2) with more classical elements of the tarikeurseus3 dances, wayang orang4 dances, and wayang topéng5 mask dances. The music of his new creation that was derived from ketuk tilu was not performed on ketuk tilu instruments but instead on a complete gamelan set. Just as in

1

The term ketuk tilu refers to an instrument in particular but also to a complete ensemble as well as a genre and its repertoire. The ensemble consists of the ketuk tilu (three pot gongs in a wooden frame), kendang (drums), rebab (two-stringed bowed lute) which can be replaced by a tarompét (wind reed instrument), goong buyung (low-pitched metallophone mounted on an empty water barrel), and kecrék (iron rattle). This ensemble used to accompany one or more ronggéng (female singer and dancer) who perform songs from the ketuk tilu folk repertoire.

50 JEAN HELLWIG

tari keurseus and several other Sundanese dances, the rhythms of the kendang (drums) were parallel with the dancing movements. The drum motifs were inspired by folk music types from Bekasi (Jakarta) such as gambang kromong or cokék. Though he had a lot of success with his dance in Bandung and surroundings, there was also a lot of criticism, especially from professional and scholarly circles. The criticism concentrated on the name Ketuk tilu perkembangan, which suggested that it referred to a new form of ketuk tilu which was not the case. He then changed the name into jaipongan after the shout ‘jaipong’, that he had heard in the north when people imitated a particular sound of the drums. According to the famous jaipongan drummer Suwanda from Karawang the shout was firstly used in the Sundanese comedy (lawak) as an onomatopoeia for the sound of the large drum that can be changed in pitch. In Sundanese popularculture alive!!! Suwanda demonstrates the particular jest from the comedy in which the shout is used. Gugum Gumbira started to produce jaipongan cassettes under the label Jugala and, thanks to showings on television and demonstrations all over West Java, jaipongan became known to the public. He founded dancing schools where jaipongan was taught. Others followed his example, and within a few years jaipongan had become extremely popular. In 1982 there was again criticism of his dances, this time from BAPPEDA (Badan Perencanaan Pembangunan Daérah), the governmental institution for regional planning. This institution was concerned about the effect of jaipongan on morals: the dances, in which boys and girls dance close to each other, were considered to be

2Pencak silat is the name of the martial arts of which many varieties can be found throughout Indonesia. In Sunda pencak silat is often practised as fighting dances accompanied by a special ensemble consisting of two sets of kendang (drums), tarompét (wind reed instrument), and a small hanging gong. 3Wirahma sari or tari keurseus are dances that were developed at the beginning of this century by the dancer and choreographer Raden Sambas Wirakusumah. He tried to put all typical Sundanese dance movements into four male character dances. It is not allowed to make variations in performing them. Because a systematic method was developed to teach these dances, they became known as tari keurseus, which means ‘school dances’, and they are also called the ‘classical’ Sundanese dances. 4Wayang orang or wayang wong (wayang performed by people) are dance performances of the Hindu epics Ramayana and Mahabharata or, less frequently, of the classical Javanese Panji epic. Wayang orang originates from central Java. The Sundanese versions are less static and the smooth and elegant movements are done much more quickly than in Central Java. 5 In the thirteenth century, wayang topéng mask dances were brought to the court of Cirebon on the border of West and Central Java. The mask dances of Cirebon are known as very refined and are mainly based on the Javanese Panji stories. At the end of the last century these dances spread to other parts of West Java, and nowadays there is a clear distinction between the dances from Cirebon, topéng Cirebon, and the more recent mask dances from Bandung and surroundings, topéng Parahiangan, the latter being much more dynamic than the first.

JAIPONGAN: THE MAKING OF A NEW TRADITION 51

too erotic. Possibly this opinion was connected to the bad reputation of the female dancer and singer who accompanied ketuk tilu ensembles. The singer-dancer-prostitute In former days the ketuk tilu ensembles were very popular in Sunda, especially in the rural areas of the north where they played at weddings, circumcisions, and harvest ceremonies. Several folk art forms made use of the ensemble. The female singer and dancer of the ensemble (ronggéng6) was often assumed to be a prostitute as was the case in various other entertainment contexts in Java and Sunda. Manuel and Baier (1986:99) state that jaipongan began to evolve as a more slick and expanded version of ketuk tilu and largely free of any association with prostitution. It is however not unthinkable that the criticism from BAPPEDA evolved out of a fear that the disappearing phenomenon of the singer-dancer-prostitute would revive with the popularity of jaipongan. Gugum Gumbira was advised to bring jaipongan into line with the present ethical and aesthetic values of the province. He promised to do so. Sometimes the bad reputation of the ronggéng is given as an explanation for the fact that ketuk tilu groups are hard to find nowadays. It is more likely however that these groups have been replaced by the more popular jaipongan groups. Jaipongan has become an accepted art form and it is common practice to invite a jaipongan group to the ritual meals that are called salametan. Salametan accompany weddings and circumcision ceremonies or other festivities. In the cities, especially in Jakarta, jaipongan performances are also organized as an entertainment at official receptions for foreign guests. At the end of a performance the guests often are invited to dance together with the dancers to simple jaipongan rhythms. The dubious moral overtones of women dancing with men in ketuk tilu and jaipongan have disappeared, as several writers already pointed out (Hugh-Jones, 1982:21; Manuel and Baier, 1986:93). At present it is not a disgrace any more. It even commands respect when girls, but boys too, are able to dance jaipongan because it requires a lot of practice to make oneself familiar with the steps and movements to the rhythms. Moreover, being able to dance jaipongan is considered by the public to be a good quality that adds to the beauty of girls. Jaipongan at festivities In Bandung, the salametan at which music and dance groups perform are usually held during the daytime. At about 10 o’clock in the morning, when the first guests arrive, the gamelan degung is played. This gamelan has much more prestige than the ‘normal’ gamelan saléndro. Its music is soft and tender and as a rule it is not used to accompany

6Ronggéng

can be translated as ‘public dancer’ (Eringa, 1984:642). Raffles wrote in 1817 (I: 342) about the ronggéng: Their conduct is generally so incorrect, as to render the title rong’geng and prostitute synonymous’.

52 JEAN HELLWIG

dance. Traditionally the classical repertoire of the gamelan degung consists of instrumental pieces that are fixed and limited in number. Since the 1950s this gamelan has been increasingly used for the accompaniment of new popular songs. From 1988 onwards the composer Nano S. from Bandung scored big hits with his degung songs and he gave a new impetus to the popularity of this gamelan. At salametan, popular degung songs but also songs from other popular genres like jaipongan, are performed until noon. Then the gamelan saléndro is installed and the stage is prepared for jaipongan. The players consider the gamelan degung, with the exception of the classical repertoire, easier to play than the gamelan saléndro. Its pace is slow and there are not a lot of dynamic changes within the songs. Some players consider degung music, unlike jaipongan, to be music for the elderly. The original playing style of the drums in degung music was very modest. Today this drumming style incorporates more and more features of the popular expressive and spectacular rhythms that are so characteristic for jaipongan. The jaipongan groups bring their own male and female dancers who dress up in colourful costumes. They perform at least one dance each. This can be a solo dance or a dance for couples or small groups. Gugum Gumbira intro duced trousers as garments for female dancers. In his opinion the traditional kebaya limits the dancers too much in their movements. Quite a lot of female dancers perform in trousers nowadays, especially those who have followed a course at Jugala. Many others, though, still prefer the more feminine kebaya. The dancers follow the rhythms of the kendang. The dancing movements are constantly synchronized to the accents in the drum motifs that can be short or fill several bars. Though sometimes very complicated, all motifs and the order in which they are played are known to the dancers. Most drummers and dancers learn them by heart with the help of cassettes. Slight variations in the rhythms can be played as long as the accents remain the same to avoid confusion among the dancers. Dancers and drummers usually agree in advance on what patterns are going to be played. In doing so they refer to the name of the cassette that first introduced a particular pattern. Because in Bandung jaipongan dance developed very much as a staged performing art, I hardly ever found people from the public spontaneously joining in the dancing. In the rural areas to the north of Bandung the performances of jaipongan can be quite different from the practice in town. In contrast with the salametan in Bandung, the festivities mainly take place at night. Jaipongan with gamelandegung is not found here. More often jaipongan is combined with wayanggolék, the typical Sundanese wayang with wooden puppets. A short wayanggolék story can be performed in the afternoon by a puppeteer’s pupil. After this, jaipongan is played until late at night when the main puppeteer starts his play that goes on until dawn. In a golék play the puppets also dance and sing. It is not unusual that the servants of the heroes, often called clowns, dance jaipongan to jaipongan music. The gamelan orchestra consists of the usual instruments but there are several female singers whereas in Bandung there is mostly only one. These singers can be

JAIPONGAN: THE MAKING OF A NEW TRADITION 53

hired to dance with by men from the public. This is in sharp contrast with the singers in Bandung who never dance. In rural areas, singers who do not dance are jokingly called pesindén gémpor which means ‘singer with paralysed legs’. Generally female singers are called pesindén, a term that is preferred to the term ronggéng that went out of use because of the bad reputation attached to the dancing singer who was often assumed to be a prostitute. However, in rural areas the term ronggéng is considered to be more appropriate as it refers to a female singer who is also able to dance. One singer told me that the word ronggéng is a conjunction of the verb dirongrong, loosely translated as ‘to be surrounded by men’ (ngarong-rong=to subvert) and the verb ditonggéng-tonggéng, meaning ‘to walk with a stoop’. This illustrates the bad reputation of the ronggéng. If someone from the public wants to dance with a singer or see her perform, he usually has to pay between about £2 and £4. This is often done with some show. The banknotes are clearly visible in his hand as he approaches the singer slowly and invites her, handing over the money. Some men stick notes in their headgear so that everybody can see how much they intend to spend in one evening. It is also possible for a man to pay in order to make use of the saléndang (shawl) of the singer. With this saléndang he dances around to invite somebody from the public or he passes it to someone else, who then has to dance or invite someone else to take his turn. Sometimes a man pays to dance on his own. This will be publicly announced by the leader of the band so that nobody will join him during the song. It is not only the singers who are paid by the public. The drummer is paid regularly too. Because the dances in these areas are performed spontaneously by people from the public, the drummer follows the movements of the dancers instead of the dancers following the drum patterns as is the case in town. It is said that the rhythms in town are played to increase the artistic value of the movements, whereas the rhythms in the rural areas are played to make the dancers feel comfortable. If more people dance simultaneously, as regularly happens, he follows the dancer who paid last. These payments form a substantial part of the income of the group. One popular group in the area of Subang once got an extra sum that was twice their hiring fee. The money is divided among the players. The singers and drummer get a larger share than the player of the rebab (two-stringed bowed lute), who on his turn receives more than the ordinary gamelan players. The system of additional payments to the jaipongan groups by members of the dancing public is quite normal in rural areas. In the big towns of West Java this is not done. Here the groups are paid only by the host of a salametan who, as in the rural areas, also provides the group members with food, drink, and cigarettes. The hiring fees seem to be somewhat higher than outside town. Prices are not fixed and depend on many different factors like the popularity of the group in the particular area, the relation between host or hostess and leader or players of the group, specific wishes of the organizers, the availability of a sound system, and whether the place of performance is within easy reach. I found a range of fees in Bandung between about 350 thousand rupiah (about £120) for a small newly established group (16 people) and two and a half million rupiah (about £880) for a large professional group (about

54 JEAN HELLWIG

35 people). The groups brought the instruments and the amplification system themselves and performed gamelan degung, rampak kendang (group of drums),7 and jaipongan. The larger group also took its own stage and had a performance of sisingaan8 (lions’ dance) as an extra feature. In some towns there are clubs where jaipongan is performed. In these jaipongan clubs female dancer-hostesses can be hired to dance with, just like in some big discotheques in Jakarta where dancer-hostesses can be hired to dance to Western pop music. In these clubs there is a gamelan saléndro that plays jaipongan or other popular genres like dangdut. The artistic level of the dancing by the hostesses in the clubs is often much lower than that of the dancers who perform at weddings and circumcision parties. The latter generally avoid any contact with the clubs which are associated with excessive use of alcohol and low moral standards. The music of jaipongan In jaipongan the drums play a central role in relation to the dance. It is striking however that it does not matter to the drummer what the rest of the gamelan plays: the drums are almost independent from the rest of the musical accompaniment. Only the developments in pace that determine when the gong is played are of importance. The play of the percussive bronze instruments of the gamelan in jaipongan is partly based on what is called kliningan. Kliningan is a classical way of playing the pentatonic gamelan along the principles of colotomy: the music is divided into cycles that are marked by the strike of the gong. Within these cycles each instrument plays its own motif which is repeated. The higher the pitch of the instrument is, the more notes its motif contains. In other words: within one gong cycle the instrument with highest pitch plays many quick motifs, while the lowest pitched instrument only plays one slow motif. The cycles are repeated. In a gong cycle two notes are of great importance. These are called the gongan and kenongan. Experienced gamelan players only need to know these two notes to be able to play any instrument of the gamelan with the exception of solo instruments like rebab and to a lesser extent the gambang (xylophone) which require higher

7Rampak

kendang is a phenomenon that was introduced some years ago. Strongly associated with jaipongan, it is a show of several drummers who play in rhythm or counter-rhythm, accompanied by the gamelan. While playing they make a lot of comical and theatrical gestures. Most of the rhythms are taken from jaipongan. Other folk percussion instruments can be also added. 8Sisingaan is the name of a folk dance from Subang, north of Bandung, that is performed in the streets especially at circumcision festivities. A walking ensemble accompanies the dancers. The dancers, symbolizing the people, carry a wooden construction with the image of a lion (singa—lion), symbolizing the (foreign Dutch) ruler who oppresses the people. On top of the lion the child who has been circumcised is seated. The child symbolizes the young generation that eventually will conquer the oppressor.

JAIPONGAN: THE MAKING OF A NEW TRADITION 55

technical skills. The choice of the gongan and kenongan is dependent on what lagu (‘tune’) is played. A lagu is the name for the musical accompaniment to a melody sung by the singer and supported by the rebab player. There are about twenty lagu that are often used in kliningan. Around the middle of this century gamelan performance in Sunda was changed drastically by the compositions of Mang Koko Koswara. He is considered to be one of the most important innovators of Sundanese music. In his gamelan orchestrations he departed from the usual motifs linked to the instruments as described above. Instead he interchanged kliningan techniques with melodies played on the bronze gamelan instruments. Before this, the melody was only played by the rebab player and sung by the vocalists. In do ing so he broke with the classical traditions and added a whole new dimension to Sundanese gamelan performance. A mixture of kliningan with the kind of melodic orchestration of the gamelan introduced by Mang Koko can be found in jaipongan. Mostly the melodic parts are played at the beginning of a piece, before the actual song starts. These introductions differ a lot from each other. There is usually room for the drummer to show his technical skills, after which the gamelan will pass on to the lagu that fits the song which the singer will perform. In line with kliningan principles it is not unusual for one lagu to be used as the accompaniment of several melodies. It is also possible that different lyrics are sung to the same melody. A great variety of cassettes with jaipongan music has been released. Combinations have been made including jaipongan rhythms with less usual instruments like the violin and kacapi (zither), the latter being a typical instrument for tembang Sunda Cianjuran (sung poetry in the style of Cianjur). Some cassettes combine jaipongan with gamelan degung or other music styles like the pencak silat music that accompanies the martial arts. There were also young dancers who have experimented with Western breakdance on jaipongan music. They created a style named breakpong. As a consequence there are even some cassettes that combine jaipongan with electronic sounds and rhythm machines. A very fine demonstration of breakpong is given in the documentary by Asep Iskandar, a young dancer from Bandung. The Jugala label of Gugum Gumbira is still considered to be the most im portant label for jaipongan music. However, Gugum Gumbira ceased the release of new jaipongan cassettes a few years ago. He says that he was disappointed with what his competitors were producing under the name of jaipongan. Nowadays he only brings out cassettes of other Sundanese genres. This illustrates that, though jaipongan was concentrated around one man in the beginning, its developments have become totally autonomous after little more than a decade. Jaipongan is now part of the cultural inheritance of Sunda and has, as such, become a new tradition. Conclusions Sunda has a rich cultural tradition that is extremely flexible. Out of this, the new music and dance genre now known as jaipongan has evolved. Within a decade it became very popular in the province of West Java and well-known in other parts of

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Indonesia. This is quite unusual as jaipongan is a typical regional style that does not make use of Western instruments and is sung in Sundanese. It was the artist Gugum Gumbira who to a large extent was responsible for the start of jaipongan in the 1970s. He created a new dance that was based on several art forms of Sunda, especially the ketuk tilu folk art characterized by its free style of dancing in which men and women dance together. Many features of other Sundanese genres are also integrated in jaipongan, like movements of the martial arts and the more classical dance types. Gugum Gumbira founded dancing schools and began to produce cassettes with jaipongan music. Soon afterwards other schools evolved and other cassette companies followed. This helped to spread the popularity of the genre rapidly. The music is performed on a gamelan saléndro which is the usual gamelan for the accompaniment of dances. The kendang (drums) play a central role. The drum patterns, which originate from Bekasi (Jakarta), are characteristic for jaipongan. The dancing movements are synchronized with the accents in the drum motifs as in other Sundanese dance types. The gamelan plays a mixture of kliningan techniques, based on the principles of colotomy as used in, for example, wayang golék, and of melodic orchestrations as introduced into Sundanese gamelan by Mang Koko Koswara earlier this century. Jaipongan has developed along very different lines in the rural areas as compared to the cities. In the cities, jaipongan has become a staged art that is mainly performed by trained dancers at festivities such as weddings and circumcisions and the like. In the rural areas, on the other hand, it is the members of the public who dance. Here we still find the so-called ronggéng, female singer-dancers who must be paid to dance with. The dance-style is completely free, and the drummer has to play his rhythms in a way that suits the sponsor who paid last. In the cities it is the other way round. The drummer plays the patterns as they are played on cassettes. The dancers know these rhythms by heart and fit their dancing movements to the accents in the patterns. The dubious moral overtones of women dancing in social dances with men, which is connected to the bad reputation of the ronggéng, have slowly disappeared. Today mastering the dance even commands respect. Also the fact that jaipongan is performed at official receptions for foreign guests in Jakarta, proves that it has become an art form that has to be taken seriously. Yet there are also jaipongan night-clubs where men can dance with dancer-hostesses. These clubs are associated with low moral standards and excessive use of alcohol. Although jaipongan originates from older Sundanese music and dance types, we see that these older arts in their turn are clearly influenced by jaipongan. It has replaced the ketuk tilu performances which it had sprung from, adapting itself to local performing customs. It is considered as an expanded version of ketuk tilu. Original ketuk tilu songs are performed on a complete gamelan set accompanied by jaipongan drumming. The gamelan degung music, in itself a genre that is very much in motion, also takes over elements of jaipongan. A new popular repertoire for gamelan degung has developed that incorporates elements of jaipongan, especially the characteristic drum patterns. In a traditional wayang golék play it is not unusual that

JAIPONGAN: THE MAKING OF A NEW TRADITION 57

the puppets start dancing jaipongan. At the same time new developments in jaipongan evolve like the mixture of jaipongan and breakdance, called breakpong, and there is also the release of music cassettes combining jaipongan instruments with violin, kacapi, and pencak silat instruments. The different music types of Sunda do not seem to have repertoires that are exclusive to genres, instruments, or playing styles. Any Sundanese song, old, new, folk, or classical, can be performed in jaipongan style. This is because it is neither melody nor instruments that determine whether a song is jaipongan or not but the specific jaipongan rhythms. The patterns and motifs of the drums are known to the artists and the public. By combining the existing motifs, new motifs can easily be created. These can also become known to the public if, for instance, released on a cassette that becomes a hit. Along with the many other Sundanese music and dance styles, jaipongan is a fluid and dynamic art form. Like jaipongan, every style or genre has its specific features that can be used to shape and reshape the cultural inheritance of the Sundanese. Every artist looks for new ways to express himself and the rich flexible culture of Sunda provides plenty of possibilities for experiments and new combinations. Jaipongan has just become one other alternative to choose from. The Sundanese arts are in motion and the end to their evolution is not yet in sight. References Eringa, F.S.1984. Soendaas-Nederlands woordenboek.Dordrecht: Foris Publications. Hellwig, J.C1989. Sundanese popular culture alive!!! [A documentary about jaipongan and other performing arts of Sunda. 48 minutes. Camera: Frank Krom.] Amsterdam: Hellwig Productions. Hugh-Jones, J.1982. Karawitan Sunda: tradition newly writ. A survey of Sundanese music since Independence. Recorded Sound: the Journal of the British Institute of Recorded Sound, 82, 19–34. Kunst, J.1948. Sundanese music. Art and Letters, India and Pakistan,New Series, XXII (2), 54–58. Manuel, P., andBaier, R.1986. Jaipongan: indigenous popular music of West Java. Asian Music,XVIII (1), 91–110. Raffles, T.S.1817. The history of Java.London: Black, Parbury, and Allan, and John Murray. 2 vols. Zanten, W.van.1987. Tembang Sunda. an ethnomusicological study of the Cianjuranmusic in West Java.Leiden: Instituut voor Culturele Antropologie en Sociologie der NietWesterse Volken.

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4 Character types and movement styles in traditional Javanese theatre CLARA BRAKEL

In contrast to modern Western kinds of theatre, traditional Javanese theatre is usually considered to be exemplary rather than realistic, being highly stylized both in structure and in performance style. Javanese as well as non-Javanese authors have discussed the characteristic formal features of wayang performances. So far much attention has been paid to the structure of the plays, which is a succession of scenes strung together in a more or less standardized manner, represented in written form by the pakem (outline). Another well-known feature is the classification of human behaviour into character types. The typical combinations of certain physical shapes with emotional states, costume, manners of speech, and movements, which are enacted by human actors as well as by the puppets of the shadow plays (wayangkulit), are so deeply rooted in Javanese culture that they even tend to influence people’s behaviour in daily life. To the audience, the types of the Javanese theatre represent not only a stylization, but also an interpretation of human behaviour—and, in a sense, a classification of appropriate and inappropriate actions. At the same time, the use of character types forms one of the main structuring devices for the performers. As most writers have been dealing with the classical performances of the Javanese courts, or court cities, it seemed obvious that this high degree of stylization of Javanese theatre must be attributed to the overwhelming influence of court culture on artistic practice, at least during the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century. However, the two above-mentioned structuring devices may also be observed to operate in less sophisticated forms of theatre, performed in regions where people have little contact with court culture. The use of character types is not restricted to traditional shadow plays staging stories which are based on the Indian epics,1 but applies to other theatre forms as well. This may be due to its function as a structuring device for the performer(s). Thus, the character types known from the puppets of the shadow play may also be found in various forms of drama with human actors, staging themes from different story cycles. In traditional forms of Javanese theatre such as wayang wong, wayang topéng, and langendriyan, actors tend to specialize in the representation of one particular character type, such as the refined young hero, the young princess, the vigorous warrior, or the roaring demon. This explains why the representation of the hero Rama in a

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performance of a topic from the may be very similar to the representation of the hero Arjuna in a story based on the Mahabharata, or of the hero Panji Asmarabangun in a play based on the Panji stories. The differences between character types of the Javanese theatre correspond with differences in the execution of movements and poses to such an extent, that the art of acting may be considered to merge with the art of dancing.2 It is therefore not surprising that Javanese treatises on the art of dancing, written during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, frequently mention and describe the use of character types in connection with movement styles. However, it is remarkable that there is no uniform system for listing the character types, or for the description of their specific movement styles. In the following paragraphs, I shall discuss several different viewpoints on this matter, derived from a number of Javanese treatises on the art of acting and dancing. Character types and movement styles in wayang wong at the kraton of Yogyakarta In his study of the special form of traditional theatre, named wayang wong, which was developed at the court of Yogyakarta, Soedarsono emphasizes its close relationship with the puppet theatre, wayang kulit or wayang purwa. He repeatedly states that the puppet theatre served as the model for human theatre, calling wayang wong ‘a personification of wayang(i.e.wayang kulitpurwa). This applies to almost all aspects of the performance, including its repertoire, its performance structure, and its use of types and costumes: ‘the costumes and the physical appearance of wayang wong dancers were modelled after the iconography of the wayang puppets with the exception of the facial colours which became simpler’ (Soedarsono, 1984:200). He somewhat modifies this statement later by remarking that in general the dancers’ costumes are simpler than those of the puppets. The identification of the actors with the puppets goes so far, that dancers are mentioned as having taken a particular puppet as ‘the most important source of inspiration to deepen their particular roles in wayang wong productions’ (Soedarsono, 1984:221). In Soedarsono’s opinion, even the movements of court actors came to be subordinated to the rules of the puppet theatre, influencing not only the actors’ use of space—’most dance steps were basically designed in two directions, to the left and to the right’—but also their movement styles (1984:222). In spite of the restrictions to body movement imposed by the relative rigidity of the puppets, dance-masters of the court developed ‘a highly standardized and

1

The Javanese custom of making a distinction between plays which closely follow the epic storyline (lakon baku) and plays which are created locally (lakon carangan) finds a parallel in South Indian ritual theatre, Paratam Kuttu (Brakel and de Bruin, 1992). 2 I do not wish to imply here that Javanese would not distinguish between acting and dancing.

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complex system of movement characterization’ (1984:222), especially during the reign of Hamengkubuwana VIII (1921–39), who was a great sponsor of the art form. Thus, classification of characters in wayang wong of the Yogyakarta court came to be defined also by the types of movement patterns. However, as the typology of the puppets itself is rather complex, therefore the correspondence between puppet types and movement styles is not a simple matter. According to Soedarsono the iconographic classification of the puppets is based on a number of different criteria, such as: the shape of the eyes—the shape of the nose— the build of the body—the position of the fingers—the position of the head—the colour of the face and the body. This results in three main groups of characters: (a) small, refined and slender build—with half-closed eyes (liyepan) and pointed nose (mbangir) (b) medium and strong build—with normal shape of the eyes (kedhelén) and nose (sembada) (c) large, tall and strong build—with wide-opened eyes (thelengan) and a large nose (dhempok). According to Suryobrongto’s excellent description of the rules and ideology used in classical wayang wong at the kraton of Yogyakarta (1981:69) these puppet types are named: (a) refined (halus) (b) strong (gagah) (c) coarse (kasar) Each of these three is again divided into three subgroups by the position of the head (inclined, straight, or upwards) and the use of the voice. Besides, each hero may be represented by more than one puppet, with variations in shape, costume, and colouring indicating differences in age, status, and mood. Corresponding to the nature of the medium, the criteria for classification of characters in the puppet theatre are static rather than dynamic, being expressed by shape and decoration rather than by movement. Even though there are also three main groups of characters for wayangwong at the Yogyakarta court, with a corresponding division of three main movement styles, the classification of characters in wayang wong as described by Soedarsono is not identical with that of the puppet theatre (wayang kulit). The three main groups of wayang wong characters are based on the level of elevation of the limbs in space in relation to the rest of the body: (a) female types—with a narrow and low use of space, keeping the arms and legs at a low level and close to the body (b) refined male types—with a wide but low use of space, keeping the arms and legs at a rather low level, while the legs are open

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(c) strong male types—with a wide and tall/high use of space, lifting both arms and legs to a horizontal level, and moving energetically. The second and third groups may again be divided into two subgroups depending on the symmetry or asymmetry of the movement patterns, which are related to psychological states.3 On the basis of the above, rather broad classification of character types into three main movement styles, during the reign of Hamengkubuwana VIII the dancemasters of the Yogyakarta kraton developed a more complex and highly standardized division of characters defined by the types of movement patterns they performed. While Soedarspno mentions no less than twenty-one different movement patterns, only nine of these are considered ‘basic’ (jogéd pokok), the others are ‘additional’ (jogéd gubaban).4 Corresponding to the nine basic movement patterns, he lists the following nine basic wayangwong character types: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

female types use the dance pattern named ngenceng encot/nggrudha humble refined male types use the pattern impur proud refined male types use the pattern kagok kinantang rather humble, strong male types use the pattern kagok impur humble and strong male types use the pattern kambeng proud and strong male types use the pattern kalang kinantang proud, mischievous, and rough male types use the pattern bapang strong male disciples of a hermit use the pattern lémbéhan kentrig panakawan, servant-clowns, use the pattern mrak ngigel

With the exception of the first and the fourth pattern, these basic movement patterns may be modified into sub-patterns to suit particular characters. For example, the demons Cakil and Pragalba use a variation of the bapang pattern named bapang dhengklik (bouncing the knee) keplok asta (clapping the hands). On the level of movement, this indicates a tendency to develop from typology towards personification. In Soedarsono’s description there is no exact correspondence between the three main puppet types (expressed by variations of shape and make-up), the three main movement styles, and the different movement patterns. For example, the female puppets are classified in the same category as the refined male puppets, so that there is no special female puppet type to match the female movement style. Again, the movement pattern named kagok impur, which combines movement styles of refined

3

Symmetrical patterns express humility, stability, and strength, while asymmetrical patterns express pride, energy, and attractiveness (Soedarsono, 1984:225). 4 Hughes-Freeland, who is not very enthusiastic about this division, maintains that it originated in the once-famous dance organization Kridha Beksa Wirama (Hughes-Freeland, unpublished:115).

CHARACTER TYPES AND MOVEMENT STYLES 63

and strong male types, does not seem to have a corresponding ‘rather humble and strong’ male puppet type. Apparently not all distinctions which are represented by formal features in the puppet theatre have been transposed or accepted into the medium of human theatre. Some have been accepted, but are applied in a different way, such as the positions of the fingers.5 Other distinctions, such as humility as opposed to pride, do occur in both genres but are expressed in different ways: by the lowered or lifted position of the head in the shape of the puppets, and by symmetry versus asymmetry of movement patterns in the human theatre. In the theatre performances of the Yogyakarta court, this lack of congruence may be the result of the tendency towards personification in acting. This is also expressed by the increasing specialization of court actors (Suryobrongto, 1981:81). They tend to concentrate on the performance of only one particular character, to the extent of even practising meditation in order to identify fully with the role (personal information by the famous Yogyakarta palace dance master, the late Pangéran Suryobrongto). Character types and movement styles in the serat Kridhwayangga In spite of many parallels with the wayang wong theatre of the Yogyakarta court, there are also important differences in the theatrical tradition of Surakarta. The serat Kridhwayangga, a handbook on classical dancing (pakem beksa) completed in 1925 by Sastrakartika with the help of musicians and dance-masters of the kraton, distinguishes ten different character types. These are linked with the Javanese Panji stories rather than with the heroes from the Indian Mahabharata, and are named as follows: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Panji Sepuh ‘the Old Panji’ Panji Eném ‘theYoung Panji’ Wukirsari or Gunungsari Tandang ‘active’ Buta ‘demon’ Bugis ‘Buginese (warrior)’ Dugang ‘kicking’ Wanodya ‘woman’ Wanara ‘monkey’ Sudira ‘brave’.

5 Soedarsono specifies this as follows: ‘Wayang wong dancers have four basic hand positions: ngruji, ngithing, nyempurit and ngepel…; all of them are used interchangably in the dance movements of all the characters. Only clown servants’ hand positions are borrowed directly from the wayang puppets. Ngruji and ngithing do not exist in the wayang puppets, while nyempurit looks like the wayangs driji wanara, and ngepel like the gegeman’ (Soedarsono, 1984:223).

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Although there is a form of puppet theatre enacting Panji stories (wayang gedhog), the author of the serat Kridhwayangga does not explicitly link these characters with the types of the puppet theatre, nor does he provide a description of their make-up, costumes, or other formal features. The book concentrates on descriptions of the appropriate dance movements and poses for each of the ten characters. The serat Kridhwayangga distinguishes three main dance styles (pathokanbeksa), named ‘refined’ (alus), ‘medium’ (madya), and ‘coarse’ (kasar).6 These are determined by the movements in space of the arms and hands in relation to the other parts of the body. This results in the following division into three groups of the ten characters: (a) The Old and the Young Panji, Gunungsari, and Wanodya use the alus movement style, in which the hands may not be raised above the level of the breast (except in a battle using weapons) (b) Tandang, Dugang, and Sudira use the madya movement style, in which the hands may be raised alternately above or below the level of the breast (c) Buta, Bugis, and Wanara use the kasar movement style, in which the hands may not be lowered below the level of the breast (except in a battle using weapons). (Sastrakartika, 1979:114) Even though the three main dance styles in the serat Kridhwayangga are also based on the level of elevation of the arms in space, they do not exactly run parallel to the three main Yogyakarta dance styles as described by Soedarsono: female—refined male—strong male types. On the one hand there is no separate female style in the serat Kridhwayangga. On the other hand it mentions a special madya style that is used for the more refined warrior types, in contrast with really rough soldiers and demons.7 In fact, the three main dance styles in the serat Kridhwayangga correspond more closely to the previously mentioned three main character types of the puppet theatre: refined (halus or liyepan)—medium strong (gagah or kedhelén)—large and strong (kasar or thelengan). In view of the discrepancies between the dance styles of the courts of Surakarta and Yogyakarta which apparently existed at the beginning of the twentieth century, it is remarkable that the three main movement styles distinguished by most Surakarta dance-masters at the present time correspond closely to the division of character types used in Yogyakarta wayang wong:

6

It is rather surprising to find the word kasar used to refer to one of the main dance styles here. According to Hughes-Freeland, in the context of Yogyakarta classical wayangwong dance, the notion of kasar is not appropriate (Hughes-Freeland, unpublished:118: There is no beksa which is kasar’). 7 This reminds us of the Yogyakarta dance pattern named kagok impur, which also forms a combination of refined and strong male dance movements.

CHARACTER TYPES AND MOVEMENT STYLES 65

(a) female (putri) style for female characters and goddesses, keeping the arms and legs at a low level and close to the body (b) refined male (putra alus, alusan) style for young and noble heroes, and gods, keeping the arms and legs at a rather low level, but spreading the knees and the feet (c) vigorous (gagahan) male style for large and strong heroes. This style may be subdivided into a more restrained variant (gagah), and a less restrained or coarse variant (kasar), used for demons and monkeys. The arms and the legs are lifted to a horizontal level, movements are large, wide, and angular. It is probably no coincidence that, parallel to this shift in movement styles, most classical dances nowadays use characters from the Mahabharata rather than from the Panji stories. However, in the serat Kridhwayangga movement style is not just a simple matter of physical action determined by the level of arm movements, but involves both static as well as dynamic aspects of the entire body in space. As is the case in Yogyakarta wayang wong, there are special dance patterns linked with each of the ten characters: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

the Old Panji uses the pattern named tanggap ripu the Young Panji uses the pattern sara lumaksa Gunungsari uses the pattern adilaga Tandang uses the pattern métsana Buta uses the pattern tanggap réni Bugis uses the pattern tanggap sawéga Dugang uses the pattern tanggap anrang baya Wanodya uses the pattern tanggap raras Wanara uses the pattern cakrawa Sudira uses the pattern katembén

The serat Kridhwayangga not only sums up the terms, but also describes how these patterns should be performed. Apart from these character-bound movements, it also mentions quite a few dance patterns that are not explicitly linked to a particular character.8 Several dance patterns are reserved especially for the female characters, while other patterns are apparently shared by a few related characters. Moreover, the book contains a great number of very precise rules which determine with minute exactness the different poses and movements of the different limbs appropriate to each of the characters. Thus there are rules specifying the positions of the legs and the distance between the feet on the floor, the motions of the head, the gaze of the eyes, the sideways swaying of the shoulders, the degree of expansion of the chest, the positions of the arms, hands, and fingers.

8

For example ‘tambang sampur, the right dance-scarf is crossed over the left shoulder, or the left dance-scarf is put on top of the right shoulder’ (Sastrakartika, 1979:126).

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For example, the following rules determine where each of the ten characters should fix the gaze when performing the movement patterns: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

the Old Panji glances at the shoulder the Young Panji glances at the elbow Gunungsari glances at the little finger Tandang stares at the opponent Buta stares at the opponent Bugis stares at the opponent Dugang stares at the opponent female characters glance at the fingers monkeys stare at the opponent Sudira stares at the opponent.

In fact, the degree of specificity in movement, and the relatedness of movement to character type, appears to be even stricter in the serat Kridhwayangga than in Yogyakarta wayang wong. Details of movement such as the degrees of fixation of the eyes seem to represent a direct transposition from the types of eye shape distinguished for the faces of the puppets. It is therefore all the more surprising that there is no mention of a correspondence with the puppet theatre. In his introduction, the author Sastrakartika states that he wants to represent and preserve the dance tradition of Surakarta, which involves religion (agami) as well as rules for appropriate behaviour (tatacara) and moreover is the ‘costume of the realm’ (busananing praja). He seems to regard the art of dancing as an independent Javanese tradition, rather than as a means of expression for the wayang theatre. Thus, he traces its origins back not only to the (Hindu-Buddhist) gods (yasaning leluhur déwa), but also to the legendary ruler of the East Javanese realm Jenggala Manik, Panji Inu Kartapati, and to the famous Muslim wali Sunan Kalijaga (Sastrakaitika, 1979:102–04). Character types and movement styles in the serat Wédhataya There are several other Surakarta treatises which do not regard the art of classical Javanese dancing (beksa) as subordinated to the wayang theatre, but rather view it as an independent art form with an autonomous tradition. One of these is the serat Wédhataya, an early twentieth-century document written by the leaders of the classical dance group Yogyataya, headed by Prince Kusumadiningrat. This treatise contains descriptions of dance patterns as well as explanations about the philosophical background of dance forms. It also provides speculations about certain categories of dance movement and the social order. Unlike the serat Kridhwayangga, the serat Wédhataya mentions four basic dance styles (bakuning jogéd), which are named after four different character types: refined (alus)—dashing (branyak)—spirited (bergas)—severe and serious (sereng-regu). Each of these four styles uses different poses for the legs and the body, and moves in a

CHARACTER TYPES AND MOVEMENT STYLES 67

different manner. The refined movement style is listed first, and is described as follows: When one dances in the refined (alus) manner, the basic pose (tanjak) is called ‘like a drifting waterplant’ (ganggeng kanyut). The soles of the feet are pointing somewhat upwards, the knees are flexed, and the movement follows after the gong has been struck. (serat Wédhataya, p. 4) The treatise continues with descriptions of basic poses and movement styles for the remaining three character types. Thereafter, in some of the following paragraphs, these four movement styles seem to be linked—albeit in an implicit manner—with the well-known Hindu theory about the division of society into four different grades (pangkat) or sections: brahmana—satriya—wésya—sudra. Although it devotes a few passages to explaining how this division of society works, and how valuable it is for the well-being of mankind, the serat Wé-dhataya does not state why these passages are inserted. Neither does it explain how they should be connected to the four character types and the corresponding four movement styles. Therefore, we are justified in concluding only that the treatise suggests a link between the four movement styles and the corresponding four character types, with the four main groups of society. This relationship would be: 1. 2. 3. 4.

brahmana may be linked with the refined movement style satriya with the dashing movement style wésya with the spirited movement style sudra with the severe and serious movement style.

In the serat Wédhataya the four sections of society are connected indirectly with the four dance styles via the concept of laras (literally: ‘harmony’). This term is used in a few different ways. While it occurs frequently as a term for a particular dance pattern, in this treatise it may also refer to a state of harmony, the achievement of which is considered to be one of the main purposes of life. In its speculations about the deeper meaning or essence of Javanese dance (suraosipun beksa), the serat Wédhataya explains that one should achieve harmony in one’s body—that is, in this life—by dancing in a way that is appropriate to one of the four main styles, which should again be in agreement with one’s physical proportions. Again, the practice of classical dancing should serve as a means to obtain inner harmony. And the importance of being in harmony is that it may lead to the spiritual ‘ascent’ of the soul. Clearly the serat Wédhataya represents an ancient tradition that regards the art of dancing as an autonomous art form, linked with Hindu-Buddhist religious concepts and practices perhaps, but free from the wayang model. It is all the more remarkable that even in this tradition four main dance styles are distinguished, and considered to be expressions of four character types.

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Character types, movement styles, and the social order In Soedarsono’s discussion of Yogyakarta wayang wong, character types and movement styles are arranged in three categories, ranging from refined to medium and strong. While this arrangement is based on the iconographic characterization of the wayang puppets, Soedarsono does not explain why he places the refined characters on top. In spite of the fact that the three main dance styles in the serat Kridhwayangga also range from refined to coarse, they are only related to a list of ten characters, not to the typology of wayang puppets. Unfortunately, this list of ten characters is not discussed in the book, and we cannot be certain how they relate to the Panji stories from which they are apparently derived. In any case, their arrangement does not seem to be determined by the three categories of movement style, even though it starts with refined characters. Thus, there must be another reason for the order in which the ten characters are listed. One explanation is given in a paragraph that emphasizes the special importance of the dance patterns of the first character on the list, the Old Panji. His dance is considered to be ‘dangerous’ (gawat) and complex (suraos éwuh). This quality is attributed not so much to the dance itself, as to the character. The dance of the Old Panji is said actually to be the dance of the ruler of Java—which explains why this character is placed at the top of the list (Sastrakartika, 1979:117). This remark not only indicates why the arrangement of the ten characters starts with the Old Panji. As it bears a relationship to the social order of the Javanese state, it also explains why the most refined dance style, being associated with the character type of the Old Panji, is always listed first. Apparently this refined dance style is considered to be representative for the head of state. There may be even further implications. As the serat Kridhwayangga does not connect the character types with the theatre, the characters mentioned may have to be taken in a literal sense. In that case, the characters would represent certain individuals or groups in Javanese society, and their behaviour in relation to the ruler of Java. Since there is no information on this matter in the serat Wédhataya, we must turn to other treatises which deal with the actual practice of dancing at the Javanese courts. Fortunately there is another early twentieth-century Surakarta manuscript entitled Beksa tajoeb (the tayub dance, i.e. the dancing of males with a professional female dancer), composed by R.M.Soewandi, which provides information about the practice of this dance form in the kraton of Surakarta. The treatise starts with the following statement about the importance and origin of the art of dancing: For the Javanese the tayub dance has been arranged for the continuation of this world. The art of [tayub] dancing has been in existence since the early days, that is from the first time there was dancing. Then there were seven heavenly female dancers, created from a jewel…(Soewandi, 1937:3)

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This rather well-known story of origin9 is followed by a paragraph about tayuban dancing having been introduced in Buddhist times as part of wedding celebrations. In the next paragraph the author introduces his description of the procedures of tayub dancing at the court of Surakarta with the following remark about the reign of Susuhunan Pakubuwana III (1749–88): At the time of the partition into the realms of Yogyakarta and Surakarta, H.R.H.Susuhunan Pakubuwana III wished to prescribe different ways of dressing for the people of Yogyakarta and Surakarta, as he did not want them to be identical…(Soewandi, 1937:3–4) After having mentioned the differences in official headdress and jacket prescribed by Pakubuwana III, the author continues to explain the procedures for tayuban dancing at the Surakarta court. He states that ‘thereupon the Susuhunan of Surakarta also wished to make regulations for tayub dancing’, making different regulations for the following four categories of dancers at his court: 1. The sons and grandsons of the ruler, and all the Princes (Pangéran) who did not fulfil a court function—they were entitled to use the same dance (style) as the ruler himself 2. The Chancellor (Patih) and Princes (Pangéran) who were state officials, and likewise the Regents of the exterior and coastal regions—these could dance like the Chief Ministers (Bupati Nayaka) 3. Several groups of courtiers of the middle ranks (Bupati Anon-anon, Manca, and Aném, as well as the Panéwu Mantri)—these were allowed to use the dance form named ‘tumenggungan’ 4. The lower ranking court officials (Lurah, Bekel, Jajar), and all other court servants should use the dance form named ‘kebo menggah’. (Soewandi, 1937:4)

The treatise defines the dance style to be used by the courtiers of each particular group, specifying basic dance poses, the manner of walking, turning the hands, etc. Apparently during the reign of Pakubuwana III these rules must have been kept very strictly, as is indicated in the following passage: If one of the court servants dared to break the above-mentioned dance rules— for example someone who had been categorized in the fourth dance group was not allowed to perform dance movements of the third class; people of the third group also were not allowed to use dance movements of the second class; and people who were in the second group were not allowed to perform the dances of noblemen.

9

One of the versions of this story may be found in Brakel, 1992:33–35.

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Whosoever broke this rule was placed under arrest, the duration of which was not fixed. It depended upon the ruler’s wish. (Soewandi, 1937:5) Fortunately, Soewandi remarks, in his days these rules did not apply any longer, and people were quite free to choose the dance style they liked. Thus, hardly anybody performed the fourth style any longer, because ‘it does not look so good’. Instead, most people preferred to use the dance form of the second class—because it was considered more elegant. Yet, in the first decades of the twentieth century these four dance styles must still have been known, as he continues: Even the common people exert themselves to perform this dance style, because it is no longer forbidden. Whereas those noblemen who still consider this improper and who know the rules how people should dance, still want to perform the anggrudha dance pattern. Yet, since it is not considered very magnificent, only few of them want to do this, because the turning of the hand is less complete than in the second category of dance, which has a double turn (of the hand) and a very good-looking pose. Therefore almost everybody performs this (dance style). (Soewandi, 1937:6) In spite of the fact that apparently the exact rules and regulations for dancing may have differed from time to time and from one court to another, the explanations in the dance treatises bear witness of the existence of an independent dance tradition in Java. The treatise on tayub dancing also demonstrates the importance of dance styles in court ritual, to which this dance tradition must have been closely linked. Conclusion It is highly probable that the knowledge of such styles of dancing was not restricted just to the kraton proper and to its different ranks of courtiers—including the highest nobility as well as the king himself—and not only to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. According to the theories in the seratWédhataya, particular dance styles may have been associated with, and even been considered to be representative of particular groups in the whole of Javanese society since Hindu-Buddhist times. However, it should be clear that there is no one-to-one relationship between social groups and movement styles, just as there is not a one-to-one relationship between character types and movement styles. A similar flexibility should be applied to the conventions of Javanese theatre. While many people consider the character types to represent the legendary heroes of the past, there are also tendencies to relate them to certain social groups. Again, they may even be viewed as symbols of rather abstract, philo sophical or religious concepts and ideals. It seems quite certain that a direct link existed between character types, movement styles, and social groups, when dance or drama were performed as part of (court) ritual. However, we must keep in mind that the roles did not simply reflect the

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social rank of the actor-dancer. Proficiency in the art of dancing could be a means to promotion in rank. In any case, as the serat Wédhataya explains, it should lead to spiritual ascent. References Brakel-Papenhuijzen, C.1992. The bedhaya court dances of Central Java.Leiden: E.J. Brill. Brakel-Papenhuijzen, C, andBruin, H.M. de. 1992. The death of Karna: two sides of a story. Asian Theatre journal,IX (1), 38–70. Hughes-Freeland, F. Unpublished. The search for sense: dance in Yogyakarta. [PhD thesis, University of London, 1986.] Sastrakartika. 1979. Serat Kridhwayangga: pakem beksa.Jakarta: Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, Proyek Penerbitan Buku Bacaan Indonesia dan Daerah. [Completed 1925.] Soedarsono. 1984. Wayang wong: the state ritual dance drama in the court of Yogyakarta.Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Suryobrongto, G.B.P.H.1981. Perwatakan dalam tari klasik gaya Yogyakarta. (In Wibowo, F., ed. Mengenal tari klasik gaya Yogyakarta.Yogyakarta: Dewan Kesenian Propinsi DIY.) Manuscripts Soewandi, R.M.1937. Djèdjèrèngan bab: beksa tajoeb, bondan toewin wirèng. [Transcription in Musium Sonobudoyo, Yogyakarta (MS Panti BoedajaE.69, dated June 1938).] Serat Wédhataya.1924. Serat Wédhataya. [Musium Radya Pustakano. 353, Surakarta.]

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5 Dance drama (wayang wong) and politics at the court of Sultan Hamengkubuwana III (1812– 14) of Yogyakarta PETER CAREY

The brief reign of Sultan Hamengkubuwana III (1812–14) was a turbulent and difficult time for the Yogyakarta sultanate. Begun in the aftermath of the British storming of the kraton on 20 June 1812, the two-and-a-half year reign was bedevilled by sibling rivalries at court, especially between the sultan and the family of his ambitious uncle, Pangéran Pakualam (r. 1812–29), who had been created an independent prince (pangéran miji) by the British as a reward for his help during the British attack. A son of the first sultan by one of his principal wives, Bendara Radén Ayu Srenggara, a scion of a leading Kedhu dynasty, Pakualam harboured his own designs on the sultanate and felt bitterly disappointed that the British had passed him over in June 1812 after the second sultan’s defeat and exile. This disappointment brought Pakualam to the brink of open revolt against the third sultan and his British backers in October 1812, when he discovered that, along with all the other princes of the Yogyakarta court, he would be shorn of his hereditary apanage lands in Kedhu, one of the richest provinces of south-central Java. These internecine rivalries compounded the difficulties faced by the Yogyakarta court as it struggled to re-establish its prestige and legitimacy in the aftermath of the British sack of the court. A contemporary witness, Pangéran Arya Panular (c. 1771– 30 July 1826), an uncle of the third sultan and a loyal supporter of the new royal regime, wrote graphically in his autobiographical chronicle, the Babad bedhahing Ngayogyakarta, which deals with the events of the British occupation (1811–16) from a Yogyakarta perspective, how the court was plundered by the British and Sepoy (British-Indian) soldiery: ‘very little of the kraton property and valuables was saved: chests were smashed, water dredged, ground dug up and high places searched’ (Carey, 1992:88). Although the court women were not physically violated as they had been at the time of the fall of Kartasura during the Chinese War (Gégér Pacina) and the occupation of Pléréd by Trunajaya’s forces seventy years earlier, violence was used to make them divulge where the court heirlooms, gold, and diamonds were hidden. Over 800,000 Spanish dollars (1 Sp.D=25p) in booty was taken, along with virtually the entire contents of the kraton secretarial archive (gedhong pacarikan) and library (over 200 manuscripts) (Carey, 1992:414, 421). In previous eras such a desecration of a Javanese court by foreign enemies or natural disaster would have led to its abandonment and the construction of a new kraton in a more auspicious location. Such had happened after the fall of Pléréd in

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the late seventeenth century (when the Mataram court had moved to Kartasura) and in the 1740s, after the Gégér Pacina, when the new kraton at Surakarta had been founded on the banks of the Bengawan Sala. By the early nineteenth century, however, with the very changed political circumstances in which the Central Javanese courts found themselves, such an option was no longer available. The 1812 treaties had shom them of their military power and many of their most fertile nagara agung (central apanage) provinces. The resources were thus no longer available for such a physical break with the past. Instead, different stratagems had to be employed for such exercises in historical ‘exorcism’ and the containment of political rivalries. One of the principal avenues available for the Central Javanese rulers to reassert their prestige was through patronage of the arts, particularly court dances. The education of a Javanese satriya (nobleman) involved mastery of music, dance, and drama, and there are many indications in contemporary Javanese and Dutch reports of the high level of interest and proficiency in literature and drama amongst the court élite. Men with great political responsibilities, such as the bupati wedana (senior administrator) of Madiun, Radén Rongga Prawiradirja III (in office, 1796–1810), still found time to pen Javanese poetry (in Rongga’s case, some lakon [plots] for the much-loved East Javanese DamarWulan romances) and it was soldiers from his bodyguard who brought the Madiun beksan gebug (shield dance) to Yogyakarta where it was choreographed as part of the inauguration ritual for the reigning princes of the Pakualam court (Carey, 1992:461). At a time when it was becoming ever more difficult for the Javanese princes physically to fight each other (although Rongga himself did die in battle), the warrior ethos was increasingly subsumed in the cultural and dramatic life of the Central Javanese courts, courts which still, in the words of a recent historian, had the aspect of ‘armed camps constantly celebrating the virtues of war in song and dance, maintaining the solidarity between rulers and followers in almost daily court rituals [and] constantly alert for opportunities to strike out at rival kings’ (Day, unpublished:86). The third sultan himself had been renowned as a littérateur in his youth and had frequently been summoned by his grandfather, the first sultan (Mangkubumi), to read him passages from the Javanese chronicles (babad) and wayang literature (van IJsseldijk, 1798). As crown prince, he had been an active patron of the arts in the kadipatén (crown prince’s establishment), composing his own versions of certain well-known dance epics such as the Klana kiprah which is based on the East Javanese Panji cycle (Carey, 1992:466–67). The third sultan’s close links with the eastern mancanagara (outlying territories), particularly Madiun, through his marriages to daughters of East Javanese bupati, and his own mother’s Madurese origins (she was the great-granddaughter of Panembahan Cakraningrat II of Madura) were certainly influential here (Carey, 1981, Appendix I). It is clear that such artistic patronage had a political aspect. Each new ruler was expected to develop his own particular ‘style’ (Indonesian: gaya) to distinguish his reign from that of his predecessor. The third sultan’s brief reign was no exception. Shortly after his accession in June, the new ruler began to plan the performance of some of the sacred court dances (bedhaya, serimpi) and dance dramas (wayang wong)

PETER CAREY 75

which had been in favour during the reign of the first sultan (1749–92). In November 1812, not long after Pakualam’s confrontation with the British authorities over his apanage holdings, the sultan invited all his relatives (putrasentana) and court officials to the bangsal kencana (main audience hall) for an all-night dance and drama performance. This commenced with one of the bedhaya dances— the bedhaya Ramawijaya (depicting the struggle between Arjuna Sahasrabau and Parasu Rama)—choreographed by the first sultan ‘when his royal dignity had flourished’ (duk karta keprabon), went on to include various serimpi dances (serimpi Ringgit munggéng kelir, serimpiJemparing, and serimpi Jebeng) popular at the late eighteenth-century Yogyakarta court (Carey, 1992:130–31), and ended (at 5 a.m.) after a recitation by one of the court dhalangs (puppeteers) of the sultan’s version of the serat KelonaGiwangkara (tale of the lovesick Panji) (Carey, 1992:132). In the way in which Panular describes this event in his babad, certain political points seem to be being made. The link between the third sultan’s reign and that of his grandfather (Mangkubumi)—so different from the disastrous rule of the second sultan (referred to by Panular throughout as Sultan Kéndhang ‘the Exiled Sultan’)—is salient here. So too is the stress on the new ruler’s artistic skill, his ability to make his Kelona composition ‘so riveting’ that none of the bupatis or royal relatives could sleep a wink. Underlying it all is the clear message that things are getting back to normal, back to ‘the good old days’ (wus kadi kuna-kemuna), in Yogyakarta. Indeed, by February 1813, Panular is writing that the capital ‘has once again regained its former prosperity, happy and fortunate is the world (arjaning rat buwana), everything is just as it should be again’ (Carey, 1992:152). So sanguine is Panular that the garagara (time of troubles) occasioned by the second sultan’s suicidal confrontation with the Europeans in 1811–12 is over that he brings his babad to a temporary close at this point. The clearest example of the third sultan’s attempt to exorcise the past and defuse the political rivalry between himself and his uncle, Pakualam, can be seen in his choice of a specific wayang wong plot (lakon) as entertainment for his family and officials in the celebrations which followed the garebeg Besar (annual ceremonial procession in the month Besar) of December 1812. This was the lakon Gandawardaya, which had originally been choreographed by the first sultan shortly after the establishment of his new court at Yogyakarta in the mid-1750s. It depicts the conflict between two half-brothers, Gandawardaya and Gandakusuma, two warrior protagonists who were so powerful that only the mediation of the clownservant Semar (Sang Hyang Ismaya) could bring their fighting to an end. Semar informs them that they are actually half-brothers—something they had not been conscious of before—and that their feuding was pointless. Soedarsono, who made a special study of this lakon sempalan (‘branch play’) for his 1983 Michigan doctoral thesis (Soedarsono, 1984:95–96, 347), gives an interesting description as to why it was chosen by the first sultan as an inspiration for his first wayang wong creation after the foundation of the sultanate. According to him, the depiction of the conflict between the two half-brothers mirrored that of the struggle between Mangkubumi and the rulers of Surakarta (Pakubuwana II, 1726–49, and

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Pakubuwana III, 1749–88), a fratricidal conflict which was only brought to an end through the mediation of the Dutch in the person of the astute governor of Java’s north-east coast, Nicolaas Hartingh (in office, 1754–61), whose patient diplomacy helped to create the conditions for the Giyanti Treaty of 13 February 1755 and the political division (paliyan) of Central Javanese Mataram. Since the Javanese very often identified the Dutch with the worldly-wise clown-servants (panakawan) in the wayang (Ricklefs, 1974:26–30), Semar in this lakon almost certainly represented Hartingh, a man every bit as manipulative as his wayang archetype. Turning to the third sultan’s reign, the analogies are similarly striking. Instead of the rulers of Yogyakarta and Surakarta, it is now the sibling rivalries within the court itself which are the object of attention—particularly that between Hamengkubuwana III and Pakualam. By 1812, the Dutch have been replaced by the British, but Javanese perceptions of these new foreigners remain essentially the same—at worst, they are objects of ridicule, buta sabrang (‘overseas ogres’) or witless panakawan of the ilk of Garéng and Bagong—at best, evolved beings analogous to the ever wise Semar or his more unscrupulous son, Pétruk. In Panular’s babad, the dour but sagacious Scotsman, John Crawfurd (Resident of Yogyakarta, 1811–14, 1816) is cast in this role, being referred to as having a specifically ‘Semar-like character’ (watak lir Jayakusuma) (Carey, 1992:525). Fluent in Javanese (which he had apparently picked up in his first six months in Yogyakarta) and close with members of both the sultan’s and Pakualam’s family, he is depicted as playing a crucial role in the defusing of tensions between the two branches of the sultanate (i.e. the Yogyakarta court and the Pakualaman) and standing firm in October-November 1812 against Pakualam’s bluster and blackmail. Indeed, at the end of the babad, he is paid the ultimate compliment of being referred to being as ‘dexterous as a Javanese’ (prigel lir bongsa jawi) as he sat cross-legged on the floor of the Great Mosque during the wedding ceremonies of the young fourth sultan (1814–22) in May 1816 (Carey, 1992:527). More work clearly needs to be done on this aspect of the use of drama, particularly wayang wong, for the defusing of political tensions in the Central Javanese courts in the early colonial period, but chronicles such as those of Panular contain precisely the sort of material necessary for the elaboration of Soedarsono’s pathbreaking work. References Carey, P.1981. The archive of Yogyakarta…Vol. I.Documents relating to politicsand internal court affairs.Oxford: Oxford University Press for the British Academy. Carey, P.1992. The British in Java, 1811–1816: a Javanese account…Oxford: Oxford University Press for the British Academy. Day, J.A.Unpublished. Meanings of change in the poetry of nineteenth-century Java. [PhD thesis, Comell University, 1981.] Ricklefs, M.C.1974. Jogjakarta under Sultan Mangkubumi, 1749–1792: a history of thedivision of Java.London: Oxford University Press.

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Soedarsono. 1984. Wayang wong: the state ritual dance drama in the court of Yogyakarta.Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Manuscript IJsseldijk, W.H.van.1798. Korte schets van de gesteldheid van Sultans hoff tot narigtvan den pl. OpperhoofdJ.G.van den Berg. [MS H 97(7), KITLV, Leiden.]

78

6 Traditional Balinese performing arts as yajnya MARTIN RAMSTEDT

This paper responds to one of the main objectives of the symposium, that is to bridge the gap between the various performing arts as well as between several genres, by concentrating on the sociocultural context of those of precolonial Bali— ritual which combined the performance of various gambelan genres, diverse dances and/or drama, as well as the singing of kidung poetry.1 As an ethnologist, having for several years practised Balinese music and dance myself, I am interested in how ethnomusicological data contribute to a general understanding of a certain culture, relating the arts to other cultural aspects in order to analyse the structuration of a given society. Here I want to focus on one aspect of an investigation of ‘Dharma, yajnya, and policy in precolonial Bali’ which will result in a doctoral thesis soon to be accomplished. Briefly stated, the thesis deals with the ‘symbolic’ aspects of traditional Balinese culture as a field of policy, applying the analytical category ‘early state’ to the Balinese negara (realm of traditional domination). It implies the fact that the ruling élite lacked sufficient military and bureaucratic means to maintain effective domination. The traditional rulers were, therefore, especially dependent on the legitimacy of their rule, persuading their subjects to the agreement to the hierarchic structure, to the necessity of being dominated by that specific king (raja). The pre-colonial2 kings derived the legitimacy of their rule from the ‘successful’ embodiment or representation of central religious values and concepts, the most eminent being: the sanga mandala or manik ring cucupu (over-all hierarchic cosmic order), the sekala-niskala relation (spiritual/transcendental/invisible world or macrocosm-material/physical world or microcosm), the kaja-kelod and kangin-kauh axes (‘flexible’ geographical vectors emerging from Mount Gunung Agung as spiritual and, therefore, geographical reference point), rwa bhinéda (the cosmic principle of duality as source of life), the caturwangsa (hierarchy of the four ‘castes’ correspondent to the cosmic hierarchy), dharma (ethics, appropriate behaviour), and 1

The traditional sociocultural context of Balinese performing arts is still alive in the villages. There has been an addition of further ‘contexts’ (tourist performances, government ceremonies, performances abroad, etc.) rather than an extinction of the original one. One can, therefore, extrapolate from one’s own observation of recent rituals in regard to the precolonial situation.

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alus-kasar (aesthetic categories applied to the behaviour and outer appearance of individuals).3 The ‘power’ of these concepts, traditional classifications of ‘reality’, lay in the supposed fact that they served as a means of basic life orientation and/or explanation, without which the individual, no matter what social position he held, was not able to maintain a mental and psychological balance—the Balinese notion of ‘sanity’. Colin McPhee related in his book A house in Bali (1953: 136ff.) how he once sent one of his young protégés to dancing lessons in a different part of the island, where the boy had not been before. Since the kajakelod and kangin-kauh axes differed here from what he was used to ‘at home’, the boy got bingung (‘confused, upset’). The same emotional state would manifest itself if a Balinese did not know whether the person he was communicating with was of high or low standing, whether today was a ‘full’ or ‘void’ day, or if he saw someone behaving inappropriately, etc. In other words, kabingungan, a kind of unbalanced, ‘disordered’ state, associated with ‘disaster, misfortune’, manifests itself when something or someone is perceived as not being or acting in correspondence (patut=‘appropriate’, rukun=‘being in harmony’, kerta=‘order, justice’) with the universal order symbolically expressed by the above-mentioned intersecting religious concepts. This universal order can be understood as an ultimate reference point for individual as well as social, thus also political, action, representing ‘sanity’ (not necessarily Western rationality) as a common ‘human’ layer or, as I will suggest, the Balinese ‘communitas’ (cf. Turner, 1974:274). I now proceed to a discussion of the function of rituals in the traditional Balinese society, for the point I intend to make in this paper is that the performance of music, dance, drama, and poetry in ritual contexts amplified and further exemplified the basic meaning of the ceremonies. The five categories of Balinese rituals (panca yajnya [panca=five, yajnya= act of worship or devotion, offering], in descending order: déwa [gods], resi [saints], pitra [deified ancestors], manusia [human beings], bhuta [demons, negative, nether world forces, elementals]; cf. Anandakusuma, 1987:25–29) comprise numerous rituals which have structured the rhythm of daily life. They cover rites de passage, rituals which relate to a mythological event in the past, ceremonies which are meant to be invitations of (certain) deities (déwata) or deified ancestors (pitra, leluhur), rituals which are performed to placate dis ruptive nether world forces. Rites de passage have been performed all over the world in conjunction with transitional periods, which are generally marked by ‘insecurity’. In the case of yajnya such as galungan, which relate to a mytho logical event in the past, these events had established or secured a

2

The somewhat imprecise term ‘pre-colonial’ refers here to the post-Majapahit period (1343–1855 in North Bali; 1343–1908 in South Bali; cf. Hanna, 1976), especially to the seventeenth-nineteenth centuries owing to the fact that the lontar (palm leaf) manuscripts used for historical interpretation can be reliably dated back to this time, and indigenous historiographic texts like the Usana Bali even to the sixteenth century (cf. Hinzler, 1986: 125). I use the term ‘traditional’ in the same sense.

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state of ‘order’ threatened by demonic forces. Galungan has been celebrated as a remembrance of the defeat of the ‘illegitimate’ king Mayadanawa described in the lontar Usana Bali. I will give a brief sketch of it. Once upon a time a raja of the Daitya lineage, son of Déwi Danu (goddess of the lake Batur), lived in Blingkang (probably désa [village] Blingkang north of lake Batur). The raja’s name was Mayadanawa and he had great magical power (sakti). He was said to rule even over the Makasarese, the Buginese, Sumbawa, Lombok, and Blambangan. Because of his great power, Mayadanawa became arrogant; a very ‘dangerous’ state of mind for it leads to an overestimation of one’s own importance or position within the cosmic hierarchy which in itself threatens the universal order. Mayadanawa’s arrogance expressed itself in the fact that he did not perform the necessary yajnya to honour the divine beings and also prevented his people from doing so. This resulted in ruined harvests, all kinds of sickness, plagues, etc. One of Bali’s foremost ‘cultural heroes’, Sang Kulputih, meditated at Pura Besakih, the most sacred spot of the island, and asked for help from Jambudwipa (India). Coming from there with a divine army, Bhatara (god) Indra fought a fierce battle against Mayadanawa; the details are well known and have a geographical connection with Tampak Siring and the river Petanu in South Bali, which has been believed to be the blood of Mayadanawa who was finally killed by Indra.4 The day of Indra’s victory was supposed to be remembered every 210 days (in accordance with the Balinese permutation calendar) in the form of galungan. This ritual seems to have been neglected for some time before it became a fixed institution, for it is reported in the lontar Jaya Kasunu that at the time of raja Jaya Kasunu, Bali was struck by a fierce plague. When asking Déwi (goddess) Durga for the reason, Jaya Kasunu learnt that the kings before him had forgotten to celebrate galungan, where the ‘victorious’ gods, having defeated the forces of adharma (forces who rebel against the cosmic order), are invited to come down to earth for a period of ten days to procure wellbeing (cf. Galungan, 1982:1–6; Usana Bali, 1986). Similarly, the gods and deified ancestors, the true owners of the (is-)land, who ensure fertility, etc., are invited to dwell temporarily at a certain temple whose (like any other temple’s) anniversary (piodalan, otonan) is celebrated for three days every 210 days. If appropriate reverence to the divine beings were neglected, the déwata would manifest signs of their displeasure—illness, famine, pestilence, or drought. The most famous ceremony directed to the bhuta has been the éka dasarudra, performed ‘once a century’ in order to placate potentially disruptive nether world forces/demons. These elementals derived from the five elements (panca mahabhuta)

3

In 1989, I stayed eight months in Indonesia, most of the time discussing religious and ethical concepts with kawi (Old Javanese) teachers, modern teachers of Hindu religion, pedanda (brahmana priests), and dalang (puppeteers) in Bali. I was most interested in their line of association, in how they relate the different concepts to one another, collecting also various indigenous writings concerning this topic. My argumentation here is based on this particular study. In regard to translations from kawi and Balinese, I relied on Zoetmulder, 1982, and Kersten, 1978.

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which constitute the universe. When they exceed their normal intensity, i.e. their proper position in nature, they cause trouble in the natural world and the world of men, thus bringing misfortune. After the performance of the éka dasa rudra they will content themselves again with their appropriate realms and the ‘good fortune of the world’ (pamahayu jagat) will be restored or maintained (Stuart-Fox, 1982:28–29). From what I have briefly related, one can conclude that the general aim of all ceremonies/rituals is to prevent or ‘cure’ a state of disorder, insecurity, imbalance, a ‘situation of conflict’. In traditional Bali as a ‘high context society’, rituals created a milieu in which the members could ‘solve’ any fundamental conflict between themselves as individuals and society, between the world of men and the world of the bhuta, and between men and the gods—trihitakarana,5 the Balinese ‘Heilserwartung’6—by exuberantly activating the reference point of individual and social action: the symbolically ordered cosmos; thus providing the consensus where Balinese ‘communitas’ (‘sense for humanity’) can manifest itself. Owing to lack of space, I confine myself to a sparse exemplification of my line of argumentation, acknowledging the fact, however, to which, inter alia, Turner has already drawn attention, that rituals are in general multidimensional and their symbols multivocal. According to him every dominant symbol has a spectrum of significations which are related through association—and to interpret a certain ritual is to understand the line of association (cf. Turner, 1983: 111). Here I can only elucidate the general pattern. Of particular importance in this context is the perception of symbols not only as mere cognitive classifications of the ‘universe’ of a certain society but also as significant means for mobilization, channelling, and control of the emotions of its members (cf. Turner, 1983:115; 1989:47). Bearing this in mind I would like to proceed to the discussion of how the (performing) arts contribute to the psychological and material ‘Heilserwartung’ in the ritual contexts described above. I intend to show that ‘neither did pomp serve power, nor did power serve pomp’ (the latter being put forward by Geertz, 1980:13, 136), but that pageantry of rituals and arts was a powerful means to manifest ‘Heil’ (bliss)=‘order’ (an emotional as well as ‘concrete’ state), expressed in Balinese terms as follows: rituals strengthen the spiritual life of those taking part, leading to harmony, justice, and prosperity—this being the source of legitimacy of the traditional Balinese ruler. Every major Balinese ritual has been replete with symbolism, the more so the karya gedé or baligia (‘great work’, royal ceremony; cf. Mershon, 1971:259–368) of 4

I relate this in detail to show how the various aspects of Balinese daily life including concrete geographical areas are interwoven in the network of mythology, ritual, and cognitive classification of the universe. 5 The concept of trihita karana denotes the harmonic relations between men and the gods, among men, and between men and the forces of nature. 6 A term by Max Weber signifying ‘expectancy of bliss’. I am very much influenced by Weber’s investigations of how a certain religion influences the daily life actions of its followers via the specific life style required by the particular religious ethics (cf. Weber, 1922, 1920). I will further elaborate this aspect in my forthcoming dissertation.

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the raja, owing to diverse sub-rituals and various art forms (bebanten [offerings], paintings, performing arts), conveying, as I suggest, ultimately the same message. Despite the lack of a detailed study of bebanten, the ethno graphic data of Mershon or Stuart-Fox give a clue to a general feature of banten symbolism which transmits different aspects or levels of the overall cosmic order. The sarad, a certain offering in connection with the éka dasa rudra, for instance, represents the three worlds (tribhuwana, related to the concept of trihita karana), picturing the supporter of the universe, the turtle Bedawangnala, and the two cosmic naga, the serpents Anantaboga and Basuki. The gods of the eight directions, also fashioned from rice, are situated around the sarad (cf. Stuart-Fox, 1982:95–107). In the great royal ceremonies, paintings were usually employed, depicting scenes from classical Balinese literature, for example the Ramayana, the Arjunawiwaha, or the Malat. These literary texts provided paradigms of ‘right’ behaviour, ‘just’ social order, and ideal kingship (king Rama, the Pandawa), presented in opposition to the antagonistic ‘paradigm’ of ‘wrong’ behaviour, subverted social order, and illegitimate kingship (demon king Rawana, the Kaurawa); or the ideal courtier and court life (Panji). The general function of the paintings was to represent and activate those principles (Vickers, 1984:2; Worsley, 1984:95, 96). Before I discuss the symbolic relations of music, dance, and drama to the general pattern of traditional Balinese cognitive classifications, I first want to recollect the dissemination of an aesthetic consensus, i.e. all members of the society ‘share a common aesthetic and ways of talking and visualizing things’, in pre-colonial Bali (cf. Vickers, 1985:145–46). Since the colonial ‘myth’ of the independent ‘village republics’ has long been forsaken, one can generally say that the courts functioned as cultural centres or models for the whole society, for members from all hierarchic levels were involved in court life (in contrast to Java where the culture of the aristocracy was not shared by commoners). The courts selected talented individuals of any social rank, also jaba (commoners, members of the sudra ‘caste’7), to study and diversify their talents as well as teach there. Later in their life, villagers returned home and spread knowledge about life and ‘art’8 at the puri (palace). Villagers as pangayah (people who have to carry out obligatory labour for the puri) were involved in all kinds of corvée for the nobility, including the preparation of ‘state rituals’ or other royal ceremonies. Jaba contributed by providing men and material for building the constructions required by a certain ceremony, they actively took part as musicians and dancers, and they constituted an important part of the audience. The pedanda (priests of the brahmana caste), religious advisers to the courts 7

The various Balinese title groups were related to the concept of catur wangsa (four caste groups modelled after the Indian varna system: brahmana, ksatria, wésia, sudra). 8 Traditionally, the Balinese did not have an equivalent to our Western concept of ‘art’, not even a word for it. They had names only for the different genres (topéng, wayang kulit, or rejang, etc.) which were conceived as karya=‘work to be done, duty, religious performance, feast’, implying the fact that they were integral part of the yajnya, their ritual contexts.

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as well as the villages, and village priests of the sudra caste (pemangku), monopolized the knowledge about the ‘correct’ performance of rituals. As purohita (house chaplain) they shared their knowledge only with the king. Therefore, royal rituals were exemplary models for analogous village events, which, according to the brahmana doctrine, could only be a less powerful reflection of the royal prototype. Part of the esoteric religious tradition at the courts was the traditional musicology presented in the lontar Prakempa and Aji ghurnita. It is noteworthy that these lontar were classified in the traditional literary category tutur (cf. Schumacher, 1985:31), like, for instance, the lontar containing the Balinese calendar. Tutur consist of teachings connected with cosmology. They inform about the relation between the objects of the material world (microcosm, bhuwana alit) and aspects of the macrocosmic order (bhuwana agung), expressed in the concept of sekala (physical world)-niskala (eternal transcendental cosmic order) (cf. Aryasa, 1983:28), which is connected with the Balinese concept of the genesis of the universe, briefly described as follows: Sang Hyang Sunia Sepi, when turning upon himself, manifested Sang Hyang Adi Suksema. Through several phases of unison (yoga), these two cosmic principles brought about the constituting elements of the world (bayu=wind, apah=water, téja=fire, prana=breath of life, and akasa=ether, space [= panca mahabhuta]), later the déwata (gods), both male and female, first Sky-Father (Bhatara Derewé Resi) and his wife Earth-Mother (Bhatari Pertiwi) as well as the guardian deities of the cardinal directions, and so on. The whole order of the universe, therefore, is based on the relation/unison/correspondence of the two cosmic principles, expressed in the Balinese concept of rwa bhinéda ([the one] ‘divided into two’), the physical world (Bhatari or Sang Hyang Pertiwi/sekala) corresponding to the spiritual world (Bhatara Derewé Resi or Sang Hyang Akasa/ niskala) (cf. Anandakusuma, 1987:16; Mershon, 1971:32). These cosmological principles were reflected in the esoteric concepts of the Balinese tone system and organology. According to the Prakempa and the Aji ghurnita, the tones, like the aksara (Balinese letters, syllables) to whom they are related, evolved out of the one cosmic sound om. They formed two scales: pélog or Sang Hyang Akasa (Sky-Father) or Sang Hyang Semara (god of male sexual energy), its tones (dang, ding, déng, dung, dong) relating to Iswara, Brahma, Mahadéwa, Wisnu, Siwa—guardians of east, south, west, north, and centre; sléndro or Sang Hyang Pertiwi (Earth-Mother) or Sang Hyang Ratih (goddess of female sexual energy), its tones (female correspondents to those of pélog: ndang, nding, ndéng, ndung, ndong) relating to the female spouses of the above-mentioned deities: Mahadéwi, Saraswati, Gayatri, Sri, Uma—guardians of south-east, south-west, north-west, north-east, and centre. The united sound of pélog and sléndro, called Sang Hyang Dwi Warna (‘God Two Colours’), connects the heart (sléndro, female) and mind (pélog, male) of the listener. Thus, new ideas come to him, wisdom arises (cf. Bandem, 1986:33–45; Schumacher, 1985:32–4). In other words, the unison of the male and the female tone scales brings about (spiritual) fertility, the inherent potential (bliss) of the ordered cosmos. Although no gambelan ensemble we have ever known in Bali combined both pélog and sléndro, various gambelan (angklung, gong gedé tuned in pélog,

TRADITIONAL BALINESE PERFORMING ARTS AS YAJNYA 85

gendér wayang tuned in sléndro, etc.) used to play simultaneously during (royal) ceremonies, maybe according to this concept. The technique of playing interlocking rhythmic patterns, too, seems to correspond to the concept of rwa bhinéda. It is the principle of any music style in Bali, nowadays called kotékan and consisting of polos (plain) and sangsih (different, earlier) which function as an embellishment of the basic tones (pokok=main, principal, basic, fundamental), the underlying melody. One could also say that the combined polos and sangsih constitute one complete melodic pattern which is as an elaboration of the basic notes; i.e. the original one (pokok melody) divides into two (polos and sangsih). We find the same idea in the grouping of the instruments of every Balinese music ensemble into pairs, one male (lanang or pengumbang from ngumbang =’to flow’), tuned slightly lower, and one female (wadon or pengisep from ngisep=‘to absorb’), tuned slightly higher9 (Schumacher, 1985:40). When playing together, these pairs of instruments create a certain vibration which, in the belief of the Balinese, ‘brings the tone to life’. This again alludes to the creative potential of the united two cosmic principles, abundantly represented in various sections of Balinese culture. A famous example in architecture is the candi bentar (split gate). It is well known that each traditional building symbolized the order of the universe—the pura (temple) as well as the puri (palace) or the umah (compound of the jaba).10 The positioning of the diverse courtly music ensembles in the puri emphasized the underlying architectural principle. According to the music lontar, the gambelan amladprana or gambelangambuh, prototype of all the other ensembles just as all the various dance forms are said to derive from gambuh (which is believed to originate from Hindu Java, reference point of the traditional Balinese culture), represented the centre. The four other gambelan of the palace interior (semara pagulingan,semara patangyan, semara palinggihan, semara pandiryan) symbolized east, south, west, and north. The two ensembles of the palace courtyard (gambelangong and gambelan bebonangan) corresponded to the zenith and nadir. The gambelan gong had the main function of welcoming gods and guests of high standing (zenith being the realm of the déwata), whereas the gambelan bebonangan was used in confrontations with incarnations of adharma—war or bhutayajnya (nadir being the realm of the nether world forces), a further allusion to rwa bhinéda (cf. Bandem, 1986:66–69, 87–89; Schumacher, 1985:25, 29, 42). The tone-system, the instruments, and the position and function of the abovementioned gambelan were believed to be carriers of the principles of the eternal cosmic order. The musicians who had to activate them were supposed to be loyal subjects,

9 It is interesting that, in contemporary Bali, it is the other way round: lanang and pengumbang are perceived as female and wadon and pengisep as male. However, the version of the Prakempa and the Aji ghurnita makes more sense according to the philological meaning of the terms involved. 10 Budihardjo (1986) provides a concise survey of how the various religious concepts have been presented in the traditional architecture.

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behaving in accordance with dharma. While playing, their emotional and mental state should be ‘pure’ (suci) in order not to prevent the divine forces from becoming manifest in the material world (Bandem, 1986:95; Schumacher, 1985:24). As may have become clear by now, the linking force in regard to the sekalaniskala relation was analogy. In an act of ‘homoeopathic magic’ (Frazer, 1983:16) —‘like produces like’—dharma manifests itself through drama. In order to understand the following argumentation better, I briefly define dharma as behaviour which is in correspondence with the principles and the order of the universe and thus maintains its balance. The ethic principle of rukun, preventing any conflict which might threaten the cosmic harmony, is the basis of various kinds of dharma. The balance of the cosmos is the blissful state—‘Heil—where all the cosmic elements cooperate to create, i.e. reproduce life, and do not compete which would mean disjunction of the creative forces, death. The calonarang dance drama has been performed in connection with purificatory rites in the context of major rituals like galungan, or on the occasion of an odalan (anniversary) of a death temple (pura dalem) which is always situated by the graveyard, a habitat for elementals/bhuta/léyak (black magicians) who are attracted there by the fetid soil. They are ruled by rangda, a ‘negative’ aspect of Durga, Siwa’s wife. The dance drama has its climax in the fight between barong (an incarnation of Banaspati Raja who has often been considered as an aspect of Siwa) and rangda (cf. Mershon, 1971:43), which ends when rangda ‘gives up’, ‘disappears from the stage’, i.e. when she acknowledges the superior power of barong alias Siwa, her spouse. When the wife submits to her husband’s status, ‘the world is in order again’. When the bhuta/inferior beings are subjugated and acknowledge the superiority of the déwata/persons of high standing, the balance of the universe is restored. The topéng pajegan dance drama, performed in the context of odalan,galungan, éka dasa rudra, royal ceremonies, relates in essence the victory of dharma, embodied in the ‘legitimate’ king, over adharmic forces, manifest in the ‘illegitimate’ king. The lakon (stories) comprise the above-mentioned legend of Mayadanawa, the victory of Gajah Mada over Bedahulu, the defeat of Dalem Bungkut, king of Nusa Penida, by the king of Gelgel, etc. (cf. Agung, 1981/82:48–49; Young, 1980:113, 244–50), taken from the classical historiographic texts (Usana Jawa, Usana Bali, Babad dalem, and others). This topos is analogously presented in the wayang wong or wayang parwa dance drama, performed in nearly the same ritual context, and dealing with the victory of the ‘legitimate’ king Rama over the the demon king Rawana, or the Pandawa over the Kaurawa. Clifford Geertz’s understanding of the Balinese notion of time (cf. Geertz, 1983: 138–43, 174–84), divergent from our modern Western one, is quite note worthy when one reflects upon Balinese drama as an act of ‘homoeopathic magic’. His argumentation can be summed up in the statement that ‘time’ did not mean ‘development’ of something new but ‘reproduction’ of the same cosmic principles which were perceived as being co-present. The repetition of an event in the mythological past, in itself a reflection of cosmic principles, made it happen ‘here and now’, activated its latent co-presence. A victory of dharma ‘in the past’ was

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repeated ‘here and now’ in the above-mentioned performances and restored the cosmic balance troubled by contemporary circumstances. The same mechanism seems to work when a lakon of a wayanglemah (sacral daylight shadow-play) recounted an ‘ideally’ performed rite depassage of, let us say, Arjuna (for instance, the Arjunawiwaha relating his marriage), and thus secured the successful contemporary performance of a marriage ceremony of, for example, a ksatria (‘caste’ of the ruling families) (cf. Putra, n.d.:13). The presentation of the divine heroes as embodiments of ‘ideal behaviour’— dharma—served as paradigms for individual action, and should activate the like in the audience. I want to reflect a moment on how the individuals were motivated to ‘follow’ those paradigms, suggesting that aesthetic criteria were important factors in this regard. The Balinese categories of alus and kasar (cf. Young, 1980:6, 10) were not only criteria of an aesthetic but also a moral evaluation, drawing the following line of association: dharma is present in alus characters who are refined, beautiful, victorious, wise, divine; adharma is represented by kasar characters who are coarse, ugly, losing, stupid, animal-like. Thus, the aesthetic evaluation of ‘right’ behaviour served as an effective means to influence the psychological and mental disposition of the individuals by evoking the desire to identify with the ‘good and beautiful’. ‘Appropriateness’ is manifest in beauty reflecting the harmonious cosmos, the state of bliss. Beauty, effectively activated by the artist through the help of taksu (divine inspiration [cf. Young, 1980:1], a ‘purified’ state of mind corresponding to the kasucian [purity] of the transcendental world), was not an end in itself, not l’artpour l’art, not pomp for pomp’s sake only. It brought about ‘Heil’, and the ruler who created beauty through the performance of yajnya brought bliss to the world, this being the source of his legitimacy. In this context, the performing arts were part of a wider framework of rhetorics which functioned as persuasive means. The common identification with the good, beautiful, wise, divine winner created an effective general consensus as basis for social interaction. The constant reinvigoration of the described conceptual patterns in numerous rituals and details of daily life, which served as an endless cross-reference, led to their vivid presence in the imagination of the individuals. This helps to explain the powerful reproduction of the structuration of the Balinese negara, in spite of changing configurations of political alliances which tried to appear to be in accordance with the legitimizing concepts. References Agung, Anak Agung Gde Putra.1981/82. Beberapa tari upacara dalam masyarakat Bali. Jakarta: Proyek Media Kebudayaan Jakarta, Direktorat Jenderal Kebudayaan, Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. Anandakusuma, Sri Reshi.1987. Dharma sastra.Denpasar: CV Kayumas. Aryasa, I Wayan M.1983. Nilai mitos gambelan Bali dalam lontar Aji ghurnita.Denpasar: Taman Budaya.

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Bandem, I Made.1986. Prakempa: sebuah lontar gambelan Bali.Denpasar: Akademi Seni Tari Indonesia. Budihardjo, Eko.1986. Architectural conservation in Bali. Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Frazer, J.G.1983. The golden bough: a study in magic and religion. Abridged edition.[Reprinted] London: MacMillan and Co. Galungan.1982. Galungan.Denpasar: Penerbit Ria. Geertz, C. 1980. Negara: the theatre state in nineteenth-century Bali. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Geertz, C. 1983. Dichte Beschreibung: Beiträge zum Versteben kultureller Systeme. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp. Hanna, W.A.1976. Bali profile: people, events, circumstances (1001–1976). New York: American Universities Field Staff. Hinzler, H.I.R.1986. The Usana Bali as a source of history. (In Taufik Abdullah, ed.Papers of the fourth Indonesian-Dutch History Conference, Yogyakarta, 24–29July1983. Vol. II. Literature and history. Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press, 124–62.) Kersten, J.1978. Kamus kecil bahasa Bali. Singaraja. McPhee, C.1953. A house in Bali.Singapore, etc.: Oxford University Press. [Reprint. First published New York: John Day Co. [1946].) Mershon, K.E.1971. Seven plus seven: mysterious life-rituals in Bali. New York, etc.: Vantage Press. Putra, I Gusti Agung. n.d. Cudamani: tari wali.Denpasar: Akademi Seni Tari Indonesia. Schumacher, R.1985. Aji Ghurnita: eine balinesische Musiklehre. Jahrbuch fürmusikalische Volks-und Völkerkunde,XII, 13–49. Stuart-Fox, D.J.1982. Once a century: Pura Besakih and the éka dasa rudra festival.Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, Citra Indonesia. Turner, V.1974. Dramas, fields, and metaphors: symbolic action in human society. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press. Turner, V.1983. Ritualsymbolik, Moralität und Sozialstruktur bei den Ndembu. (InKramer, F., and Sigrist, C., ed. Gesellschaften ohne Staat. II.Genealogie und Solidantät.Frankfurt a.M.:Syndikat, 108–19.) Turner, V.1989. Das Ritual: Struktur und Anti-Struktur.Frankfurt a.M., New York: Campus Verlag. Usana Bali, Usana Jawa.1986. Usana Bali/Usana Jawa: teks dan terjemahan.Denpasar: Dinas Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan Propinsi Daerah Tingkat I Bali. [Edited by I Wayan Warna and Ida Bagus Gde Murdha.] Vickers, A.H.1984. Ritual and representation in nineteenth-century Bali. Review ofIndonesian and Malaysian Affairs,XVIII (1), 1–35. Vickers, A.H.1985. The realm of the senses: images of the court music of pre-colonial Bali. Imago Musicae. International Yearbook of Musical Iconography,II, 143–77. Vickers, A.H.Unpublished. The desiring prince: a study of the kidung Malat as text. [PhD thesis, University of Sydney, 1986.] Weber, M.1920. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie.I.Tübingen: Mohr. Weber, M.1922. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft.Tübingen: Mohr. Worsley, P.J.1984. E 74168. Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs,XVIII (1), 64–109. Young, E.F.1980. Topeng in Bali: change and continuity in a traditional drama genre. Ann Arbor, London: University Microfilms International. [PhD thesis, University of California, San Diego.]

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Zoetmulder, P.J.1982. Old Javanese-English dictionary…with the collaboration ofS.O.Robson. ‘sGravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff. 2 vols.

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7 Golék Ménak and tayuban: patronage and professionalism in two spheres of Central Javanese culture1 FELICIA HUGHES-FREELAND

This paper will examine two contrasting performance phenomena from the province of Yogyakarta (Java), in order to elicit certain trends in current cultural policies in Indonesia. Golék Ménak dance drama is the newest genre to be classed and patronized as palace culture. Tayuban, the so-called ‘dancing party’, belongs to the sphere of the small-scale community patronage which the Indonesian imagination is coming to associate with disappearing life-styles. It is not the history or the structure of the forms themselves which will concern us here, but their patronage and its effect on the performers who participate in these two different kinds of event which represent two contrasting spheres in the process of socio-cultural reconstruction. Before this, I shall make some general comments so as to clarify the terms of reference which are current in the discourse of cultural development in Java and Indonesia today, in order to provide some background about how our two examples are put in perspective by their patrons and practitioners. Modern Indonesian culture: a preamble Culture is a generalizing word. Ten years ago it was suggested that modern Indonesian culture is nothing but an ideological concept (Bruner, 1979:307). Regional ethnography shows that the word kebudayaan (‘culture’) in Indonesian may bear little relation to the culture-defining concepts of specific ethnic groups (Collins, unpublished:l4–15). In order to avoid taking official rhetoric as statements of fact, it is helpful to consider modernity itself as an ideological construct, and to recognize the extent to which official statements about cultural development function as rhetorical formulae which generate an ideological image. Culture and development Culture is education in disguise. This is a commonly expressed view in Yogyakarta, and one which is demonstrated in the role of culture as conceived in the fifth phase of Indonesia’s national development programme (REPELITA V). Culture (kebudayaan) is administered together with education, and is regarded as a process by which Indonesian nationhood will grow, as individual Indonesians come to acquire

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the kind of selfhood, expectations, and aspirations which are regarded as the preconditions for development in New Order Indonesia. The role of culture in this ideology is to bring order and civilization to the members of the many ethnic groups which comprise the Indonesian citizenry. In the present ‘development era’, a period of awakening and reconstruction, cultural policies are recognizing the valuable potential of the national inheritance to provide traditions which can enrich modern Indonesian culture. Cultural projects devised in the offices of the Ministry of Education and Culture (Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, Depdikbud for short) are explained by officials to have a threefold role: membina, ‘to build, to develop, to cultivate’; mengembangkan, ‘to expand, to develop’; and melestarikan, ‘to make everlasting or unchanging, to preserve’. These somewhat tautological intentions presuppose a knowledge of what is to be developed, and provide an adaptable formula serving as a currency for collusion which assists the circulation of the ideological programme. This tripartite goal is designed to endorse the ‘regional peaks’ (puncak daé-rah) policy of cultural development which emerged after the political crisis of the mid-1960s, and which conforms to the spirit of the Indonesian state motto, ‘Unity in Diversity’. There is not one form of Indonesian culture, but a plurality of cultures which make up a unity. This, like all Indonesian policy, comes under the rubric of Pancasila, the five-fold state constitution which stipulates the following principles: belief in God; Indonesian nationalism; humanitarianism; democracy through consensus; and social justice. In spite of rhetoric about promoting diversity through Pancasila, it is the unifying powers of this ideology which are given priority, and indeed, one of the more undisguised forms of education to develop modern Indonesian attitudes are the Pancasila training programmes, participation in which has become a precondition for being an Indonesian citizen in the full sense of the term. Cultural diversity may be sought, but not all cultures are equal; in particular the dominance of the Javanese is often commented on. There is a tendency for development to flow from Java, the educational centre of the Republic, to the outer islands, not only through the Javanese domination of the Indonesian élite, but also through the dissemination of Javanese culture which is brought about by a number of factors, not least by transmigration projects. Conversely, it has been argued that Javanese culture is itself in crisis (Slamet, 1982). Rather than addressing questions of ethnicity and dominance, the two examples in this paper will examine internal transformations and remind us that Javanese culture is not a unitary phenomenon although it is being subjected to a homogenizing process from within.

1

This paper is based on research funded through the good offices of the Advisory Committee of the Evans Trust, University of Cambridge. My thanks go also to the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI), to my research assistants Sri Harjanto Sahid and Didiek Teha, and to many people whose names are not mentioned in the course of the paper.

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Tradition in the cultural process The promotion of ‘tradition’ (tradisi) forms part of this process, and functions in the discourse of modernity as a rhetorical bulwark set against the perceived tide of outside influence, Western or otherwise. Tradition’ should not necessarily be understood as referring to customs which are authentic, indigenous, and longestablished although they may be in particular instances, but rather as an ideology which attributes precedents to practices which may have recently been revived, recast, or reinvented, even if the label or contents refer back to a previous practice.2 Fixing a name to a genre which draws on prior conventions and its subsequent presentation as traditional is a common practice which reminds us that a tradition is a process, not a thing. Tradition’ may be used to evoke a contrast between newfangled modernity and long-established custom, but within the discourse of modernity it is important to recognize that tradition is being invented, to borrow the concept of the historian, Hobsbawm (1983). Intactness and authenticity in this context represent qualities brought to practices framed as legitimate tradition, not as qualities inhering in certain activities or things. The manipulation of ideas about the past as an ordered and ordering force is not new in Indonesia: the ordering of events according to precedent in the chronicles of the courts of Java to bring legitimacy and stability to periods of uncertainty has been extensively documented in the historical work of Ricklefs (1974). Traditional practice of course is never static and always responds to changing circumstances, but there is a programmatic reconstructive approach to the national inheritance in Indonesia today which speaks more of power and legitimization than of authenticity and continuity. In post-revolutionary Indonesia, traditions are created to fit ideas about Indonesian identity and imagined futures. Tradition is not the replication of something retrieved intact from the past. The role of the media in making such traditions general is also part of this process (Hobsbawm, 1983:1). The extent to which gamelan playing, for example, occurs in Javanese communities, is the result not of sustained cultural practice but of strategic cultural policies. These policies include the deliberate use of the media, most specifically radio, from 1945, and television, from 1962 (Indonesia. DirectorateGeneral of Culture, 1973). Despite the use of the media to promote tradition, there are many who perceive the spread of electricity as a literal current which sweeps away everything in its path. There are numerous and tempting imported alternatives available to both urban and rural consumers, varying, of course, according to re gion. Although the patronage of live performance by individuals at all levels of society is a noticeable feature of the manifestation of contemporary Indonesian culture in Java, there is hot competition

2 The Javanese theatrical form kethoprak provides an interesting instance of this. It has been said that it ‘started’ in Yogyakarta in 1925 after having been ‘created’ in Surakarta in 1908. However, it has recently been claimed that its ‘creator’, R.M.T.Wreksadiningrat, drew on pre-existing performance practices from rural communities (Handung, 1989:9–13).

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from the media products, which form a kind of displaced patronage. The case of the audio cassette replacing live music and shadow-puppet plays at ritual gatherings is a well-known example of how the ideologically desirable harmony between tradition and modernity can be lost. The latest threat to live performance now is video technology. Reports about this appear regularly in the press, such as an example from the Grobogan district of Central Java: patrons who in the past might have spent at least Rp. 150,000 for a kethoprak performance for a wedding or circumcision are now giving in to the economic rationales (and no doubt the novelty value) of showing video films which, complete with player and generator, cost Rp. 60,000 to rent (Kedaulatan Rakyat, 18 July 1989).3 The programmatic and ideological promotion of the traditional is presented as a way of resisting the destruction of approved elements in culture and society which the surge of electronic technology brings about. Apart from a desire to protect the familiar, this rationale also indicates a governmental fear and suspicion of an unmonitored kind of patronage within the media, something which the Ministry of Information does its utmost to control. The potentially untrammelled flow of freemarket audio and video cassettes is a permanent problem for the state (as indeed it is in the West) and one might hazard that a concern about the destruction of traditional values by the media is second to a concern about order. Culture and the arts Modern Indonesian culture is a response to a perceived modernization which calls on the ideology of the traditional to act as panacea to the negative face of change. A second characteristic is the disintegration of connected practices into differently identified elements. The examples in this paper will show how performance is being separated from the circumstances under which it used to be performed, and how performers acting according to principles handed down in an informal manner are being squeezed out by current developments. As the scale and the conditions of performance have changed, performance practices have frequently become removed from the venues which formerly elicited their sense and relevance, and have become beached, like so many fish out of water. Their subsequent reclassification as arts has, to extend the metaphor, left them gasping for breath. The separation of performance is emphasized and extended by formal contemporary training conditions which produce a generation of performers often stranded by the lack of patronage necessary to sustain their identity as artists; the function for which they are trained, for instance, in ISI (Institut Seni Indonesia), the Institute of Indonesian Arts (sic) in Yogyakarta. Teachers of performance are trained in teacher train ing colleges. The production of specialized artists by the academies has little precedent, and the artist(e)s produced by ISI are condemned to an impossible limbo between idea and practice, and little thought has been given as

3

The rate of exchange in 1989 averaged Rp. 3,000 to the Pound.

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to how they are to earn their living on graduation. This disjunction is of the same order as the gap between the rhetoric applied to the objectives of cultural development projects and the practicability and relevance of implementing them. Or to put it another way, the contemporary production of performers and modern rationales are out of synch with prevailing structures and expectations. There is a problem of fit in modern Indonesian culture. The existence of trained artists and an emerging class of activities which are being separated out and classed as arts (kesenian) are important contributing factors to the condition and reproduction of modern Indonesian culture. The policy of preserving tradition may be understood as a way of bringing a sense of coherence into the experience of change in a context of intensive development. To speak of ‘the arts’ is to enter a modem discourse with a political programmatic character. The two examples of performance which follow will reveal the place that tradition has today in the developmental ethos of Indonesia in the cultural region of Central Java and remind us that REPELITA and realization are not always identical, and that while tradition may be invented, its implementation may have unpredictable results: programmatic ideology cannot guarantee the direction of practical processes, nor can it predict what the individual response will be. The two case studies will also show something of the interaction and disjunction between ideology and individual interest and impulse. Palace patronage: golék Ménak dance drama On 17 March 1989, the Team for the Perfecting of the Yogyakartan golék Ménak dance drama presented the first public performance of a ‘perfect’ version of a genre attributed to the late Sultan Hamengku Buwono IX. The performance was given in the main hall of the Provincial Headquarters of the Special Region of Yogyakarta, before an invited audience of around one thousand people. The team responsible for the production consisted of twenty to twenty-five people drawn from the most influential cultural institutions of Yogyakarta: the Arts section of the Sultan’s palace (KHP Kridhomardowo), the Department of Education and Culture, the Institute of Indonesian Arts (ISI), the Secondary School of Indonesian Arts (SMKI), and a number of associations promoting classical dance-and-theatre: the dance studio of Bagong Kussudiardjo, the Siswa Among Beksa foundation, the Mardowo Budoyo foundation, and the Suryo Kencono foundation. The sixty-three performers (twenty-five singers and musicians, and thirty-eight dancers) were also drawn from these different enclaves.4 The performance was hosted by the head of the Sub-office of the Department of Education and Culture, and preceded by the presentation of the ten Artist of the Year awards by the heads of the provincial and central offices of the Ministry of Education and Culture. The recipients included the late Sultan Hamengku Buwono

4

Each participating organization or institution provided four or five musicians. The

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IX for having created the golék Ménak dance drama, and the award was handed over to his son who ten days earlier had been installed as Sultan Hamengku Buwono X. The performance, originally scheduled to take place sooner, had been delayed so as to form part of the festivities to celebrate the enthronement. This was seen to provide a fitting occasion on which to present the result of an elaborate and unusual co-operation involving the whole sphere of classical performance in Yogyakarta. Palace patronage and the Sultan The attribution of the creation of the golék Ménak dance drama to Sultan Hamengku Buwono IX is a feature of palace culture. Since the foundation of the kingdom of Yogyakarta in 1756 following a revolt in the ruling family, performance genres have been attributed to the ruler, who is often represented in the court chronicles as having a personal involvement in the creative work carried out by his retainers (Freeland, 1985:38). According to this custom, the first Sultan is said to have created (among other genres) the wayang wong dance drama, a form drawing on the conventions, characterizations, and plots of the shadow-play (wayang kulit). The historian and dance expert Soedarsono has argued that wayang wong functioned as state ritual, and used to form part of the commemoration of the enthronement and birthday of rulers, and endorsed a system of references and symbols identifying the Sultan as god-king and incarnation of Wisnu (Soedarsono, 1984). The productions reached their most lavish scale in the 1920s and 1930s during the reign of Hamengku Buwono VIII, when they might be performed over a period as long as three days and nights. It is this version of wayang wong, albeit in a shorter ‘fragment’ form lasting between two and four hours, which provides the standard for its classical form today, although as Lindsay has demonstrated, the internal relations between dance movement, dialogue, and narrative structure mark the modern classical wayang wong as a very different kind of form from that which was performed during the reign of the fifth Sultan (1823–26, 1828–55), the most active patron of wayang wong before Hamengku Buwono VIII (Lindsay, unpublished). Attributions of origin and the implementation of what has come to be viewed as traditional with regard to standards or styles need to be treated with caution. As has been shown in the case of traditional literature, the contents of the texts do not necessarily support the prevalent assumptions about the texts, and may even represent a very different kind of culture from that implied in the palace aesthetic of the ‘noble sublime’ (adiluhung) (Florida, 1987). The palace centres have provided a focus for the reification of tradition as unchanging and ideal, but such ideas and identifications about past practices along with statements about origins tell us more

dancers involved were distributed as follows: ISI 13; PLT Bagong Kussudiardjo 7; Siswa Among Beksa 6; Mardowo Budoyo 5; SMKI 5; Suryo Kencono 1; KHP Kridhomardowo 1 (Soedarsono and others, 1989:153–55).

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about ideologies of legitimation than about the facts of the historical convolutions of performance genres in Java. The inception of golék Ménak dance drama Golék Ménak dance drama is caught up in this legitimizing ethos, and the reiteration of the role of Sultan Hamengku Buwono IX in its creation is a symptom of the desire of its current patrons, with their cross-cutting affiliations to the palace (by virtue of birth or appointment) and the state, to endorse the identification of golék Ménak dance drama with the palace, although the patronage of performance genres by groups outside the palace is not a recent or even a post-independence phenomenon. When the young Hamengku Buwono IX succeeded his father in 1940, the palace genres wayang wong, bedhaya and srimpi (complex and refined dances today performed by females), beksan (fighting duets), golék and Klana (solo adorning dances today for female and male performers respectively), as well as masked genres from non-palace spheres, were also being patronized by Kridho Bekso Wiromo, a dance school set up in 1918 by Princes Suryadiningrat and Tejakusuma with the encouragement of their older brother, the future Hamengku Buwono VIII. The young Hamengku Buwono IX patronized wayang wong in the form of short fragments which had been introduced by Kridho Bekso Wiromo, with only one production taking place inside the palace. The invasion of the Japanese in 1942 and subsequent political events were to interrupt the course of life inside the palace and outside. Before this Hamengku Buwono IX had initiated a new artistic enterprise. Palace dancers remember how he invited a puppeteer to present a golék Ménak puppet play in the palace, and all the senior dance teachers and a number of other dancers were instructed to attend as a first step to devising the new genre of dance drama which would take over from the wayang wong as the most prestigious and large-scale performance genre. The choreographies and stories would refer to the golék Ménak puppet plays5 in the same way that wayang wong had referred to the shadow-play. There was already in the palace repertoire a dance for a single performer dressed as a woman but danced by a male called golék, allegedly created by Prince Mangkubumi IV in the late nineteenth century, but this dance used the fluid movements associated with the palace female mode (putri), and depicted a female adorning herself (Choy, 1984). There was no reference to the narrative cycle of the golék

5

There is an extensive literature on the golék puppet theatre of West Java; see for example Sutaarga, 1955; Foley, unpublished. Its repertoire however is not based on the Ménak cycle. Plays using this repertoire in West Java are called wayang cepak (Foley, unpublished:2– 3). In his discussion of Central Javanese golék puppet theatre, Pigeaud makes no mention of cepak, but defines wayang golék as plays using round wooden puppets and stories of Wong Agung Jayéngrana (1938:para 2). The Ménak stories also used to be performed as masked theatre in parts of Sunda and Java (Pigeaud, 1938:paras 109, 111, 160). I know of no substantial published studies on wayang golék Ménak in Central Java; Koentjaraningrat mentions the genre in passing (1985:288).

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Ménak puppet play, or none that had survived. Where the wayang wong had used plots from the Javanized Indian epics, the Mahabharata and occasionally the Ramayana, the new genre would take its stories from the serat Ménak cycle, which had come to Java from the Middle East by way of an adaptation in Malay, and told of the exploits of Amir Hamzah, uncle of the Prophet Muhammad, and known in Java as Wong Agung Ménak or Jayéngrana. Interestingly, the theme of these stories which tell of the subjugation and conversion to Islam of various kingdoms is rarely mentioned as a factor which contributes to their their popularity in the palace. The section of the story performed in March 1989, ‘The marriage of Kélaswara’ (Kélaswara palakrama) told of the successful alliance of Jayéngrana with Déwi Adaninggar, the Chinese princess, against the enemy king Mardujamum and the subsequent campaign against the king of Kélan. The dramatic structure and emphasis was similar to that of wayang wong. choreographic styles to show different rank and character, and fights between pairs of contrasted types, culminating in the duel between Déwi Kélaswara, princess of Kélan, and Déwi Adaninggar, the Chinese princess. The story concluded with the death of Adaninggar and the marriage of Kélaswara and Jayéngrana following the conversion of the king of Kélan to Islam. In the Yogyakarta palace tradition fights between female roles are popular, and it is likely that the conflict between these two redoubtable ladies lies behind the popularity of golék Ménak as a story source; the conflict of Kélaswara and Adaninggar has long been popular in bedhaya and srimpi dances in the palace (Groneman, 1888:31–33; Surjadiningrat, 1953, 1970). When Hamengku Buwono IX initiated the project to develop a dance drama based on golék Ménak puppet plays, he instructed his retainers to develop choreographies using movements reminiscent of the wooden puppets and to generate a range of choreographic modes to express the various male psychologies of the play. The dancer K.R.T.Wirodiprodjo, a court retainer in the 1920s, recalled that the project was initially a male matter, with twenty dancers working in pairs to develop choreographies to fit the different characters. His own fighting sequence, performed by himself and K.R.T.Mertodipuro, was noticed and approved of by the Sultan when their efforts were performed in the palace. There had been a lack of puppet-like movement in some of the other choreographies, particularly in the neck and shoulders, and the people involved were urged to try harder to create living versions of the wooden golék puppets. At this point, male dancers who taught or performed the female dance mode, putri, were not involved with the golék Ménak dance drama (interview with K.R.T.Wirodiprodjo, September 1983). The diversification of palace patronage Political events in Java soon disrupted this project along with everything else. The Japanese invasion of 1942 and their defeat in 1945, followed swiftly by the Indonesian declaration of independence on 17 August 1945 led to major changes in palace patronage. The Sultan of Yogyakarta’s role was adapted to the power

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structure of the new republic where he became, among other things, Governor of the Special Region of Yogyakarta which had been accorded Provincial status. Between 1950 and 1973, all palace performance was moved to the residence of Prince Purwodiningrat and in 1952 the palace arts section was given the name Bebadan Among Beksa, and entrusted to Prince Yudaningrat (Sumandio Hadi, unpublished:80–88). The various corps of soldiers and dancers among the palace retainers who formerly took part in performance had been run down during the war-torn years, and the atmosphere resulting from independence also altered the nature of participation in palace genres, with the innovations introduced in Kridho Bekso Wiromo becoming more widespread and incorporated into the palace branch itself. This included the participation of people from the community who were not necessarily of high birth although they often had some connection to the palace through birth or occupation, and the wider participation of women where before, with the exception of most bedhaya and srimpi, all female roles had been danced by men. The palace branch, Bebadan Among Beksa, meanwhile pursued the Sultan’s wish, and well-known experts such as Prince Suryobrongto, Prince Brongtodiningrat, K.R.T.Mertodipuro, and K.R.T.Wirodiprodjo worked on the golék Ménak project and produced a fragment in 1960. Organizational changes and reappraisal of palace patronage resulted in the Bebadan Among Beksa becoming the Siswa Among Beksa foundation, formally ratified in 1978. Siswa Among Beksa had already staked a claim in the newest palace genre, and had performed golék Ménak dance drama on a number of occasions: on a palace-sponsored European tour in 1971; at the Hong Kong Arts Festival and in Japan in 1973; in Jakarta at the Taman Ismail Marzuki arts centre; in 1974 on the Borobudur Cultural Mission which went to Europe in 1975 to raise funds for the restoration of the Borobudur temple;6 and at the Purwodiningratan for their anniversary concert in 1978 (Yayasan Siswa Among Beksa, 1981:58–66). On these last two occasions the story had been The rout of the kingdom of Mukadam’ (Bedhahipun negari Mukadam). In 1984 the Directorate of Arts in the Department of Education and Culture again invited them to perform at Taman Ismail Marzuki, this time with the story ‘Rengganis as commander’ (Rengganis sénapati) and in 1985 and 1986 Siswa Among Beksa celebrated the foundation’s anniversary with golék Ménak performances: ‘Kadarwati as commander’ (Kadarwati sénapati) and Ménak Purwakandha (Soetorodharmo, 1987). Apart from these productions, the golék Ménak dance drama as a total form was neglected in favour of paired choreographed duels between characters from the stories, rather as the choreographed fights called beksan had been drawn from the Mahabharata plots used in wayang wong. The difference was that in the case of beksan 6

It is telling that Siswa Among Beksa claims this tour as theirs, as it is usually identified as a palace project. Siswa Among Beksa at that stage was in the process of defining itself as distinct from Bebadan Among Beksa which had effectively faded out once performance started up again in the palace under the control of Kridhomardowo, and, strictly speaking, cannot take credit for the 1975 tour.

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Ménak, the fights were usually between women; these choreographies were chiefly due to the enthusiasm of the former palace dancer and influential choreographer R.W.Sasmintamardawa, who developed them in the training sessions in his organization and also in the Secondary School of Dance where he worked as a teacher. The vacuum of patronage within the palace proper and the altered political conditions which had brought about this change resulted in a proliferation of crosscutting networks standing in varying degrees of affiliation to the palace, and a certain amount of competition developed between the different organizations. The 1960s saw the foundation of the state academies and conservatories (ASTI, KONRI) and a number of dance foundations, notably Mardowo Budoyo, run by R.W.Sasmintamardawa, which from the outset was aiming at a new form of patronage, overseas tourism. It was only in 1973 that the palace became reestablished as a venue for performance, albeit with a major difference of rationale. One of the motivating factors for this revival was the wish to attract tourists, a wish consistent with the Sultan’s policy after 1945 of opening certain parts of his domain to the public and making certain buildings available for use by the first Indonesian university, Gadjah Mada. By the 1970s, there was little left of the palace organization of dancers into specific groups: instead there was a small number of older dancers who taught in palace training sessions and in the various organizations and institutions outside the palace, and a loose network of dancers who could be called upon to participate in palace productions. As in the past, dancers danced in a spirit of service, without obvious desire for gain, but as in the past, participation in dance circles gave access to high-class networks, and while contemporary dancers will not admit it, there does seem to be a certain amount of social climbing behind the current enthusiasm for classical dancing. Palace dancing is also conceived as an activity which cannot be exchanged for money. It is adiluhung, ‘high and noble’, a kind of activity which is above commercial ventures. Although some tickets might be sold to tourists at wayang wong concerts in the palace given for the Sultan’s birthday, for instance, the dancers earn little: in 1987 they received Rp. 200 per practice (the same honorarium as teachers at the practices held in the palace on Sunday mornings receive), and Rp. 1000 for the performance. The production cost Rp. 3 million, and after the sale of tickets, the deficit was Rp. 2.75 million (Sumandio Hadi, unpublished: 114–15). As palace dance moves out of the palace sphere, these economic conventions still apply, and as we shall see, have entered into the honorarium economy of modern Indonesia. In spite of changes in the palace and the fundamentally altered realities of political power in modern Indonesia, the performance genres associated with the palace continue to carry auras redolent of a former glory, but they have been translated into a new sphere, that of high culture in a republican context, with Jakarta vying with Yogyakarta as the centre of patronage. The continued involvement of palace kin and retainers in the patronage of performance in Yogyakarta sustains the place of Javanese values concerning appropriate behaviour which inhere in the various palace

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genres. Apart from teaching respect for one’s seniors and a willingness to serve, palace performance culture has an education in etiquette built into it. Palace values for performance rest on a moral-aesthetic code of practice called Jogéd Mataram (‘the Dance of Mataram’, Mataram being the name of the kingdom established in Central Java in the sixteenth century). This code emphasizes concentration, dynamism, selfconfidence, and resolution (sewiji, greget, sengguh, ora mingkuh) (Hughes-Freeland, unpublished:353–64). This code is not essentialist, however, and its proponent, the late Prince Suryobrongto, stressed that it could be applied to any performance: Western classical ballet, contemporary dance, or even the dance of the rival palace at Surakarta, centre of the old dynasty against which the Yogyakarta kings rebelled, could be submitted to the Jogéd Mataram philosophy. Such values have permeated modern values through educational philosophies pertaining to styles of respect and honour promulgated within palace culture, and may be understood to express the militaristic ethos of Yogyakarta—founded as it was after prolonged militaristic rebellion—an ethos which in many ways is in keeping with the ethos of the present regime. It is not coincidental that the main patrons in Jakarta of palace-identified performance from Yogyakarta are military men: General (retired) Widodo heads the Guntur Madu foundation which promotes Yogyakarta dance, and General Nick Lany, a member of the secondary court in Yogyakarta, the Pakualaman, has become the main promoter of the danceopera based on the Ramayana epic, langenmandrawanara. Also in Jakarta, the present Director General of Culture is Drs G.B.P.H.Puger, youngest brother of the late Sultan and acting head of the palace arts section, KHP Kridhomardowo. The state cultural administration in Yogyakarta too is virtually controlled by members of the extremely extended palace kin group, some of whom (usually grandchildren of Sultans) have set up their own performance foundations. Modern bureaucracies are thus composed of people socialized in the palace honour system, and it is inevitable that values from their backgrounds affect the construction of modern Indo nesian values. Revival of the golék Ménak dance drama The patronage of the stymied golék Ménak dance drama, which, apart from occasional prestige productions in Jakarta or on overseas tours, for many years seemed destined to be performed only as a fighting duet between two female dancers depicting Kélaswara and the Chinese princess, was again to extend beyond Yogyakarta before further developments could take place. The process leading to the production in March 1989 started in 1987 with a show of golék Ménak dance drama in the Yogyakarta pavilion at the Taman Mini Indonesia Indah (a pleasure park in Jakarta where the cultures of each province of the republic are represented). The Yogyakarta pavilion often holds palace dance performances which are run by the Guntur Madu Foundation, headed by General (retired) Widodo and managed by Princess Muryati, one of the daughters of Hamengku Buwono IX, and it was here that a performance in May 1987 of two fragments by

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Siswa Among Beksa and the Institute of Indonesian Arts incurred the criticism of the Sultan, who declared himself unsatisfied with the prevailing state of the genre. By the end of the year a pro ject had been set in motion to develop the genre further, with the participation of the Yogyakarta offices of Education and Culture and the six performance organizations and institutions in Yogyakarta already mentioned, the whole co-ordinated by dance expert Soedarsono, who found himself in a somewhat awkward position when the Sultan died unexpectedly during a trip to the United States in October 1988, before the project had been brought to completion.7 From this point, the development of golék Ménak dance drama proceeded in the name of a posthumous patron. The performance in March 1989 was accompanied by the publication of a sort of modern court chronicle (babad) which provided an account of the process leading up to the performance. The text, by Soedarsono, Darusuprapta, and Harjana Hardjawijana, not only gives a blow by blow account of the seminars (saraséhan) and coordination between the Sultan and the cultural offices and organizations in Yogyakarta and Jakarta (Soedarsono and others, 1989: 37–62). It also firmly identifies Hamengku Buwono IX as the creator of the genre, and endorses the mythological image of the Sultan and his heroic qualities, here related to the figure of Gathutkaca, the air-borne hero of the Javanese Mahabharata, son of Bima, the second of the Pandhawa brothers (Soedarsono and others, 1989:17–30). This text thus reiterates the ideology of an essential connection between the patronage of the Sultan in person and the golék Ménak dance drama as the latest genre to be marked as palace performance. However, this point of view was not generally shared in Yogyakarta at the time of the production. There were a number of criticisms concerning the performance on aesthetic and on ideological grounds. Aesthetically, it was the general opinion that the aim of the Sultan to arrive at a Sundanese (West Java) quality in the music, particularly drumming, and to incorporate movements from the Minangkabau (West Sumatra) martial arts had not been properly realized, if at all. (I saw no sign of any pencak silat movement in the March concert.) Individuals felt that some results during the development process had been more satisfactory in this respect. Some people suggested that there was a problem of incorporating non-Javanese elements keeping to the standards (pathokan) of palace dance as they have come to be specified. Others felt that the performance philosophy of the palace, Jogéd Mataram, had not been embodied. There was a lack of dynamism and a certain ‘emptiness’ (kemba), although it was agreed that the comical figures, Toplés and Jiwéng had been good and ‘full’ (pepak). There was also criticism of the dramatic structure which imitated the sequential form of wayangwong, and comments suggested that the creation of a more economic structure to intensify the dramatic effect would be in order. For one senior dance pundit there was no

7 An account of the way in which the golék Ménak dance drama came to be perfected and the institutions involved may be found in Soedarsono and others, 1989:37–62.

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question of this production marking the final ‘perfecting’ of the genre. ‘It is only the first stage’, he said, putting an end to discussion. In spite of the traditionalist presentation of the golék Ménak dance drama, palace retainers were, perhaps inevitably, not happy about the project. There had been an organizational slip-up when the invitations were issued, and although these could be claimed on request, a number of senior members of the palace arts section were not pleased to have been overlooked, although they had played a major part in providing costumes. There was scepticism about the involvement of dance organizations not commonly associated with palace dance styles, particularly the dance studio of Bagong Kussudiardjo which is famous for its ‘new creations’ (kréasi baru). More importantly, the question was raised as to whether the new genre could properly be called ‘palace’ performance at all. ‘Where has it come from, this dance?’, asked one senior dance teacher; ‘Certainly not from the palace’. Although from one point of view it could be argued that only a production with a nominal palace patronage could have brought together so many diverse and disharmonious elements, it is also evident that this project shows clearly that the status of palace patronage is no longer a discrete sphere, as the institutional affiliation of the participants makes clear (see note 4 above). We should also remember that dancers tend to participate in more than one organization apart from their place of training. However, it is also noticeable that during the 1980s there has been a marked trend towards dancers of palace-identified genres becoming more specialized. By 1989, the only organization that had advanced performers who were not pursuing a formal training in dance was the Siswa Among Beksa foundation. The best dancers in the other organizations were all either students or graduates of the secondary or tertiary training institutions. The star dancers playing Jayéngrana and Kélaswara in the March production of golék Ménak were both graduates of ISI, and the latest in a line of brother-sister teams. Prospects for palace patronage It could be argued that palace patronage ended in 1945 when the Sultan and the Governor of Yogyakarta became one and the same person. The accession of his son as Hamengku Buwono X in March 1989 raised a number of questions about the future status of the palace and Javanese ‘high and noble’ culture. Before his enthronement, Prince Mangkubumi (as he then was) showed little interest in local tradition, although he did become involved in a prestigious concert in Japan, where ‘palace’ dancers invited by the courts of Yogyakarta and Surakarta performed together in a fragment of the Ramayana.8 The Tokyo venture was held together by the enthusiasm of the entrepreneur Mrs Happy Suryajaya and money from the family business, PT Astra; this ‘commercialization’ and the involvement of business sponsorship in the enthronement of the new Sultan raised more than a few eyebrows at the time (Hughes-Freeland, 1991). Although PT Astra had helped to finance the palace tour to Europe back in 1975 (Sumandio Hadi, unpublished:90),

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no one mentioned this during the controversy about the recent sponsorship of ‘high and noble’ palace culture. It is becoming evident from developments in the palace under the new Sultan that it was the absence of Hamengku Buwono IX from the palace in Yo gyakarta that allowed the persistence of ideas about palace culture to continue, including ideas about performance as a form of service to the ruler, as part of a system of honour, and a noble virtue disconnected from the pursuit of material needs. The death of Hamengku Buwono IX erased any residual criticisms there might have been concerning his marriage to a non-Javanese commoner in the early 1980s and his management of his responsibilities as Governor, which were mostly delegated to his assistant, ruler of the secondary court of Yogyakarta. On the late Sultan’s death, it was this ruler, Sri Pakualam, who became Governor. This has resulted in certain changes in the way the present Sultan runs his life and that of the palace. An immediate change has been a major increase in Hamengku Buwono’s personal patronage of performance within the palace to entertain official guests. His father used to entertain in Jakarta, or in the Provincial Headquarters in his capacity as Governor of Yogyakarta, or at the Pakualaman, where security and parking facilities for guests are better than at the Sultan’s palace. It is ironic perhaps that there was more performance for non-touristic events in the palace in the first nine months of the new Sultan’s reign than there had been for at least as many years previously. At the same time, his constant presence and desire to modernize protocol inside the palace is creating a distance between current palace practice and the set of ideas which have been commonly held in Yogyakarta these past forty years or so. Palace and state patronage became conjoined during the reign of Hamengku Buwono IX, although the implications of this were not necessarily recognized by palace retainers. Today the patronage of the Sultan is becoming detached from the prestigious state ceremonial of which the golék Ménak dance drama forms part. Ten years ago it seemed as if the genres of the palace repertoire would become integrated into a newly defined classicism, which has been drawing on the resources of other princely houses and the talents of the new generation of formally trained choreographers. It seems that the change of incumbent may bring about a different configuration. Hamengku Buwono X is a Pancasila prince; he leads the Yogyakarta branch of GOLKAR (the governmental ‘party’) and he claims to strive for a new democracy in a palace which has a history of combining an ideology of Golden Age and reform. He is also interested in the tourism industry and the potential of the palace to attract more visitors. But most of all, it seems as if he will create a division between the idea of the palace as a centre for excellence in Javanese culture and as a centre for cultural excellence regardless of origin.

8

This was choreographed with the male roles done in Yogyakarta style and the female ones in Surakarta style. Remarks by people who had been involved suggest that there were a number of problems with the ensuing musical accompaniment, not to mention the overall aesthetic coherence.

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Hamengku Buwono X’s hope of changing the palace from being a centre of excellence for Javanese culture to one for cultural excellence has already been manifested with a concert of Western music and the initiation of projects in cooperative ventures with Australia and Japan (interview with HRH Sultan Hamengku Buwono, December 1989). It is beyond the scope of this paper to explore these areas, and it is premature to speculate as to which way the palace will develop as organization, patron, and image-creator in the minds of people in Yogyakarta and outside. It does seem that the equation of Javanese cultural excellence with actual palace culture has ceased to be significant in practice, and it is doubtful whether golék Ménak dance drama will go beyond the ‘first stage’ and replace wayang wong as grand palace spectacle. But even as the Sultan attempts to change palace practice, it is apparent that the palace ideology of ‘high and noble’ has already been incorporated into the ideology of Indonesian culture as part of a programme for standard-setting. This proposition may be tested with reference to a conceptually contrastive sphere of activity with a less defined boundary between performers and spectators. In so far as the practices of the palace have come to be classed ‘inner’ (jero) in Yogyakarta thinking, this cultural activity has come to be regarded as the epitome of ‘outer’ (jaba), and to a certain extent, has been beyond the pale of Indonesian culture too. It is now time to turn our attention to the phenomenon known as tayuban. Grass-roots patronage: tayuban It is usual in Yogyakarta to contrast the palace conventions for female dance with the activity of lédhék or ronggéng,9 professional female dancers who used to perform on the streets, occasioning impromptu parties known as janggrung-(an) or who would be hired to perform at parties and feasts for weddings, circumcisions, and community thanksgivings at events called tayuban. The practice of men taking it in turns to dance with one or several dancing women on ritual occasions or for fun is known across the archipelago: ketuk tilu and the modern incarnation, jaipongan, in Sunda (Bass, 1990); gandrung in Banyuwangi, East Java; gandrung and jogéd in Bali (McPhee, 1987:29–30, 147); jogéd in South Sulawesi (Holt,1967:112); pajuwan in Madura (Pigeaud, 1938:para 328); pelandok in Palembang (Prijono, 1982:63).

9Lédhék

is the most commonly used term in Yogyakarta and in the district of Sragen, Central Java, where research was done. See further Holt, 1967:111–15; Sutton, 1984; Choy, 1984. Pigeaud as ever offers suggestive fragments, including a reference to transvestism in the case of talédhék lanang (1938:para 300) which is beyond the scope of this paper, as is a comprehensive discussion of origins, the key texts for which are Stutterheim, 1956, with a recent elaboration in O’Connor, 1985, and Pigeaud, 1960–63. Anthropological studies of tayuban in coastal Central Java and highland East Java among the Tengger may be found in Martin-Schiller, 1984, and Hefner, 1985 (118–20, 235–38) and 1987. Leading Indonesian an

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Tayuban under threat Tayuban has been given a bad press in anthropological classics, and has been treated as anomalous. ‘In view of the remarkable sobriety of the Javanese in general,’ wrote sociologist Clifford Geertz, ‘the tajuban seems anything but a typical occurrence’, and he added that it is ‘too expensive for the abangan and too kasar [uncouth, uncontrolled] for the priyayi [and] is dying out’ (Geertz, 1960:299–300). We might note here the use of ‘general’ and ‘typical’, which reveals something of Geertz’s theoretical interest in establishing a typology of culture. A situation where Javanese people have fun creates a crisis of analytic order, and the classification of lédhék as prostitutes attempts to incorporate a situation which does not fit Geertz’s religiocultural format. This notion is also used to bring order into culture in current Indonesian discourses about tayuban which is frequently criticized as being nothing other than a form of prostitution, although as we shall see, this view is being contested. It is pertinent to note here that prostitution when controlled or domesticated is officially sanctioned in Indonesia; it is not prostitution per se which is disapproved of, but uncontrolled prostitution. Lédhék, in so far as they sometimes make private arrangements with men encountered in a professional capacity are ‘like’ uncontrolled prostitutes (who are called liar, ‘wild’) and charges of ‘immorality’ in this case are statements about order, not about morality as such.10 Contrary to Geertz’s predictions, tayuban did not die out, although the political upheaval of the mid-1960s and the establishment of the New Order did little to enhance the social conditions favourable for its patronage: social unrest and economic scarcity are not conducive to ritual work, and there is also evidence in Indonesian fiction that lédhék might have been among the many victims of the political purges of the late 1960s.11 Recently anthropologist Robert thropologist Koentjaraningrat refers to tayuban and lédhék in his major study of Javanese culture, including the now-vanished ‘wandering’ lédhék (mbarang) (1985:211). Informants claim that the 1950s marked the demise of these dancers, and references in this paper are to lédhék who take bookings (lédhék panggilan). Hefner has argued that among the Tengger of highland East Java, where tayuban is included in ancestor worship in the Karo ritual, Islam has played an important part in its rapid decline. There are also broader causal factors than Islam at work, and it seems that the ultimate ‘cause’ of changes in cultural practice is the integration of a local economy into a national one, and the use of surplus cash for purchasing goods instead of patronizing performance, which will bring about the end of this particular custom (Hefner, 1987:93).

10

Interestingly, it seems that the colonial administration was confused about how to classify lédhék, who did not incur the prostitution tax until 1879 (Hesselink, 1987:214). 11 I refer to Ahmad Tohari’s trilogy (1982–86) about a dancing girl (ronggéng) in Ba

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There are problems with this argument, subscribing as it does to the electric current theory of social change (see above), where modernization is conceived of as a force sweeping away everything in its path, and the same problems apply in the case of the charges of extravagance often levelled against the patronage of tayuban. This is a recurrent ideological argument which identifies customary rituals, including the core slametan feasts which mark all rites of passage and communal activities in Java, as extravagant and anti-developmental; any household or community surplus should be used to pay for education and medicine. This condemnation includes all small-scale customs, and suggests that it is not only tayuban that is at risk from the growth of the national and international economy in Indonesia today. Often there is hypocrisy in such economic rationalizations: the most glaring is in the case of the urban-based professional classes who decry the extravagance of the ignorant peasants while spending more than their savings to hold a suitably impressive wedding for their child; the structural connection between the two events cannot be perceived. The argument also fails to explain persistence, or the role and degree of efficacy of strategic policies designed to prevent culture loss, of which more will be said below. The patronage of tayuban reveals complicated rationales about decision-making in relation to a perceived authority and to the cultural environment. In the province of Yogyakarta, there is little continuing patronage of tayuban, although new styles are emerging which break down previously held notions about tayuban as everything that is the opposite to approved performance practices. Tayuban is seen as something disreputable, old-fashioned, and immoral, encouraging un-Javanese behaviour with regard to women and alcohol. The cultural realities of tayuban in the province of Yogyakarta however are quite different from those of Central Java, and people in Yogyakarta are un-aware of the extent to which tayuban is part of common cultural practice outside their province. In the Yogyakarta region, discussions about tayuban evoke feelings of shame (malu in Indonesian), and with that the conversation is often brought to a close, shame here serving as a code for not wanting to discuss something awkward (Hughes-Freeland, 1990), a concern which has implications for both patronage and the circumstance of the performers, as the following ethnographic case will show. Tayuban at Muntuk, July 1989 This ethnographic material comes from the village of Muntuk, sub-district of Dlingo, in Bantul, province of Yogyakarta. Geographically Dlingo is located in a

nyumas who is imprisoned as a result of having danced at rallies of the Communist Party. Nervousness about the purges of the late 1960s means that informants tend not to volunteer this kind of explanation for change, but when the subject of Tohari’s novel was raised, the effect of the political crisis on practices associated with the folk or the people (rakyat) was related to the decline in tayuban at this time for reasons which were ideological as well as circumstantial.

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high ridge of territory, most of which forms the administrative district of Gunungkidul, a region still regarded as the ‘warehouse’ of lédhék and singers. The events at Muntuk took place through the patronage of Pak Priyowasito in Besar (the last month of the Javanese year) on the eve and morning of Thursday Kliwon (a day in the Javanese five-day calendar). Properly speaking, there were two tayuban held on this occasion. The first was at night, in the home of Pak Priyo; the second, by day, was at the village spring. Pak Priyo, an imposing figure in his seventies, has a dual role in the community, where he acts as security staff for the village head and as mediator between the community and the village spirit (dhanyang). This role of jurukunci (literally ‘keeper of the keys’) or pepundhén (normally a repository of the sacred) gives him status as a ritual specialist and a certain authority in the community over and above his security duties. The annual festivities make many demands on him. Not only has he to coordinate the preparation of ritual offerings and invoke the village spirit and her relatives (who he explained were in-laws living in Mount Lawu and Bantul) and make sure that everything is done to keep the spirits happy. He also has to maintain order in his house and by the spring so as to validate the positive significance of these rites, the object of which is to placate the spirit and release her benevolent force throughout the community. The annual ceremony is a high point in the village year, and occurs after the harvest in the dry season. Such festivities are normally called bersih désa (‘cleaning the village’), but Pak Priyo objected to his ritual being given this name. The night I came to Muntuk, Pak Priyo’s extensive cassava garden in front of his house was thronged with people watching a film, Jacky, on a sheet stretched between trees; such screenings are becoming more common in remote areas like Muntuk due to the provision of a mobile cinema by the Bentoel tobacco company, and demonstrate the sort of commercial patronage which is taking place in rural communities. Inside the house special guests were served a rice meal, and the live entertainments started with the Gambiranom dance performed by a young man in the pinggiran (‘border’) style, a combination of Yogyakarta and Surakarta conventions. Next came three comic sketches (dhagelan) performed by the Jeprik theatre troupe from the town of Yogyakarta. The significance of Jeprik’s involvement will be explained later. A second dance by the young male dancer, the Ménak jingga, concluded the cabaret. By this stage the atmosphere was building up. The strangely distracting dis sonance of the simple iron gamelan and the timeless quality of the male dancer had brought an unexpected solemnity to the crowd assembled in the front section of the house. The entire floor space was filled with seated people: women and children to one side, village youths to the other, and special guests sitting against or behind the pillars at the back of the central area which had been designated as the dance area. The gamelan had been moved to the front of the building, where the wooden partitions had been taken down to open the proceedings to people who could not find a place inside.

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The gamelan played tunes as we waited impatiently for the lédhék to emerge from the room where they had been dressing. When they did, they launched immediately into a rather sulky rendering of gambyong, the dance which opens tayuban in this region.12 The gambyong was performed facing the host, and the two lédhék danced each in her own manner, the one making extensive use of her dance scarf, the other concentrating on arm and hand movements. The two dancers were also dressed in quite different styles: the younger one, Sarti, was wearing a red velvet jerkin trimmed in gold embroidery and sequins, a green scarf draped around her shoulders, metal flowers on stems in her hair; while the older dancer, Saikem, was less classically attired, wearing a black corset C stréplés’) and a yellow scarf, pinned in such a way as to keep one shoulder uncovered, and without hair ornaments. Both dancers wore tightly wrapped lengths of batik as skirts. After the gambyong they danced a second dance, described as a Bléndrongan, to a vigorous rhythm usually associated with male dancing.13 By this stage the basket in which the tips for the dancers would be kept had been set next to the drummer and a tray with a dancescarf was brought out. The part of the tayuban where men dance (ngibing) with the lédhék was about to begin. None of the tayuban observed during research showed identical patterns regarding protocol and finance. This particular case opened with Pak Priyo taking the scarf, but instead of dancing he just stood motionless with a young man next to him while the two women danced. It transpired later that this young man was ill and desirous

12Gambyong is dance for a solo female performer in the repertoires of the Surakartan palaces and is attributed to Susuhunan Paku Buwana IX (Sedyawati, 1981:34). Golék Gambyong is the name of a dance revived in Yogyakarta by the Siswa Among Beksa foundation, in which a female dancer, Golék, is forced to become a wandering lédhék because of the idleness of her husband, Gambyong; during her wanderings she inflames the passion of a soldier, Canthung Balung, but resists his advances. According to experts in Yogyakarta, the dance was created together with the langendriya dance opera by Prince Mangkubumi in the late nineteenth century (interview with R.M.Dinusatomo, November 1989). Gambyongan refers to a new respectable version of tayuban where girls dance without male partners. Gambyong provides one hook for the argument about the origins of tayuban which claims that it originated inside the palaces. This is a prevalent view in Surakarta; in Yogyakarta the reverse argument obtains (see Koentjaraningrat, 1985:211). Folk traditions refer to the story of Sénapati, founder of Mataram in the sixteenth century, in which he persuades his daughter Retna Pambayun to dance as a lédhék in order to seduce Sénapati’s last remaining rival, Ki Ageng Mangir. This ploy is successful: Mangir marries Pambayun and when he pays his respects to Sénapati, his new father-in-law, Sénapati kills him. A pamphlet on dance history by Prince Soerjodiningrat claims that tayuban was around in the kingdom of Pajang, and eventually degenerated into the passionate janggrung (n.d.:9, 16–17). 13 This vigorous dancing is not generally used to open tayuban in the Central Java region; it might possibly refer to a previous practice more similar to the East Javanese ngré-mo, the opening dance of a tayuban in which the dancer is dressed in male costume and executes male movements. There is also reference to a lédhék in the Gunungkidul district dancing vigorously (sigrak) to the Béndrong melody (the same as Bléndrong?) which normally accompanies the Klana masked dance performed by males (Suharto, 1980:73–74).

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of a cure (see below). Pak Priyo then sat down and the lédhék knelt before him and sang, as he took the scarf in exchange for a tip, placed on the tray, stating what melody he would like. One of the girls relayed this back to the drummer, and Pak Priyo danced alone without male companions, a custom identifying him as host and as bedhah bumi (‘clearer of the ground’) in a performance of style and elegance, arms wide and elbows high, taking evident delight in his display. One of the girls had equipped herself with a microphone into which she sang rather inaudibly; the two lédhék took it in turns to sing throughout the night. The microphone has become a regular part of such events, where it sometimes alternates between a singer sitting with the musicians and the dancers. On this occasion there was no supplementary female singer. After his dance, Pak Priyo invited two or three companions (panglaréh) to join him, and this pattern was followed for the remainder of the first part of the night, in which the senior males of the community and special guests (who in this case included my male companions) were offered the scarf in order of precedence, decided between Pak Priyo and a man acting as a master of ceremonies (pelandhak). This formality characterizes the tayuban as a highly controlled and ritualized event, and shows the inadequacies of referring to it simply as a ‘dancing party’. Elderly retainers of the Sultan’s palace in Yogyakarta recall the days when tayuban used to be held in princely residences, and speak of the events as occasions for displaying dance which was enjoyed by many of the famous wayangwong performers, 14 and although there have been almost no tayuban in the town since the 1920s, the display element is of prime importance wherever tayuban does take place. The procedure of kneeling and singing during the exchange of scarf and money was also markedly formal; in other similar events the procedure was less elaborate. The financial arrangements for tayuban also vary. At Muntuk a fee had not been paid to the dancers and musicians. Instead they were given all the tips collected during the night, which averaged Rp. 1,000 at the most per dance partner. The troupe would normally expect to collect Rp. 300,000 in fees and tips to divide between themselves. In some village festivals tips can be as low as Rp. 100, whereas in a circumcision party in Central Java I have seen people pay as much as Rp. 5,000 for a dance round. There is usually a division between performers and host so that the costs of providing food and entertainment are shared between host and guests. In the daytime tayuban at Muntuk, the tips were divided, and one-third went to the village. The organization of the village fund varies from community to community, but the financing of the annual village festivities and thanksgivings is always a matter of pride to all concerned. It is only after a very bad harvest that such festivities will be cancelled.

14

This is not to be confused with the choreographed genre, beksan Madura, referred to as ‘tetajuban’ in Moens’ Platen-album Jogjakarta (number 28, plate 28), in which four men dance with a bottle and glass to the Cengbarong melody.

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Sexual misdemeanours are among the reprehensible behaviour associated with tayuban in the popular imagination. During the opening dances at Muntuk, the relationship between the men and lédhék demonstrated courteous appreciation on the part of the men and indifference with sporadic amusement on the part of the lédhék. This changed when a man with the ‘soy-bean’ eyes of a vigorous character in the shadow-play danced alone with the women. Judging by the enthusiastic response from the local youth when he stood up, he had a reputation which he well vindicated, advancing persistently towards the dancers, touching one on the shoulder, and finally managing to put his scarf around her neck as his turn came to a close, much to the crowd’s delight. Despite rumoured bans on males coming in closer than one metre to the lédhék, this witty playfulness did not seem to strike those present as being out of order. However, as the night wore on and the floor gave way to the village youths whose eagerness grew more than a little out of hand, Pak Priyo was obliged to assert his authority. On one occasion he interrupted the proceedings to give the lads a short lecture about correct conduct. Later on, he resorted to slapping one whose dancing had been offensive to the lédhék and who had refused to sit down when ordered to do so by Pak Priyo. Many of these youngsters were members of the local horse dancing (jathilan) troupe, and they had tied their scarves around their waists instead of draping them around their necks as is the custom. The movements of their dancing was not entirely explicable as being an imitation of the horse dance, however. The mood during the dancing of the older men had been erotic, without the prolonged gropings believed to characterize tayuban in the past but with occasional stolen kisses. The dances of the young men were plainly obscene, eliciting an attitude of bored indifference from the lédhék, turning to irritation if things grew too rowdy. The younger dancer looked particularly apathetic, to the point of driving her male partners to anger and a violent return of the scarf, which was thrown at the listless girl; it transpired that she was six months pregnant, and not in the best shape to dance until 3 a.m., which is when the tayuban came to an end. Tayuban and healing In the Gunungkidul region there is a problem with the water supply, and a close connection is specified between satisfying the spirit with a tayuban or whatever form of entertainment the spirit desires (often a shadow-play) and the securing of a good water supply for the coming year. In most Gunungkidul villages where such practices survive, it is rare for a complete tayuban to be held, and a truncated version where a lédhék performs alone or with the guardian of the spring is given instead. In the village of Melikan for instance, songs are sung to the spirits, and a short tayuban follows at the home of the village head (Hughes-Freeland, 1990). In the sub-district of Nglipar, these events have such a reputation that people come from all over Java to make requests and return the following year to give thanks. The tayuban in Muntuk is also closely associated with healing and specific instances of well-being. This association is not widespread in the Central Java region,

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although a study on the Javanese in Surinam, where it is estimated that nearly 33, 000 migrated between 1891 and 1939, shows a close correspondence between the lédhék and healing, suggesting that formerly it was more prevalent (de Waal Malefijt, 1963:110–16). In Central Java the scarf of the lédhék is still believed to beautify children, and mothers bring their offspring to the dance arena to be touched by the scarf; the relationship with the lédhék is also explained as being the end of a process: to give a child to be kissed by the lédhék is to fulfil a vow (Martin-Schiller, 1984:52). As far as I know, Muntuk is the only place where a complete tayuban is held by the spring under the spirit’s tree and where the making of requests and the thanksgiving is so explicitly linked to the village spirit and to community participation. During the night-time event at Muntuk, a young man had stood with Pak Priyo who had asked for the spirit to heal him. A more elaborate series of ritual intercession took place the following morning, in a natural theatre, a hollow at the bottom of which was a spring and a cluster of trees, home of the dhanyang. These are tended by Pak Priyo, and his duties as pepundhén also include looking after regular offerings and requests which are made on the eves of Tuesday and Friday Kliwon. On this particular day, people with requests for the spirit registered with Pak Priyo who had meanwhile ensured that the ubiquitous microphone and speaker were ready. The lédhék set the scene with a gambyong. Then followed a ritual called nomboki dhanyang, in which villagers filed down to a basket placed in the dance arena and walked round it, throwing in a Rp. 100 coin as they passed, a thank-you to the spirit for granting their requests the previous year. The groups coming to the basket were organized according to gender, place of residence, and an extra category, latecomers. After the nomboki, Pak Priyo took charge of the microphone and invited people to come into the dance arena according to their pre-registered requests. Each person received a daub of yellow face powder (boréh) from the lédhék Saikem who dabbed it onto their cheek, put some in a cigarette box or twist of plastic for those unable to come in person, or powdered a tethering rope when the request was being made on behalf of a sick animal. It is necessary here to mention the different views taken on causality with respect to healing efficacy in the tayuban. One view attributes this to the powers of the dhanyang, whose pleasure at being properly entertained results in the granting of favours. The interpretation of the powder is either that it produces a cure, or that it is sought as a sign that the cure previously sought has been successful. These two interpretations are also applied to the annual village thanksgiving ceremony in general. One version is that it annuls a favour sought, the other that it is establishes a situation favourable to making requests. In fact it seems that the two are combined: thanks are given, annulling debts to the spirit or godhead, and immediately new requests for well-being for the coming year are initiated. A variant interpretation about the auspiciousness of the tayuban independent of the agency of the satisfied spirit points to the presence of a figure of power in the troupe, known as tekek. This figure, sometimes the drummer, sometimes the group

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leader, not only protects the troupe in its travels, but also enhances the making of supranatural connections during a tayuban. When a tayuban is given to ask for rain, though, success is achieved not through the connection between the dance and the rain, but through the intercession of the satisfied spirit (interviews with Pak Praptowiratno, November and December 1989). The angry spirit After the powdering rite the dancing was opened by a considerably more relaxed Pak Priyo. The atmosphere was easier in general than the previous night, and there was more playful informality about the tayuban. For instance, a well-known kethoprak actor turned up and used his turn with the dancer to develop a comic interlude. Pak Priyo denied that there was any difference between the two dancing sessions, but it was clear that he was relieved to have passed the test of his authority, particularly when the gathering had threatened to grow out of control the previous night. The dancing was referred to as ‘dancing the spirit’ (ngibingké dhanyang), which seemed to imply possession of the lédhék by the spirit. Pak Priyo and another tayuban expert subsequently denied that this could have been the case, and indeed the behaviour of the lédhék did not indicate a state of trance. Nor was the distribution of the powder by the elder dancer a sign of privileged ritual insight: Pak Priyo had simply told her what to do. I later discovered that there had been some incidents of possession during the rituals (after I left). During the small hours, a young man had requested a tune from the horse dance repertoire and had fallen into a deep trance from which it had taken Pak Priyo fifteen minutes to wake him. Pak Priyo explained that this was the result of the young man having ‘done something wrong’, though he would not, or could not, say what. The young man was a member of the horse dance troupe, which made a short performance to round off the daytime tayuban after two or three hours, after which everyone dispersed with that rapidity peculiar to Java when rituals have been finished. Pak Priyo related how he had gone home to bathe and change his clothes, and had been interrupted by an urgent message calling him back to the spring. There he had discovered five of the horse dancers in trance, and had brought them back to their senses with the use of mantras. He interpreted this as a manifestation of the anger of the spirit at the troupe’s having performed elsewhere in the village that morning before coming to the spring. Spirits are imagined as easily angered, and careful attention is paid to the contents of offerings so as to avoid any upsets. Signs of a spirit’s displeasure are illness, death, bad harvests, and possession during or soon after the ritual.

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Arguments about authority The role of the patron in this tayuban reveals a different kind of power structure and ideological affiliation from that described in an analysis of patronage of shadowplays, in which the sponsor’s surrendering of his voice to the puppeteer is claimed to be analogous to the relation between the king and puppeteer, redounding as it does to the greater glory of both king and sponsor through a displaced control over the spectators through the puppeteer (Keeler, 1987:172–79). The power of the village spirit is also identified with the power of the king (ibid.: 111–12), but Keeler does not develop the triad of dhanyang, sponsor, and puppeteer in his analysis. In the case of the events at Muntuk, it is Pak Priyo’s representation of the authority of the dhanyang which is important, with Pak Priyo’s voice very much in evidence, either haranguing his young guests or organizing requests through the loudspeaker. The overt expression of Pak Priyo’s authority in this context, untempered by the displacement demonstrated in the patronage of shadow-plays, may well exacerbate political conflict at village level. The circumstances which led to the holding of the festivities in Muntuk in 1989 also indicate that this may be the case. Pak Priyo, we know, mediates between the spirit and the village, as well as exercising considerable control in the running of the tayuban and attendant rituals. Only he knows the name of the spirit, and only he can see her. Local ideology alleges that the Hindu-Buddhist courtiers and king of Majapahit fled from the incoming Islamic dynasty to Gunungkidul, and Pak Priyo also presents himself as champion of a tradition dating back to this time. He claims that when the Republic was established and tayuban was banned by local government, he alone argued a case for preserving the custom, and persuaded the Bupati to come along and see the ceremonies for himself. It turned out that this story was not quite true, neither in the case of the ban nor of the disappearance of the custom in the area: the neighbouring villages of Jatimulyo and Terong are still said to hold tayuban annually, as did Mangungan until 1978. Pak Priyo is correct about the current pressure to end the custom. In 1989, the village head of Muntuk denied him permission to hold the customary tayuban, which brings us back to the Jeprik theatre troupe mentioned earlier. The leader of this troupe, Nur W.A., has a long-standing relationship with Muntuk, where he has been wont for some years to come to calm his spirit before performances. The gamelan at Pak Priyo’s house belongs to Jeprik, and Jeprik often perform in the village. When Nur heard about the refusal of the lurah (village head) to issue a permit to Pak Priyo, he interceded on Pak Priyo’s behalf and presented the lurah with the argument that if such practices are truly old-fashioned, the members of the community would cease to support them. Meanwhile, if there was still a living interest, why kill off the custom prematurely? The lurah was swayed by this argument and granted the permit to hold the tayuban, although he did not attend it. This story suggests that the decline of tayuban has come about for reasons proposed by informants: tayuban endorses a spiritual and a temporal authority which exists outside the officially sanctioned power structure in the village community, and

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outside the official monotheism required by Pancasila. Pak Priyo’s status as a security official is less effective than his role as ritual expert and mediator between different orders of beings, and this role represents a potential alternative to the established order of government. Pak Priyo’s tension during the nocturnal gathering was an indication of the amount that was at risk. The real measure of control was not over the spirits, but over the village youths. The intervention of Jeprik in obtaining the permit also shows how an ‘authentic’seeming event is already caught up in a traditionalizing process which is different from the continuity Pak Priyo purports to represent. The status of the lédhék who performed at Muntuk also shows signs of traditions being invented, as a visit to the home of Saikem in the village of Tambakromo in Ponjong, on the easternmost fringes of Gunungkidul, revealed. This also brings us to some conclusions about the place of performers in emerging modern Indonesian culture. Patrons and professionals In the sphere of palace dance in its contemporary incarnation, performers do not make a living wage; such considerations are excluded from the ethos of the adiluhung (high and noble) quality of this activity, which in economic terms has an amateur status, although training produces specialists with professional capabilities. That potential as yet has not been realizable owing to current conditions in Indonesia. The most recent market for classical dance which has been provided by tourism (overseas and domestic) has not yet broken away from the conventions of the honorarium economy: in Yogyakarta it is impossible for a performer to earn more than Rp. 2, 000 for a tourist performance. Outside Yogyakarta there are wayang wong troupes which perform commercially, such as the Sriwedari group in Surakarta and Ngesti Pandowo in Semarang, who are assisted with special government subsidies and have also become incorporated into the Indonesian civil service, but this does not guarantee their survival. Generally speaking, it is difficult for performers of classical genres and popular wayang wong to survive by specializing in performance. Diversification of lédhék The professional performers at tayuban until recently came from a specific training background. They would train with an established lédhék until the time came for them to become independent. This transition would be marked by a ritual of some kind. In Gunungkidul a ritual bath followed by a slametan (ceremonial meal) is customary; in Central Java, a ritual called ‘unloosening the coiffure’ (brokohan lukar gelung) is a sign that the newly competent dancer has been ‘unloosed’ from her teacher. The lédhék from Tambakromo have not been produced in this manner. There are now only two women there working as lédhék, two others having recently moved out of the area. The four were all trained by a performance enthusiast who went on a voluntary transmigration project to Kalimantan five years ago. Saikem, the elder of

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the dancers at Muntuk, had started out as an actress in kethoprak. The other lédhék at Tambakromo regards herself as a singer and intends to continue singing at shadowplays; indeed, in Sragen, Central Java, several young lédhék consider their experience as lédhék as the first step to becoming singers (pesindhén); Saikem by contrast has given up acting to specialize in tayuban. In Tambakromo, the current shortage of lédhék has led to co-operation with lédhék from a village two miles away within the borders of Central Java, which is where Saikem’s companion at Muntuk had come from. It is more common than not for such performers to work far away from home. All the lédhék from this region spoke of receiving bookings from as far afield as Wonosobo, to the north-west of Yogyakarta. The emerging pattern is for tayuban specialists to become absorbed into other kinds of performance, and for performers with a classical training to act as lédhék in tayuban or other venues. Flexibility on the part of lédhék is nothing new: a senior singer of the Yogyakarta court, K.R.T.Hendrokusumo (formerly Larasati), started out as a lédhék, then moved to productions of wayangwong in princely houses and from there to singing.15 Apart from going into singing, there are cases of lédhék becoming television stars (after being given a classical training); lédhék may also participate in genres which are not called tayuban but are very like, such as cokékan or gambyongan (see above and Hughes-Freeland, 1990). As a result of intensifying alternatives and educational practices, there are not more than fourteen practising lédhék who have trained by studying with an established lédhék in the province of Yogyakarta; all of them come from Semin, the sub-district north of Ponjong. But these girls are pursuing their path as the result of an enthusiastic performer and patron who has worked hard to change the image of tayuban and professional dancers in a modern world. The man in question, Pak Praptowiratno, in 1977 set up a tayuban ‘group’, Lambangsari, which can be mobilized for special occasions: participation in the film Ponirah terpidana in 1983 in which Pak Prapto and the Larasati group ‘performed’ a tayuban; for independence day celebrations; for family planning training sessions (for these last two, Pak Prapto writes special song lyrics to fit the occasion); for television documentaries made by the Yogyakarta studio of the State Television Company (TVRI); and for study tours from training institutions such as ISI, to give a few examples. The lédhék also operate as free agents in the customary fashion, and Pak Prapto is campaigning for a system of professional identity cards such as already exists in Central Java to be introduced in Yogyakarta, where registration of performers is currently only valid in the case of groups, to facilitate their travelling between provinces. In the Province of Central Java, the professional ID cards are seen to promote self-respect among lédhék, even if they are increasingly drawn to New Order cultural forms which are emerging.

15 For a discussion of the prestige of the pesindhén and the way in which the radio took over from the declining court patronage in the 1920s, see Sutton, 1984:127–33.

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Pak Prapto is also behind a recent attempt to redeem the sacral ritual dimensions of tayuban as an inherent part of rice culture and the ensuring of the fertility of the land and offering to the goddess of rice, Déwi Sri, and he acted as chief informant during the research of dancer Ben Suharto from ASTI, now ISI (Suharto, 1980). By emphasizing the ritual importance of tayuban, he hopes to dispose of the charges of prostitution. At the same time he is tolerant of the foibles of his young charges, and enjoys telling the story of Gunem, who has been particularly successful in making a number of good marriages, with the first few ending owing to lack of children. What the eager grooms failed to understand was that Gunem had been massaged so as avoid pregnancy by having her womb displaced, a common practice among oldstyle lédhék Pak Prapto also grieved over a girl who had died mysteriously after failing to surrender to an ardent suitor; Pak Prapto reckoned black magic had caused her death. His married dancers tend to lead normal lives, and have plenty of children. One telling action on Pak Prapto’s part has been to bring to people’s attention a new etymology to explain the word tayuban. Instead of philologist Poerbatjaraka’s view that the word comes from nayub, ‘to drink’ (1954:4), Pak Prapto’s forced etymology (jarwa dhosok) is more in keeping with the ideological trend to eliminate drinking and the character of tayuban in the Province of Yogyakarta, claiming that it comes from mataya, ‘to dance’, and guyub, ‘to be in harmony’, giving ‘dancing in harmony’ (Praptowiratno, unpublished:!, referring to an etymology deriving from the Mangkunagaran court in Surakarta; cf. Clara Brakel’s contribution to this volume, chapter 4). Stalwarts like Pak Priyo or enthusiasts like Pak Prapto promote customary forms of tayuban which are already not like the customary forms as found in Central Java, where drinking is still prominent at weddings and circumcision feasts which are common venues for tayuban. They emphasize the ‘sacred’ dimensions of the practice’s antecedents to purge it of low associations. How-ever, this struggle in itself shows a reframing of tayuban as a particular kind of honourable tradition, and this very reframing makes it inevitable that the ob ject will become different as a result of these transformations in awareness and purpose. More drastic and bizarre are official attempts to recruit tayuban or lédhék-like dancing into the sphere of New Order culture. One instance of this is VIPs who visit small towns or rural communities finding themselves confronted with a dancescarf offered by a schoolgirl dressed as a lédhék and being compelled to dance with her. The element of honouring a guest in this way may be ‘traditional’, but the other elements of the setting are not. Established professional lédhék are often excluded from the respectable versions of tayuban patronized by the state in favour of little-trained dance generalists. For example, according to the lurah of Tambakromo, when the Directorate of Arts in Yogyakarta asked for a show tayuban from the region for the Festival of Folk Art, it was students from the local Teachers Training School (SPG), not the lédhék from Tambakromo, who were invited to take part. The lurah said that the dancing of these girls, had been, not surprisingly, quite different from that of the professionals.

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In addition to the trend in Yogyakarta for actresses to take up work as dancers for tayuban, and for their dance to be ‘developed’ to incorporate hand gestures and walking patterns from classical genres, there is also a trend to replace tayuban dance specialists by people who have been formally trained in state institutions. Another example of the development of tayuban is a project of a Commission of the House of Representatives in East Java, who feel that it is necessary to develop social dancing in Indonesia. The last effort to do this seems to have been in the 1950s, when tari Lénso, the Handkerchief dance from Minahasa and the Moluccas, became the acceptable way for men and women to be seen together on the dance floor (Prijono, 1982:63).l6 To date, the promotion of the social dance has resulted in a choreographed stage duet, which it is understood will ‘lead to’ the emergence of a ‘social dance’. The result of such developments is a situation where lédhék take part in new projects and other performance genres, while classically trained dancers, sometimes from the most prestigious dance institutes, take on the role of lé-dhék in cultural practices which are best identified as ‘New Order tayuban’, where performance takes precedence over participation. Performance art as honourable service This switching of roles brings us back to the question of professionalism. By removing lédhék from their own sphere, in which they can earn a living, and by introducing them into projects or other kinds of performance activity, their professional status as money-earners is threatened, and they become incorporated into the honour economy of New Order culture. Lédhék Suwarni from Sragen was ironical about the Rp. 20,000 she received for dancing in the tayuban festival in Surakarta in August 1989, instead of her usual minimal fee of Rp. 30,000. If the time was shorter than her usual stint, she could argue that the audience was greater: 5,000, according to the press. Successful lédhék in the Sragen region claimed an earning capacity of Rp. 500,000 during a month favourable for the holding of ceremonies, such as Besar. The modern financing of performance has adopted the honour system of reward from the palace, but without providing the total community within which such a system of exchange is viable for meeting the needs of everyday life. It seems that today it is becoming impossible for lédhék to be both solvent and respectable. Patronage in the name of national cultural development and professional status appear to be mutually exclusive. The individual patrons mentioned in reference to tayuban were motivated by personal interest and enthusiasms; they are not under

16 A charming photograph of President Soekarno dancing the Lénso with some students may be found in a recent reprint of Harold Forster’s memoirs of his experiences in Yogyakarta as the first ever English language teacher at Gadjah Mada University (1989, opposite p. 65).

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instructions to do particular projects; indeed, there was a certain element of protest expressed in their choice of enthusiasm. Although this article might have implied that New Order culture is as irrevocable a force as the electric current of change it aspires to find a balance with, the officially devised projects in the cultural sphere can achieve nothing without genuine enthusiasm at a personal level. The problem however may be put this way. If individuals find their enthusiasms thwarted and channelled into directions which are antipathic or deadening, their enthusiasm and motivation will wane, and opportunism and mere survival will take over. The current developmental ethos in Indonesia strives to incorporate individual creators who in Western society might be marginalized. However, the modern conditions of reproduction of performers entail expectations about future roles in society as well as on stage. The trend to promote general participation and the amateurization of performance I have referred to and the honorarium system of paying artists (which is how they are now classed) is out of synch with the times, and it remains to be seen how the internal contradictions of patronage codes and pro fessional expectations are dealt with in the years to come. What is important is that the ideology of ‘develop and preserve’ is not misapplied. The temptation to turn living practices into museum pieces is more acute as developmental sights are set on tourism as the redeeming feature of Indonesia’s future, and it was not uncommon in 1989 to meet village heads discussing the viability of reviving a lapsed tayuban in order to attract visitors, particularly if the village lay on a well-used road leading to a temple.17 In discussions about traditionalization and preservation, informants who are both artists and officials of the Department of Education and Culture point out that the object of these policies needs to be defined more clearly. What matters is the preservation not of the old forms themselves but of their living qualities. It is perhaps inevitable that development wipes out large areas of customary practice, that new technology transforms life-styles, and that performance which was formerly an aspect of something broader becomes separated out and reclassified as an art. But it is important for us to understand what lies behind the invention of the new art traditions and their manipulation in the national development programme. The trend towards performance art being marked as part of the honorarium economy also bodes ill for future performers who as yet derive nothing from the burgeoning tourist industry. It remains to be seen how the present internal contradictions of modern patronage styles and emerging professional expectations are dealt with in Indonesia and elsewhere in the years to come.

17

This kind of entrepreneurial venture can be successful: a village head near Prambanan revived the local jathilan (horse dance) troupe in 1970 and the forty or so villagers who are called to performances when a tourist coach is due, summoned by a modern use of the kenthongan signalling system, are earning better than many a graduate of ISI: between Rp. 4,000 and 7,500 for two performances of one hour each. To my knowledge this particular enterprise is unique in Yogyakarta. On tourism and performance see further Hughes-Freeland, forthcoming.

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References Bass, C.1990. Java jive. Folkroots,84, 32–33. Bruner, E.M.1979. Comments. Modern? Indonesian? Culture? (InDavis, G., ed. Whatis modern Indonesian culture?Athens, Ohio: OhioUniversity Center for International Studies, 300–06. (Southeast Asia Series, 52.)) Choy, P.1984. Texts through time: the Golék dance of Java. (In Morgan, S., and Sears, L.J., ed. Aesthetic tradition and cultural transition in Java and Bali.Madison: University of Wisconsin Center for Southeast Asian Studies, 51–81. (Monograph 2.)) Collins, W.Unpublished. Besemah concepts: a study of the culture of a people of South Sumatra. [PhD thesis, University of California, 1979.] Florida, N.K.1987. Reading the unread in traditional Javanese literature. Indonesia,44, 1– 15. Foley, M.K. Unpublished. The Sundanese ‘wayang golék’: the rod puppet theatre of West Java. [PhD thesis, University of Hawaii, 1979.] Forster, H.1989. Flowering lotus: a view of Java in the 1950s,Singapore, etc.: Oxford University Press. [Reprint. First published London, etc.: Longmans, Green and Co., 1958.] Freeland, F.H.1985. Revivalism as a defining stand in Yogyakartan court dance. Indonesia Circle,37, 35–43. Geertz, C.1960. The religion of JavaGlencoe, Illinois: Free Press. Groneman, I.1888. In de kedaton te Jogjakarta: oepatjara, ampilan en tooneeldansen.Leiden: E.J.Brill. Handung Kus Sudyarsana. 1989. Ketoprak.Yogyakarta: Kanisius. Hefner, R.W.1985. Hindu Javanese: Tengger tradition and Islam.Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Hefner, R.W.1987. The politics of popular art: tayuban dance and culture change in East Java. Indonesia,43, 75–94. Hesselink, L.1987. Prostitution: a necessary evil, particularly in the colonies. (InLocherScholten, E., and Niehof, A., ed. Indonesian women in focus: past and presentnotions.Dordrecht: Foris, 205–24. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, CXXVII.)) Hobsbawm, E.1983. Introduction: inventing traditions. (InHobsbawm, E., andRanger, T., ed. The invention of tradition.Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1–14.) Holt, C.1967. Art in Indonesia: continuities and change.Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press. Hughes-Freeland, F.1990. Tayuban.culture on the edge. Indonesia Circle,52, 36–44. Hughes-Freeland, F.1991. A throne for the people: observations on the jumenengen of Sultan Hamengku BuwonoX. Indonesia,51, 129–52. Hughes-Freeland, F.Forthcoming. Packaging dreams: Javanese perceptions of tourism and performance. [Forthcoming in Hitchcock, M., and others. ed. Tourism in SouthEast Asia: theory and practice] Hughes-Freeland, F. Unpublished. The search for sense: dance in Yogyakarta. [PhD thesis, University of London, 1986.] Indonesia. Directorate-General of Culture, Ministry of Education and Culture. 1973. Cultural policy in Indonesia.Paris: UNESCO.

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Kedaulatan Rakyat.1989. Di Grobogan, orang yang punya hajat lebih senang menyewa video. Kedaulatan Rakyat,18July. Keeler, W.1987. Javanese shadow plays, Javanese selves.Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Koentjaraningrat. 1985. Javanese culture.Singapore, etc.: Oxford University Press. Lindsay, J.Unpublished. Klasik, kitsch or contemporary: a study of the Javanese performing arts. [PhD thesis, University of Sydney, 1985.] McPhee, C.1987. A house in Bali.Singapore, etc.: Oxford University Press. [Reprint. First published New York: John Day Co. [1946].) Martin-Schiller, B.1984. Islam and the ‘earth tiger’: religion in a pesisir village. (In Hatley, R., and others. Other Javas: away from the kraton. [By] R. Hatley [and 3 others].[Clayton:] Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 49–60.) Moens, J.Unpublished. Platen-album Jogjakarta. MS KBG 50.059, National Library, Jakarta. [Compiled 1933–37.] O’Connor, S.J.1985. Metallurgy and immortality at Candi Sukuh, Central Java.Indonesia, 39, 53–70. Pigeaud, T.G.T.1938. Javaanse volksvertoningen: bijdrage tot de beschrijving van landen volk.Batavia: Volkslectuur. Pigeaud, T.G.T.1960–63. Java in the 14th century.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. 5 vols. (Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde. Translation Series, 4.) Poerbatjaraka. 1954. Keterangan kata-kata: najub….ahasa dan Budaja,III (2), 3–40. Praptowiratno, S. Unpublished. Tayub sebagai tari pergaulan di Jawa. [Karangsari, mimeographed paper, 1989.1 Prijono.1982. Indonesia menari; Indonesian dances.Jakarta: Balai Pustaka. Ricklefs, M.C.1974. Jogjakarta under Sultan Mangkubumi1749–1792: a history of thedivision of Java. London: Oxford University Press. (LondonOriental Series, 30.) Sedyawati, Edi. 1981. Pertumbuhan seni pertunjukan.Jakarta: Sinar Harapan. Slamet, I.E.1982. Cultural strategies for survival: the plight of the Javanese.Rotterdam: Comparative Asian Studies Programme, Erasmus University. (CASP, 5.) Soedarsono.1984. Wayang wong, the state ritual dance drama in the court of Yogyakarta.Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Soedarsono, and others.1989-Sultan HamengkubuwonoIX, pengembang dan pembaharu tari Jawa gaya Yogyakarta. [By] Soedarsono, Darusuprapta, and Harjana Har-djawijana.Yogyakarta: Pemerintah Propinsi Daerah Istimewa Yogyakarta. Soerjodiningrat, B.P.A. n.d. Babad lan mekaring djoged Jawi.Jogjakarta: Kolff-Buning. Soetorodharmo, R.M.1987. Perkembangan tari klasik golék Ménak ciptaan Sri Sultan Hamengku BuwonoIX. Kedaulatan Rakyat,25 August, 7, 11. Stutterheim, W.F.1956. A thousand years old profession in the princely courts on Java. (InStutterheim, W.F.Studies in Indonesian archaeology.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 91– 103. (Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde. Translation Series, [1].)) Suharto, Ben.1980. Tayub:pengamatan dari segi tari pergaulan serta kaitannya denganunsur upacara kesuburan.Yogyakarta: Proyek Pengembangan Institut Kesenian Indonesia, Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. Sumandio Hadi, Y. Unpublished. Seni tari di Keraton Yogyakarta: pembentukan dan perkembangannya dalam masa pemerintahan Sultan Hamengku BuwonoIX (1940– 1987). [Pasca Sarjana thesis, Gadjah Mada University, 1988.] Surjadiningrat, R.M.W.1953. Tari bedaja. Bahasa dan Budaja,I (1), 11–19

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Surjadiningrat, R.M.W.1970. Gamelan, tari dan wajang di jogjakarta,Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Sutaarga, Moh. Amir.1955. De wajang golék in West-Java. Indonesië,VIII (6), 441–56. Sutton, R.A.1984. Who is the pesindhèn? Notes on the female singing tradition in Java’. Indonesia,37, 118–33. Tohari, Ahmad. 1982–86. Ronggeng dukuh Paruk.—Lintang kemukus dini hari.—Jan-tera bianglala.Jakarta: Gramedia, 1982, 1985, 1986. [A trilogy.] Waal Malefijt, A.de.1963. The Javanese of Surinam: segment of a plural society.Assen: van Gorcum. Yayasan Siswa Among Beksa. 1981. Kawruh Joged Mataram.Yogyakarta: Yayasan Siswa Among Beksa.

8 Semang and Seblang: thoughts on music, dance, and the sacred in Central and East Java R.ANDERSON SUTTON

Music and dance in Central and East Java have long been intimately bound up with notions of the sacred. To some degree, at least, all traditional Javanese performance genres serve both as entertainment for their human audience and as a vehicle for reaching beyond the mundane and human to the sacred realm of spirits and hidden forces. Yet some genres, musical pieces, musical ensembles, musical instruments, dances, dance properties, puppets, and even manuscripts relating to these are imbued with heightened sacred significance, having special supernatural powers that set them off from others seemingly like them. Following some introductory material, I would like to consider in this essay two performance rituals held to be particularly sacred: the BedhayaSemang of the Yogyakarta court in Central Java, and the Seblang of Bakungan, in rural Banyuwangi, East Java. I do not wish to argue that these be understood as two manifestations of some deep underlying Javanese ur-ritual. They contrast in many significant ways; from the gestures and sounds presented, to the constitution and expected behaviour of the worldly audience, for example, these could scarcely be more different. But both present music and dance felt to be ritually powerful, tying together notions of human sexuality, agricultural fertility, supernatural power, illness, and death. The Seblang occurs annually; I saw one performance and have read accounts of many others. The Bedhaya Semang, on the other hand, has not been performed in living memory; it is ‘knowable’ only through the considerable lore that surrounds it and several extant manuscripts that record elements relating to its performance (see further below). My methodology is, thus, flawed from the start by its disregard for consistency in the aspects of these rituals I examine. Circumstances have decreed that I focus on the written music and vocal text for Semang (based on several transcriptions of the Yogyakarta manuscript) as these were most accessible to me, while for the Seblang I focus on a particular instance of performance—my observations and the interpretations offered by local villagers who witnessed the performance with me. Javanese terminology and ‘the sacred’ Mention of ‘the sacred’ in Java immediately raises questions of indigenous conceptions and problems of translation. To what extent do Western notions of ‘the

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sacred’ correspond with Javanese beliefs and experience? And how varied are Javanese conceptions in different regional and social contexts? Aside from the connection with the divine, Westerners often imply in their use of the term ‘sacred’ the idea of formality, dignity, and restraint; but these qualities may not always be appropriate in Javanese encounters with the divine. Formally educated Javanese today often use words directly borrowed from Dutch or English, such as ‘sakral’ and ‘religius’ (e.g. Hadiwidjojo, 1981, Soelarto and Ilmi, n.d.), whose usage suggests meanings that correspond mostly to their Dutch and English sources and obviates some of the complexities of the older and more widely known Javanese vocabulary. Javanese use the Arabic-derived kudus and the Sanskrit-derived suci, which may both be translated as ‘sacred’. (Hadiwidjojo refers to the ritually powerful Bedhaya Ketawang of Surakarta as ‘kudus’ [1981:29].) Yet kudus is best translated as ‘holy’ or ‘blessed’ and is used mostly for matters pertaining to Christian or Islamic religion (e.g., Roh Kudus, ‘Holy Spirit’). Suci also translates as ‘holy’, but in the sense of ‘pure’, ‘clean’, ‘unspoiled’; it implies innocence, like that of a priest, or a baby. Neither kudus nor suci suggests the aspect of power and potential danger implied by two words most central to our concerns here: kramat (from Arabic) and sekti (from Sanskrit). Kramat is usually translated as ‘sacred’, and implies something of marvel, the miraculous, having supernatural, haunting qualities. Places that are kramat, such as graveyards and certain buildings, are usually associated with ancestral spirits, thus haunted (angker) and awe-inspiring (wingit). The word sekti is usually translated as ‘powerful’, not with mere physical or brute strength (rosa, santosa, kuwat), but with power that is magical, of supernatural origins. Though in modern usage sekti does not denote female or sexual power specifically, the Sanskrit word akti from which it derives refers to a ruler’s (or god’s) female consort, without whom the ruler is incapable of conjuring power. And, as we will see below, the female and sexual union may figure prominently in the ascription of sacred status in Java. Kesektén (the power of sekti) is accessible to human beings through various means: from the rigours of meditation practice to the acquisition of spiritually powerful objects. The word sekti suggests an active, powerful force and is normally applied to creatures— persons primarily, but also animals, gods, spirits, and spiritually charged objects. Kramat implies the presence of spirits and is normally applied to places (especially graveyards), times (certain days or moments), and objects; but this distinction is not absolute. In relation to performance, both words find frequent and overlapping usage. Both suggest a link between observable reality and a realm beyond, of invisible spirits and sources of power. Closely related to these ideas of spirits and supernatural power is the term pusaka. Simply stated, a pusaka is an heirloom or, more generally, a heritage received from one’s ancestors. In addition to physical objects, however, musical pieces and dances may come to be recognized as pusaka, handed down like heirlooms from one generation to the next. While not all inherited objects are imbued with supernatural power, the reference to something as pusaka suggests at least the likelihood that it is powerful.1 And the older a pusaka object is said to be, the greater is the potential for

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it to be powerful—dangerously so. When someone speaks of a kris pusaka or a gamelan pusaka, they usually intend to distinguish it from other objects of similar form and appearance as something requiring special reverence and even fear. The status of pusaka can derive primarily from the fact that it has been passed down from deceased ancestors (and is to some degree imbued with their spirits), but often it derives from association of the object with unusual occurrences in the observable life of humankind—from an unexplained turn in one’s luck to the outbreak or ending of a great war or pestilence. Sacred musical instruments With this brief background, let us now turn to the question of sacredness attributed to objects associated with performance, items of repertory, and performance itself. From the outset we must recognize that sacred potency, while not precisely measurable, occurs in varying degrees or levels of intensity. Consider, for example, the reverence toward the instruments of a Javanese gamelan. One hears general statements that gamelan ensembles have a spiritual quality, that they require periodic offerings and deferential behaviour, such as the removal of shoes and the avoidance of stepping over instruments, and that they may be given proper names. While this may be true in a general sense, vast differences exist in the degree of sacredness, and this is reflected in the elaborateness of reverence shown. Newer gamelan and those whose instruments are made of iron rather than bronze are less likely to be given offerings or a proper name. Musicians remove shoes, it seems, to play any gamelan, but will not go out of their way to avoid stepping over instruments in iron ensembles or newer bronze ones. Gamelans housed in any of the royal courts are routinely ascribed a higher level of sacred power. As R.Vetter has pointed out, All palace gamelan are considered kagungan dalem (property of the sultan) …. The sacred imagery attached to the position of sultan pervades those objects that are associated with him. As a result, objects that are labeled ‘kagungan dalem’ require special treatment and respect…. (R.Vetter, unpublished, 1: 128) All of these require offerings, and even the brasher young musicians who might have the opportunity to play them would be careful not to step over any instrument, no matter how inconvenient such avoidance might be. The court gamelan all have proper names—ranging from ‘Fountain of Honey’ (Siratmadu) and ‘Spreading of Love’ (Medharsih) to ‘Battle Cry’ (Surak) and ‘Prosperous Realm’ (Harjanegara)— preceded by the honorific Kangjeng Kyahi (which can be translated as ‘most

1

The quintessential pusaka is made of metal: kris (dagger), gamelan instruments (especially large gongs). See further J.Becker, 1988, on the special significance of metal in Java as it relates to gamelan instruments and musical sound.

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venerated’; it derives from Old Javanese ikang jeng, ‘the feet of’, and kyahi, a term of address or reference to a person of some standing). (See R.Vetter, unpublished, I: 115–26.) Though villagers far from the courts may think of all court gamelans as uniformly sacred, those knowledgeable in matters of a particular court share a more complex view.2 In the Yogyakarta court, for example, Vetter found that five gamelan are said to be especially sacred, the archaic gamelans munggang,kodhok ngorék, both sekatén, and one other. It is only these that are identified as the sultan’s pusaka gamelan—and not the others, even though all gamelan, once they have been acquired by the court, are handed down from one ruler to the next and are indeed treasured heirlooms (R.Vetter, unpublished, 1:129). What determines ascription of sacred status? In Javanese mystical belief (kebatinan), almost any entity of earthly existence (donya lahir) has the potential to become magically powerful, to exhibit sacred qualities, should it become imbued with a spirit or power from the unseen world (donya batin). When an unusual event occurs, it is very often interpreted as a revelation from the unseen realm, and such an event becomes associated with something in the particular circumstances of its occurrence —an object involved with or in proximity to the occurrence, the person or people involved, the timing, the location, or often a combination of these. For example, the Yogyakarta court gamelan Kangjeng Kyahi Kancilbelik (‘Mouse Deer in a Pond’) is said to originate from parts of a gamelan found in a pond where the first sultan witnessed something miraculous. When a mouse deer was shot by the first sultan of Yogyakarta, it fell lame into a small pond; but rather than dying, it emerged fully healed and escaped. When the sultan ordered this apparently magical pond to be enlarged for bathing, his subjects uncovered bronze gongs and keys and it was these that were believed to be the source of the healing power. A full gamelan was built incorporating the instruments found (see Madukusuma, 1957:5, and translation in R.Vetter, unpublished, I:136). More particular even than the identification of particular ensembles as sacred are the numerous instances within the courts and elsewhere of a single instrument that is believed to be the locus of great sacred power. Most often this will be a large bronze gong, whose massive size and rich sound distinguish it from the other gamelan instruments. Yet in villages I have seen incense and food offered to pusaka 2

Just to point to the significance that a ‘court’ gamelan has for Javanese today, I should mention that, after much debate among Javanese (including the past and present sultans of Yogyakarta), it was decided that the large contingent of performers coming to the United States as part of the Festival of Indonesia in the autumn of 1990 would bring with them one of the court’s treasured gamelan to play during their tour. This was thought by the Javanese to be a strong selling point, sure to attract ample bookings, enough to offset the high cost of transporting such a large ensemble—one that must be very carefully packed after each use and, of course, could not be sold or given away at the end of the tour. But American commercial presenters were not so easily persuaded, with the result that the tour of this group was short and limited to a few big cities where the extraordinary expense could be bome.

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instruments, usually gongs, made of iron. Whether bronze or iron, pusaka gongs are often said to be identified as such because they have been heard sounding by themselves (without anyone striking them). In other cases, I have heard of gongs associated with the bringing of rain during a dry spell, healing illness, or even the acquisition of personal wealth. In addition to gongs, we also find singled out as pusaka, even within court ensembles, certain rebab (two-stringed fiddles) and kendhang (drums)—neither of which are made of bronze, but both of which serve a directing capacity in performance.3 Ironically, it was a pusaka rebab and small ketipung drum which were destroyed in the 1985 fire in the Surakarta court and not the gamelan to which they belonged. For safe-keeping, they had been stored separately from the gamelan in an inner chamber, which burned to the ground, while the other gamelan instruments were not harmed. The irony of this turn of events stirred up considerable debate and added to the already serious problems that the current royal family in Surakarta has had in projecting an image of power. Sacred musical pieces As with the instruments, gamelan music itself is imbued with sacred power in various degrees. As part of a ceremony, the playing of music is often said to be ritually important, regardless of the repertory. I have been present at occasions where the audience has dwindled drastically, for example, but the musicians continue to play, because of the ritual necessity of doing a ‘full performance’. Beyond the general evaluation of gamelan music as ritually efficacious, however, particular genres and particular pieces within them stand out as sacred or especially sacred. Sumarsam (1984) writes of the gamelan piece entitled gendhing Kalunta, now considered a pusaka because of the efficacy it is said to have had in restoring Paku Buwana II’s will and ability to resist rebellion when he was temporarily deposed from his throne in the mid-eighteenth century. Though the piece is occasionally performed, the elderly gamelan expert Mloyowidodo noted to Sumarsam in 1982 that Kalunta was rarely played inside the court. Musicians were reluctant to play Kalunta because of its supernatural quality. If Kalunta was played, it might cause trouble, such as illness in the family of the musician. (Sumarsam, 1984:47) But because this piece is sometimes played for shadow-play and was even used in a gamelan contest in 1977, Sumarsam adds his own thought that

3

For example, see the discussion of the two rebab Kangjeng Kyai Grantang and Kangjeng Kyai Udan Pajatén in the Surakarta kraton in Warsadiningrat, 1972, translated by Walton in Becker and Feinstein, 1987:91.

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the standing of Kalunta as a gendhing pusaka is not as strong as the standing of other gendhing pusaka, such as Gadhung Mlathi, which can be played to protect the country from epidemics or other calamities, or the music and dance Bedhaya Ketawang Ageng, which is performed on the anniversary of the king’s ascension to the throne. (Sumarsam, 1984:53 [note 14]) In his lengthy compendium of inherited knowledge about gamelan music and related arts, entitled Wédha pradangga (translated ‘Sacred knowledge about gamelan music’), Warsadiningrat mentions numerous instances of gendhing with particular powers and restrictions. Concerning these more sacred items, Warsadiningrat writes the following: Gendhing Handuk, that is, Gendhing Gadhung Mlathi Bedhaya, was powerful, dignified, and demanding of respect [‘gadhah daya prabawa raos luhur sinartanwingit’]. While the musicians were composing this gendhing, Kangjeng Sunan Kalijaga appeared again, which explains why the gendhing possesses such a great supernatural power [‘gawat’—lit. ‘dangerous’]. Incense must be burned continuously whenever it is played. Offerings are also mandatory, but not the complete set of offerings as required for Gendhing Ketawang. Moreover, Gendhing [Handuk] may be studied at home without offerings, provided that incense is burned and a request for peace and safety is made. However, regardless of the circumstances, Gendhing Ketawang may not be studied outside of the kraton because it is very dangerous [‘gawat’]. Gendhing GadhungMlathi Bedhaya was played for large ceremonies, although these were not specified as they were for Gendhing Ketawang Ageng. (Warsadiningrat, 1972, translated by Walton in Becker and Feinstein, 1987:83) Warsadiningrat also mentions other powerful gendhing: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Dhendha Sèwu brings the gods [to earth]. Dhendha Sari brings heavenly nymphs [to earth] Dhendha Gedhé brings souls [to earth] Pedaringan Kebak cleanses [the earth] of all pests and diseases, and brings Déwi Sri [to earth]. (Warsadiningrat, 1972, translated by Walton in Becker and Feinstein, 1987:65)

And he notes that gendhing Tunggul wulung has the power to prevent un-wanted rainfall or danger (Warsadiningrat, 1972, translated by Walton in Becker and Feinstein, 1987:47). Yet, to my knowledge, this is not designated a gendhing pusaka, nor does it carry with it the strict set of proscriptions associated with some others. Thus, we find musical pieces with varying degrees of potency in their relationship with the supernatural. The same can be said of particular items of repertory in shadow puppetry and in dance, to which we now turn.

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Music, dance, and song text in two sacred ceremonies Bedhaya Semang The most sacred genre of performance known in Central Java is the bedhaya—a slow and subtle female-style dance performed by nine dancers and accompanied by gamelan instruments and singers.4 Among the many items in the bedhaya repertory of each of the major Javanese courts (Yogyakarta and Surakarta), one specific bedhaya is identified as the most sacred: in Yogyakarta the Bedhaya Semang and in Surakarta the Bedhaya Ketawang. Along with the dance, the accompanying music is also deemed sacred and performance is restricted to royal ceremony. I would like here to consider some aspects of one of these, the Bedhaya Semang, about which very little has been written and which has probably not been performed since the turn of the century. Most of what we know about the Bedhaya Semang is based on notation of the musical pieces, singing parts (words and melody), and sequence of dance movements given in the Yogyakarta court manuscript: Kagungan dalem seratpasindhén sarta beksa Bedhaya Semang, Kridha Mardawa library, Yogyakarta, no. B/S 1, dated 1945 (BrakelPapenhuijzen, 1992:59). The notation, text, and choreography are transcribed in Suharti, unpublished. Given the absence of any active performance tradition for the Bedhaya Semang during the twentieth century, it seems likely that the 1945 manuscript may be a copy of an earlier one, dating perhaps from the late nineteenth century, when other items of repertory began to be notated in considerable detail. I know of no earlier extant manuscript, although Hostetler (1982:138) alludes to the notation of Bedhaya Semang under the reign of Sultan Hamengku Buwana VI (r. 1855–77). Bedhaya Semang is mentioned in several other Yogyakarta manuscripts (especially serat Babad nitik), as discussed by Hostetler (1982:135–36). Versions of Bedhaya Semang were also known in Surakarta, from whence the Yogyakarta version—at least much of the song text—seems very likely to have derived, as convincingly argued by Brakel-Papenhuijzen (1992:63). Though lacking specific notation of dance or movement, two early Surakarta manuscripts (Sindhéning Bedhaya Semang, Sasana Pustaka library, Surakarta, no. 86 Na, pp. 11–13, dated A.D. 1772; and Sindhén Bedhaya Semang, Leiden University Library NBS 94, transcribed in LOr 10.629, dated A.D. 1837) contain song texts strikingly similar to that of the Yogyakarta version (Brakel-Papen-huijzen 1992:58–63): In view of the long period of time which elapsed between the writing of the Surakarta Bedhaya Semang text of 1772 AD and the notation of the 4

Again, the high value placed on the bedhaya by Javanese can be seen in the choice of this genre to be performed by the Yogyakarta troupe for the Festival of Indonesia. I know of at least one presenter (in Minneapolis) who was interested in booking the troupe until he saw a video excerpt of the dance and found it impossibly slow and of little entertainment potential for his audience.

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Yogyakarta Bedhaya Semang in 1945 AD, the two versions of the text show a remarkable similarity. This makes the Surakarta theory that the Bedhaya Semang was transferred to Yogyakarta all the more probable; in any case, the Yogyakarta text is clearly related to the Surakarta text. (Brakel-Papenhuijzen, 1992:63) For Javanese, this Surakarta theory (given by, among others, Warsadiningrat [1972, translated by Walton in Becker and Feinstein, 1987:91]) suggests a Surakartanese supremacy not only in creativity, but in royal legitimacy. The lore surrounding Bedhaya Semang in Yogyakarta does not even consider possible Surakarta origins; instead the debate there concerns whether the piece was created by the second sultan, the first sultan, or Sultan Agung (see further below). And we should note that, even if song text and music were derived with little change from Surakarta, the dance movements could have been significantly different. Whatever the particulars of its provenance, the Yogyakarta Bedhaya Semang is a piece (dance/music/literature) so forbidding in length, so laden with proscription and potential danger that it has long ceased to be performed at all.5 Efforts to revive the music and the dance in Yogyakarta during the 1970s and early 1980s uncovered insurmountable difficulties, both in understanding the directives of the notation and in the need to fund the cost of numerous prescribed offerings. It seems likely that during the nineteenth century the Bedhaya Semang (in some version) was performed with some frequency, at least once annually, as the Bedhaya Ketawang is today. It appears to have been essential at royal weddings and (annual?) commemoration of accession to the throne (Surjodiningrat, 1971:17). But by the twentieth century, Bedhaya Semang was no longer performed, even at coronations. Other bedhaya pieces were created especially for the coronations of the eighth and ninth sultans of Yogyakarta—Bedhaya Sudira gambuh and Bedhaya Jatiwarna, respectively (BrakelPapenhuijzen, 1992:63). The ritual necessity the Bedhaya Semang may once have filled, comparable to that of the Bedhaya Ketawang in Surakarta, has apparently been filled for many years by the labuhan ceremony, in which offerings are made annually, but no music or dance is performed (Hostetler, 1982:134–35). Both bedhaya and the labuhan represent acts of royal propitiation to the beautiful and powerful spirit queen of the South Sea—Kangjeng Ratu Kidul Kencana Sari, sometimes also known as Nyai Lara Kidul, although the latter is often identified as the prime minister to the more powerful Ratu Kidul. It is widely believed by Javanese that ‘the queen’s beauty is matched only by her capability of wreaking havoc [on] human beings through disease, crop destruction, and violent weather’ (Hostetler, 1982:132). She is said, according to one legend, to have been Déwi 5

Nor, it should be added, has any dance known as Bedhaya Semang been performed in Surakarta for many years. Based on extensive consultation of written sources and interviews with older performers, Brakel-Papenhuijzen concludes that ‘during the first half of the 20th century the dance must have fallen into disuse both in Surakarta and in Yogyakarta’ (1992:64).

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Retna Suwida, the daughter of a Prabu Mundhingsari, king in Pajajaran (West Java). During her youth she left the kingdom to meditate on Mt. Kombang, where she could change form from male to female. She never married, and later became the queen of all the spirits of Java, making her home in a palace under the sea of Java’s south coast. Another legend tells of this same beautiful young woman who contracted leprosy and, seeing the ravaging effects of the disease on her face when she looked into a pool of water, dived into the ocean and became a spirit whose face transformed into something exceedingly beautiful. When one of the early rulers of the Central Javanese kingdom of Mata-ram—either Panembahan Sénapati (Surakarta version) or Sultan Agung (Yogyakarta version)— was present on the south coast, he was visited by Ratu Kidul and they fell in love, both finding the other irresistably attractive. She invited him to her palace, where he stayed and made love to her, but he felt duty-bound to return to his kingdom and the real world. (See further Hadiwidjojo, 1981:22.) She suggested that he marry her and that, after he died, the next sultan could be her husband, and so on through the generations (Mukidi Adisumarto, personal communication, 1979). The Bedhaya Semang and Bedhaya Ketawang are both said to have been created by Ratu Kidul herself, as a love dance for the early ruler (Sultan Agung or Panembahan Sénapati). When the BedhayaKetawang is performed, and even when it is rehearsed, Ratu Kidul may be present, it is believed (Tirtaamidjaja, 1967:33).6 The same was certainly true for performances of the Bedhaya Semang (Surjodiningrat, 1971:18), and likely for rehearsals as well, evidenced by the fact that Ratu Kidul’s name was invoked specifically during the offerings required for rehearsal as well as performance (see further below) (Hostetler, 1982:133). Musical structure The music for the Bedhaya Semang, based on the manuscript held in Kridha Mardawa Yogyakarta court library, is—or, more correctly, was—truly remarkable. While there is still a chance that another attempt at revival might yield results, the stubborn fact remains that portions of it seem unperformable as notated. The instrumentation itself appears to have been nothing other than standard full gamelan and thus would not have set the Bedhaya Semang off from other court dance music. This is in contrast to the Bedhaya Ketawang of Surakarta, which, except in the framing pieces, calls for only five percussion instruments, including the archaic kemanak (banana-shaped metal idiophones). And though on a grander scale than any

6 in the Bedhaya Ketawang of Surakarta the dancers wear royal wedding attire, appearing as brides in front of the current ruler (Tirtaamidjaja, 1967:33). This was apparently true in earlier times in Yogyakarta (at least during the reign of Hamengku Buwana VI, 1855–77), but during the early twentieth century the current bedhaya costume was adopted, in which dancers wear a velvet jacket and a feather head-dress (see further Hostetler, 1982:137, and V. Vetter, unpublished:4–5).

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other bedhaya accompaniment, the overall sequence of the Bedhaya Semang is not altogether different from other bedhaya sequences in the Yogyakarta repertory. Nevertheless, a number of unusual elements present themselves. The notation presents directions that now defy understanding in relation to known conventions of gamelan playing. Even the oldest palace musicians cannot be confident of precisely what was intended (cf. Lindsay’s experiment with attempts by older Yogyakarta musicians to revive less restricted Yogyakarta repertory: Lindsay, unpublished:223–73). Following an introductory lagon (song accompanied by a small ensemble performing in free rhythm) establishing mood and mode, and a short kandha (spoken narration), ladrang Madukéntar, an instrumental gendhing (gamelan orchestral piece with fixed pulse and regular rhythms) is performed for kapang-kapang, the entrance of the dancers. At this point, rather than proceeding directly to the main gendhing (as in most other bedhaya, at least in recent times), additional vocal music is performed: another lagon, followed by two verses of Javanese macapat (sung poetry, usually without instrumental accompaniment) in the Dhandhanggula metre. The manuscript makes it clear beyond a doubt that both male and female bedhaya dancers have performed the dance, since two separate Dhandhanggula texts are provided—one for males (boys), the other for females. Pigeaud mentions that the related term, bedhayan was used in some rural areas in East Java to refer to male transvestite dancers (Pigeaud, 1938:275, 339; see also Brakel-Papenhuijzen, 1992, chapter 3). Now, with the dancers in position, the lengthy gendhing Semang is commenced, with large gong strokes sounding only once every 256 beats of the main instrumental melody (saron part). It proceeds through several sections, as do other Yogyakarta gendhing, ending with the dhawah (normally the second and final main section of a large gendhing). But rather than moving from the pangkat ndhawah (normally a transitional phrase linking the two major sections) directly to a dhawah, it proceeds to a section identified as minggah—the standard Surakarta term for the second section of a large gendhing—and only then to a lengthy final section, presumably the dhawah, but not identified explicitly as such. The phrases in this final section are the longest found in any Javanese gendhing: 512 beats per gong. In most other bedhaya the dancers would now proceed to exit to the sound of a purely instrumental rendition of another gendhing like the one sounded for their entrance. But the Bedhaya Semang notation here presents a short solo instrumental introduction, leading into a second version of gendhing Semang, only to stop before the other instruments enter. The introduction is then begun again and this time continues into the second gendhing Semang, which proceeds on a different course from that of the earlier one. It stops at the first gong stroke and begins again, this time with a vocal introduction, proceeds to the first gong stroke, and stops again. The performance proceeds with this pattern repeated several times: vocal introduction, one gong phrase of gendhing, stop, and begin again. In the pro cess, however, the gendhing proceeds through a section consisting of four 64-beat kenongan and labelled minggah (here perhaps representing a transition to the dhawah, hence like a pangkat ndhawah) to a dhawah section of irregular length, consisting of

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only three kenongan, each 128 beats long. This is followed by a lagon in which specific directions are given to omit the playing of three instruments (rebab, gendér, and gambang) for a short phrase near the end. The lagon proceeds directly into a lengthy second dhawah section, this time with four kenongan (each 128 beats long). This is followed by yet another lagon leading into a repetition of the lengthy fourkenongan dhawah. Instead of stopping again, the dhawah is joined directly to a piece with gong every sixty-four beats (ladrang Semang éndhél), a six-gongan (A, B, C, D, E, F) sequence played four times, with one extra gongan (G) inserted in the second statement. The ladrang proceeds directly into ketawang Semang (with two sixteen-beat kenongan per gong), an eleven-gongan sequence played seven times (with some variation) for an astounding total of seventy-seven gongan. Also unusual is the indication within the ketawang portion for tempo changes (sudden accelerandi, followed by slackening of tempo back to the more usual ketawang tempo). At this point, the main portion of the dance is complete. For the dancers’ exit, the gamelan plays gendhing Onang-onang manis, introduced by rebab, but with no vocal part. The entire performance ends, as it began, with a lagon. Along with the great length of some of the gongan phrases, the numerous stops and reintroductions are bizarre, not only by performance standards current today, but in comparison to other bedhaya music notated during the nineteenth century (see V.Vetter, unpublished). The main instrumental melody, which is notated in full, shares many formulaic contours with the larger gamelan repertory, though with some surprises here and there. The vocal part, on the other hand, adds what by current norms would be a very strange dimension to the music. It is replete with unusual melodic contours, unusual rhythmic configurations in relationship to the four-square structure of the instrumental melody, and presents the text in ways that often seem to make it unsingable. It was the vocal part that caused the greatest interpretive challenge in the aborted efforts to revive the music in the 1970s. Song text Perhaps even more remarkable than the flow of the music is the text itself, composed in what now is extraordinarily opaque Javanese. I have worked on a translation of this with two Javanese scholars (the late B.Y.H.Pustakamardawa and Drs Mukidi Adisumarto), neither of whom is comfortable with a final translation. But some passages seem relatively clear, and certain themes emerge. First it should be noted that phrases of text, particularly in the earlier portions, are repeated an extraordinary number of times—far more so than in any other Javanese vocal form I have encountered. The interjection word babo (a defiant ‘yes’ or ‘I’m willing’), which appears in many other bedhaya texts, is here repeated many times (in some instances four times in immediate succession), along with enggé, which is nowadays a semi-polite word for ‘yes’. And the informal term of address embok (low Jayanese for ‘mother’, ‘older woman’) is used repeatedly as well, often four or five times in immediate succession.

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We must first note that neither Ratu Kidul’s nor Sultan Agung’s name is ever mentioned explicitly, though in the opening macapat Dhandhanggula for the female dancers the dancers are likened to Retna Mandaya (‘Diamond/Girl of the Sea’). Even though other bedhaya texts do mention these two by name, it seems reasonable to attempt an interpretation of the Semang text in relationship to the legend of the meeting between Ratu Kidul and Sultan Agung, as that is what the dance is understood to represent. At one level of interpretation, as Brakel-Papenhuijzen remarks, the text ‘just contains some rather general expressions of a love-relationship’ and ‘the lyrics of the second part refer to the dry season and the raging of a tropical rainstorm’ (1992:63). Yet a search for metaphors and secondary meanings suggested within the text seems appropriate, especially given the very abstract movement patterns whereby bedhaya dance presents its ‘story’. It is never clear whose voice is represented by the text. It appears at times to be a third party narrator, but for the most part we can interpret it to be that of Sultan Agung, who—if we do not dismiss the repeated word embok as a meaningless interjection—addresses Ratu Kidul as ‘mother’, ‘old woman’. From the opening lagon we sense the strong sexual attraction between the two, Ratu Kidul not wishing to let Sultan Agung return home (golang-golong,wong loro ajana kondur).7 Innumerable references are made early on (in the second lagon especially) to ‘her’ (presumably Ratu Kidul’s) extraordinary physical attractiveness and her power to make one lovesick with merely a glance. One phrase speaks explicitly of her beauty when seen naked (yén sinawang ligaayu warnanira). Here and later, words referring to sweetness and rapture abound. The text in the lengthy first section of the first gendhing Semang consists of only two twelve-syllable lines, apparently a wangsalan (a kind of riddle), interspersed with countless babos, enggés, and emboks. The first line is repeated and broken up, with the second line occurring only once, at the end of the section.

Sesekaré renyuh cinitréng nyakadi The delicate flower, shaped like an areca palm blossom Puspa wedhar wreksa kang manjrah ing yasa Flower[s] bloom [into] tree[s] which make bounteous fruit

7

The erotic is by no means unique to this or other especially sacred performances. Gamelan concerts (klenéngan, uyon-uyon) and shadow puppetry performances in Central Java employ a range of repertory, from subdued and meditative pieces to lively and humorous ones. In these and the popular social dances (tayuban, gandrung) in East Java, one often finds suggestive, even ribald song texts and flirtatious behaviour among the male guests and female performers (singers or singer-dancers).

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Sesekaré/sekar suggests puspa (both mean ‘flower’) and cinitréng/citra suggests yasa (both can mean ‘to make, create, build’). As I interpret this, Sultan Agung begins here by referring to Ratu Kidul metaphorically as a flower blooming, but in the next section turns our attention to her association with the realm of the dead, referring to her as layon, which can mean not only ‘dead flower’, but also ‘human corpse’. In the pangkat ndhawah and continuing through the minggah we encounter the following phrase repeated many times: Layonira sun waca isi pralambang Her corpse [the dead ‘flower?] I read, it is full of symbolic meaning The dhawah begins with what may be the second half of a wangsalan begun with the previous phrase. At any rate, like the second line of the first wangsalan, it is given only once: Harja tara, tekéng wedharing puspita Beautiful [star]light, coming to the bloom of the flower As the dhawah continues, it seems Sultan Agung turns his attention more directly to Ratu Kidul, asking her to look at him, to look at her love. Lumiringa mirah dulunen kawula Take a glance, darling, look at me Lumiringa dulunen kekasihira Take a glance, look at your love Another wangsalan is introduced in the second gendhing Semang bedhaya pasowanan. Mendhung mendhung, kekudhungé limar pati It clouds over, a protective silk cindhé veil to cover the head Lung-mulung wido mengalor ing wana sraya A hawk with green-tipped feathers goes north to a refuge in a forest In this case, the idea of protection (pati) with a veil suggests the refuge (sraya), but it is not clear to me how mendhung (cloud) relates to other parts of the second line— perhaps a hawk would be seen high in the sky, in the clouds. At this point, we encounter the first of many references to clouds and rain, along with images of protection—covering up with a silk veil and fleeing northward (from the South Sea) to take refuge in a forest. In the succeeding sections and lagon the text contains several imperatives: first, advice to uncover the meaning of earthly existence and to live one’s life with purpose.

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Alapana kekudhung sangkaning paran Take the veil of life on earth [lit. ‘origin and destination’] Pilih marga, yén mati aja tansara Choose the way, when you die, not without suffering—don’t live your life without purpose Following this is a more ambiguous imperative, couched in what appears to be another wangsalan. Prang ngalésus tengeran kuda praléna Ferocious battle [like a cyclone], symbolized by a dead horse Balik lara, katemua palayaran Turn around sickness [or ‘girl’], sail off [lit. ‘meet sails’] The idea of turning around (boalik) is suggested by the whirling of the wind in a cyclone (ngalésus), and praléna may suggest prau (boat, sailing-boat). Here he commands lara to turn away and set sail—lara being not only a word for illness, but also one of the terms of address for young women, including Nyai Lara Kidul. In the ladrang section, the nature of the text changes significantly. From this point on, the word embok does not appear, and it seems from this, as well as the descriptive nature of the text, that the Voice’ is that of a narrator, rather than Sultan Agung himself. Beginning with the ladrang, repetition is rather limited, and the focus changes to explicit reference to feminine beauty (long neck), passion, and love. It is here, with the text moving by relatively swiftly, that the poetry most clearly suggests in flower and honey metaphors the act of sexual intercourse between Sultan Agung and Ratu Kidul. A subtle reference to the place where they first met (Parangtritis, on Java’s south coast, indicated as mandra liris, which can also mean either ‘much rain’ or ‘hazy, confused’) is given amid a number of references to water—clouds, drenching rain, croaking frogs. The remainder of the ladrang and much of the ketawang section mention heavy rain occurring during the dry season, the sounds of thunder, flashes of lightning, blowing winds, and finally the coming of death and destruction by fire. The final two lagons are brief, the first returning to the theme of lovesickness and the unrivalled beauty of Ratu Kidul. The final lagon mentions clouds and the protection of an umbrella and ends with an ambiguous reference to the state of ‘my mind’ (perhaps the narrator, perhaps Sultan Agung, perhaps all who witness this lengthy ceremony): kepyar-kepyur. This can be translated as (1) ‘relief/refreshment’ (as from hot food); (2) ‘see stars’, ‘feel one’s head throbbing or reeling’; or (3) ‘sprinkling with rain’. Here again the choice of word allows multiple interpretations, which are not necessarily mutually exclusive. We have, then, a text that would seem to encompass not only the irresistible beauty of Ratu Kidul and the powerful sexual attraction between her and Sultan Agung, but also the suggestion that she is death and destruction, the awesome power of nature itself, beautiful and threatening. She is referred to as a

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flower, but also as a corpse that Sultan Agung must interpret symbolically. The advice he gives is in harmony with his own strength to leave Ratu Kidul and return to his kingdom. But he is infatuated with this deathly beauty and makes love to her before he departs. Though we are not sure today at what precise occasions the Bedhaya Semang was performed, it is certain that not only performances, but rehearsals as well were carefully timed. Dancers were required to be ‘ritually pure’ (i.e., forbidden to participate if they were menstruating) (Hostetler, 1982:139). We do have record of the elaborate offerings. Just a rehearsal would require the continuous burning of incense and the presence of twenty-three additional items, including various kinds of food, a live chicken, flowers, a clay water vessel, oil lamp, and raw meat. A performance required additional offerings, including the head of a water buffalo, which is also called for (at least in Yogyakarta) for performances of the most powerful wayang kulit play, Rubuhan, the death of Duryudana.8 Hostetler has provided a history of the Bedhaya Semang from a Yogyakarta perspective, incorporating the several conflicting beliefs concerning its origin—one attributing this dance to Sultan Hamengku Buwana II (Yogyakarta’s second sultan), another to his more powerful father Sultan Hamengku Buwana I (the founder of Yogyakarta), and the more widely held belief that it was created in the time of Sultan Agung by Ratu Kidul herself. Even if it dates only from the late eighteenth century (Hamengku Buwana II), the version documented in notation represents some changes, as outlined by Hostetler. These include the introduction of male dancers in 1840 (during the reign by Hamengku Buwana V) and the use of small pistols by the dancers (with no apparent association with Ratu Kidul). And if it dates back to the early seventeenth century (Sultan Agung), we would expect it to bear closer resemblance to Surakarta’s Bedhaya Ketawang, whose archaisms strongly suggest early provenance and little change (see Hostetler, 1982:138). Seblang Contrasting in many ways with the Bedhaya Semang and with Central Javanese court culture in general is the ritual known as Seblang, which survives in two villages just north-west of the town of Banyuwangi in East Java. Seblang is readily identified by the local population as the most sacred and powerful of any of their performances, bringing mankind in contact with the spirit world and in volving ritual precautions. It is closely related to the more mundane gandrung, an erotic social dance which is said to have developed from Seblang. Though similar in style of dance movement and musical accompaniment, the Seblang is distinguished from gandrung by the fact 8 The information on offerings for the Bedhaya Semang is from Hostetler, 1982:133, and made available to her by G.B.P.H. Suryobrongto. When I saw Rubuhan in 1974 in Yogyakarta, with a water buffalo head present by the screen for the entire evening, I was told by several Javanese that the sacrifice of a water buffalo was essential for any performance of this powerful play.

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that the main dancer, called the seblang, wears an unusual head-dress of flowers and leaf or cloth fringe (partially covering the face) and is in trance while she performs. In both villages, Olehsari and Bakungan, the dancer is female and the ceremony occurs regularly only once a year.9 But the particulars of performance contrast significantly between the two villages. In Olehsari, a young girl is chosen to be the dancer for the Seblang ceremony and she dances in trance for several hours in the afternoon for seven days in succession. The musical accompaniment is provided by a small orchestra of gamelan instruments—saron, small gongs, drum—and a female chorus. (The Seblang in this village is documented and described in Wolbers, 1989, and in Wolbers’ contribution to the present volume, chapter 2.) In Bakungan, the ceremony is limited to one night. An elderly woman takes the role of seblang, and the music is provided by a special ensemble: something like a small gamelan, with saron, bonang,gambang, gongs, and drum, as well as Western violin (which is also one of the main instruments accompanying the gandrung of Banyuwangi). Scholte (1927: 149) reported a smaller ensemble for Seblang in Bakungan in the early twentieth century: ‘kendang, gambang, bamboe, rebab en gong’ (drum, bamboo xylophone[?], rebab, and gong).10 Historical records indicate that the instrumentation for Seblang in this village has changed considerably over the years (Soelarto and Ilmi, n.d.:8). We also know that in the nineteenth century the seblang was a male—sometimes a boy, sometimes an older man—who dressed and danced as a female. The gandrung were male as well. One of the first female gandrung was Semi (1885–1973). When she became very ill as a young girl, her mother Mak Midah vowed to hold a Seblang ceremony if she escaped death and showed signs of recovery. As Semi’s health began to return, her mother arranged for a Seblang ses sion. In trance, Semi herself began to dance, accompanied by songs that her mother sang in her role as pengundang seblang (lit. ‘the

9

As far as I have been able to determine, rituals involving a seblang dancer, in trance, occur only at the annual village-wide ceremonies nowadays. In former times, as reported by Scholte, however, a seblang might be called at any time by a family as fulfilment of a vow involving recovery from illness: Als er een zieke is, die moeilijk herstelt, dan doet een van de familieleden de volgende gelofte: ‘Saiki sira lara, warasa—jèn waras, soen tanggapaké seblang Bakoengan’. (Je bent nu ziek, word beter—als je beter bent zal ik de seblang van Bakoengan roepen om te dansen.) (Scholte, 1927:149) If there is someone sick, who has difficulty recovering, then one of the family members makes the following vow: ‘You are sick, get better—if you get better, I will sponsor a performance by the seblang from Bakungan’. This is based on Scholte’s report from the 1920s; see also my summary of his and Wolbers’ account of the first female seblang, in the 1890s (Semi, who was also the first female gandrung), given below. 10 The comma in the published Dutch text between ‘gambang’ and ‘bamboe’ is probably a typographical error, as the word ‘bamboe’ is not known to refer to any particular instrument. A xylophone (gambang) made of bamboo, however, is not unusual in rural Java.

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one who invites the seblang’). Afterward Semi, along with some of her sisters, performed as gandrung as well, combining songs newly composed by their mother with those of the male gandrung tradition (Scholte, 1927:148–49, Wolbers, 1986:81). With this background, let me describe a Seblang ceremony I witnessed in the village of Bakungan in August 1986. I arrived at the village just after dark, having learned of the performance date from, of all sources, the provincial tourist office in Surabaya. As it turned out, I was the only ‘tourist’ and, since I came with a professional interest and some language proficiency, I was invited by the village headman (lurah désa) to witness the preparations at a nearby house, where the elderly woman was already dressed in her costume, except for the elaborate head-dress. The smoke of incense was thick in the room, and she held two kris (daggers), a wavybladed kris with a Balinese handle in her left hand and straight-bladed kris with a Javanese handle in her right. She was together with the pawang, her ritual guide, whose first job was to induce the ancestral spirit (whose identity I did not determine) to enter her body. The association of incense with entrance into a trance state is widespread in Indonesia, and is mentioned by Scholte (1927:148) in his account of the first female seblang, Semi, who came into trance while smelling burning incense (and hearing her mother sing). After this visit to the seblang preparing for the ceremony, I was escorted by several members of the village to see a variety of the village pusaka, housed in a dimly lit hut. These included several kris said to date from Majapahit (four-teenth-fifteenth centuries) and a variety of palpably old textiles. From here we moved to the village hall, where the musical ensemble was already playing pieces to serve as a prelude to the arrival of the seblang. As she walked up the short distance from the house to the village hall, rain began to fall and quickly turned into a downpour. The musicians were soaked, but kept playing the opening song, ‘Seblang Lokentho’. To this music the seblang sat on a throne unprotected from the rain before beginning to dance. She was then induced to perform her dances under the cover of the pavilion roof of the village hall and most of the onlookers crowded in as well, seeking shelter from this sudden and unseasonable rain. Dutifully, the musicians kept playing outdoors and only moved themselves and their instruments under cover at the suggestion of the pawang and the village headman. Further interruption occurred several times when the electricity temporarily went out, leaving us all in total darkness. Despite these unusual disturbances, the ritual continued until after midnight. The seblang, like other entranced dancers in Java and Bali, has considerable licence for unusual behaviour. Wolbers mentions seblang tearing people’s shirts and slapping them in the face. At Bakungan that night, this elderly seblang charged at a few people (myself included) and grabbed the village headman by the thigh, but did not tear clothing or hit anyone. The licence seems to have been primarily sexual and was shared not only by the seblang, but by the older women (all of them former gandrung, I was told) and men who often performed in the dance space with her. One of the basic dance movements of the seblang and her gandrung cohorts was an erotic thrusting from side to side of the hips (somewhat like the movements of Balinese female dancers), and part of the evening involved the seblang dancing with men she

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chose from the audience (beginning with the second song, ‘Uga-uga’). However, the seblang also portrayed in her movements a series of actions relating directly to the songs sung by the pengundang. These were mostly short, repetitive songs, with short gong phrases (usually 8 or 16 beats) and were not joined together to form longer medleys. Much of the action depicted aspects of farming life—digging for roots (to the song ‘Kembang gadhung’—lit. ‘yam flower’), caring for cattle (for which several young boys donned yokes and cavorted on all fours, with the pawang wearing a local farmer’s hat, to the song ‘Lemar-lemér’—lit. ‘sticky offering’), planting rice, and processing rice in a mill (suggested by a little girl standing on a chair and spinning a propeller, to the song ‘Emping-emping’—name for a slightly bitter-tasting chip made from seeds). Other items depicted social dancing (dansa) and fishing (mancing). For the piece ‘Sukma ilang’ (lit. ‘lost spirit’, ‘departed soul’), performed towards the end of the evening, the dancing changed to abstract movements with no narrative content. And for ‘Érangérang’ (lit. ‘advice’, ‘admonition’), the last dance song, the seblang danced in front of her palm-frond throne, while several people held a green scarf behind her. She ascended a chair and danced above the crowd, with a kris in each hand. She then made her exit to the accompaniment of an instrumental piece, entitled giro Pengantén (lit. ‘instrumental piece for a wedding’) and the audience and auxiliary performers dispersed. The rain had stopped and the ritual ceremony was completed. The annual Seblang performance is said to be essential to the continued well-being of the village. Yet it is also variable in its format, to judge not only by the change over the years in instrumentation, in construction of the head-dress, and in the gender of the seblang, but also by the flexibility in the repertory presented. Wolbers indicates a fixed sequence of twenty-seven songs for the Seblang in Olehsari, but this is not so in Bakungan. Lists of pieces, including that given by Soelarto and Ilmi (n.d.) based on research in Bakungan in the mid 1970s, are not identical to those I heard performed there in 1986, though beginning with the song ‘Seblang Lokentho’ appears to be fixed. And it was pointed out that one usually hears the piece ‘Padha nonton’ (lit. ‘everyone watch’), a powerful song whose text describes the hunger and suffering of local farmers and is generally understood as an expression of grief and protest at unbearable conditions under the oppression of the Dutch. This piece is also very frequently performed by gandrung, along with others heard in Seblang performances. The repertory, then, is for the most part not unique to Seblang. It seems that what is primary is the successful contact between the human and the sacred realms, provided by the seblang performing in trance, with villagers enjoying the event as entertainment, some participating as dancers. Semang and Seblang: a juxtaposition Seblang is certainly not Semang. The one is a village ceremony, with one main dancer in trance, aided by a pawang and assisted in performance by numerous other men, women, and children. It is accompanied by short songs played on a small ensemble. The other was an imposing court ritual, with nine dancers—not in trance

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but in meditative calm—performing before the sultan, his family, and invited guests. The accompaniment was extraordinarily long and complex, the text subtle and opaque. Aesthetically, these could not be further apart. Were we able to apprehend the Bedhaya Semang as we imagine it might have been performed and compare it with Seblang, they would seem worlds apart. However, there is much about these two disparate sacred items that is parallel and points to an array of elements underlying Javanese conceptions of the sacred. First, the theme of powerful sexual attraction is central to both. In this attraction it is the males who are bound to the everyday world and the female who comes from, or brings into her, the spirit world. In the Semang it is a Javanese king and a powerful spirit queen, in Seblang the entranced dancer and the village men with whom she dances. The spirit realm of the female is also the realm of the dead, of the ancestors. But death does not repel; rather it attracts. Ratu Kidul marries Sultan Agung and in Bedhaya Semang she is brought from her realm to many symbolically the rulers who are his descendants. The Bedhaya Ketawang is generally interpreted as a ‘wedding dance’, with dancers dressed as royal brides (Hadiwidjojo, 1981:14; Tirtaamidjaja, 1967:33). According to Surjodiningrat, Bedhaya Semang dancers were at one time also similarly attired (1971:16). The seblang cavorts with numerous men, but leaves with the pawang accompanied by an instrumental wedding piece. In the past of both Semang and Seblang the role of the dancer, representing the female, was often taken by males, whose symbolic combining of sexual opposites constitutes an emblem of power traceable back to Hindu roots (the ardhanari image, see Anderson, 1972:14; see also Wolbers, 1989:8–11). More-over, Ratu Kidul herself is said to have had the power in meditation to appear in either male or female form. In both dances a spirit is brought back from the dead to be present among the living and to ensure the well-being of the people and the land. And though represented in very different ways, the theme of agricultural fertility is incorporated in both—explicitly in the seblang’s rice planting dance and implicitly, I would argue, in the Semang vocal text, with the early mention of flower[s] blooming into tree[s] and in the lengthy depiction of rainstorms later on. As in other Javanese rituals, such as tayuban, sexual and agricultural fertility suggest one another metaphorically.11 We can see a close relationship between the fertility of land soaked by rain and the fertility of female in union with male, and this may be an appropriate interpretation in both Semang and Seblang. Yet we should note that, as far as I could determine, neither of these depicts pregnancy, birth, or offspring (though the word watwat in the Semang text can mean ‘pregnant’ or the sound of a pregnant woman giving birth —Mukidi Adisumarto, personal communication, 1979). Also central to both is the depiction of a wildness, associated with the female— the great storm caused by Ratu Kidul and the unruly behaviour of the seblang. But

11Tayuban are ceremonies in which male hosts and guests drink alcoholic beverages and dance with professional female singer-dancers. These are normally held in conjunction

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this wildness is symbolically controlled in the ritual context by the male. The seblang holds daggers and rushes at the audience, but the ritual guide keeps her from causing serious harm. Ratu Kidul’s storm subsides and Sultan Agung, who has addressed her as an inferior by his use of Low Javanese, finds the strength to leave her and return home. More particular overlapping elements are the occasional surges, rushes—in the tempo of the Semang music and in the movements of the seblang dancer. The colour green—which is widely associated with Ratu Kidul—is alluded to in the Semang text (the green-feathered hawk) and is also the colour of the cloth held up behind the seblang as she stands before her throne. Stories abound in Java, particularly in the south coastal areas, of harm befalling persons who wear certain green coloured clothing near the ocean, as this is the colour associated with Ratu Kidul. Like other important rituals in Java, both Semang and Seblang require elaborate offerings and the burning of incense and yet, despite various proscriptions, have not been impervious to change. Both are considered to be ‘old’. And finally, both open the possibility for multiple interpretations. Exegesis in Java is often highly individual, based not only on public knowledge but on inner feelings and intuitions (rasa), We might end where Javanese exegesis often begins—providing definitions for the key terms Semang and Seblang. In Banyuwangi the word Seblang is likened to Sanghyang, another genre of sacred performance in Banyuwangi in which dancers are entered by spirits (sanghyang). Semang in modern Javanese means ‘to pretend, feign, make a show of, suppose’; semang-semang means ‘confused, worried’. I do not want to go too far in tying everything together here; but Semang is phonetically rather similar to seblang, and such similarity is more often meaningful in Javanese than in other languages, such as English. A mere coincidence, perhaps, but a thought-provoking one, nevertheless. I am left asking why, in the middle of the dry season, it began to pour with rain at the Seblang ceremony in Bakungan, just as it poured with rain during the dry season in the Semang text. Again, a coincidence, but one that gives one pause. As we consider a variety of instances of ‘the sacred’ in relationship to performance, its repertories, and its physical properties, no single thread seems to link all of them together. Nevertheless, one or more of the following seven elements seems to be associated with what can be called ‘sacred’ music, dance, and poetry in Java: (1) great age/antiquity; (2) great length or complexity; (3) unusual juxtaposition or superimposition of opposing elements; 00 association with erotic attraction and sexual union; (5) association with altered mental states (trance and meditation); (6) association with an unusual or otherwise unexplainable occurrence; and (7) the mediation and control of wild and unruly forces.

with circumcisions, weddings, annual village ‘cleansing’ (bersih désa) rituals, or harvest (panén) celebrations. On tayuban in contemporary Java, see further Choy, 1984:58–60; Hefner, 1987; Hughes-Freeland, 1990 and chapter 7 in this volume; Suharto, 1980; Sutton, 1991:123–25.

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The ascription of sacred status is variously determined and maintained. In Javanese conception, almost any piece, ensemble, or object is potentially powerful, and can be judged sacred if it comes to be associated with a miraculous or otherwise unexplainable occurrence, as we have seen. Most of this paper has focused on two performance items, each of which combines dance, music, and text and has attained a status as especially sacred. Each has become—whether it is performed or not—a potentially powerful pusaka, not for all Javanese, but for a smaller group, primarily those in the immediate community in which it arose. Central to the efficacy of any such pusaka, however, is the act of performance itself, which links mortals with spirits through actions whose outcome is potentially beneficial and at the same time potentially dangerous. In rural Banyuwangi such performance persists: the Seblang is perceived to be necessary and beneficial to the community, despite whatever risks may attend to trance ceremony. In Yogyakarta performance of the Semang may have come to seem too dangerous, not worth the risk that serious misfortune might result from error in what was most certainly an extremely difficult and lengthy item of repertory. Yet it is also possible that this most sacred piece simply could not fulfil the other requirement of a performing art—that it did not successfully ‘entertain’ the sultan and his noble entourage. It was abundantly clear that the Seblang entertained all who witnessed the performance; and all bedhaya, including Semang, are described in the manuscripts as lelangen dalem (‘that which pleases/ entertains the ruler’). The combination of entertainment and ritual efficacy within ‘sacred’ arts of performance in Java leaves this question unanswerable for the present. We should simply remind ourselves that what constitutes Javanese ‘sacredness’ is complex, is culturally specific, and is only partially accessible to the inquisitive outsider. References Anderson, B.R.O’G.1972. The idea of Power in Javanese culture. (In Holt, C., ed. Culture and politics in Indonesia.Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1–69.) Becker, A.L.1979. Text-building, epistemology, and aesthetics in Javanese shadow theatre. (In Becker, A.L., andYengoyan, A., ed. The imagination of reality: essays inSoutheast Asian coherence systems.Norwood, N.J.: Ablex Publishing Corp., 211–43.) Becker, J.1979. Time and tune in Java. (InBecker, A.L., andYengoyan, A., ed. Theimagination of reality: essays in Southeast Asian coherence systems.Norwood, N.J.: Ablex Publishing Corp., 197–210.) Becker, J.1988. Earth, fire, sakti, and the Javanese gamelan. Ethnomusicology,XXXII (3), 385–91. Becker, J., andFeinstein, A., ed.1984–88. Karawitan: source readings in Javanese gamelan and vocal music.Ann Arbor: University of Michigan. Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies. 3 vols.: 1984, 1987, 1988. Brakel-Papenhuijzen, C.1992. The bedhaya court dances of Central Java.Leiden: E.J. Brill.

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Choy, P.1984. Texts through time: the Golék dance of Java. (In Morgan, S., and Sears, L.J., ed. Aesthetic tradition and cultural transition in Java and Bali,Madison: University of Wisconsin Center for Southeast Asian Studies, 51–81. (Monograph 2.)) Hadiwidjojo, K.G.P.H.1981. Bedhaya Ketawang.Jakarta: P.N.Balai Pustaka. Hefner, R.W.1987. The politics of popular art: tayuban dance and culture change in East Java. Indonesia,43, 75–94. Hostetler, J.1982, Bedhaya Semang: the sacred dance of Yogyakarta. Archipel,24, 127–42. Hughes-Freeland, F.1990. Tayuban.culture on the edge. Indonesia Circle,52, 36–44. Lindsay, J.Unpublished. Klasik, kitsch or contemporary: a study of the Javanese performing arts. [PhD thesis, University of Sydney, 1985.] Madukusuma, K.R.T.1957. K.K.Kantjilbelik sarta K.K.Surak. Ngajogjakarta,V (9):5–6. Pigeaud, T.G.T.1938. Javaanse volksvertoningen: bijdrage tot de beschrijving van landen volk.Batavia: Volkslectuur. Scholte, J.1927. Gandroeng van Banyoewangi. Djåwå,VII, 144–53. Soelarto, B., andIlmi. n.d.Gandrung Banyuwangi. Jakarta: Proyek Pengembangan Media Kebudayaan, Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. Suharti, Theresia.Unpublished. Bedaya Semang. [Thesis for Sarjana Seni Tari degree, Akademi Seni Tari Indonesia, Yogyakarta, 1972.] Suharto, Ben.1980. Tayub: pengamatan dari segi tari pergaulan serta kaitannya denganunsur upacara kesuburan.Yogyakarta: Proyek Pengembangan Institut Kesenian Indo nesia, Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. Sumarsam.1984. Gendhing Kalunta: a historical metaphor?Asian Music,XV (2):43–57. Surjodiningrat, R.M. Wasisto.1971. Gamelan dance and wayang in Jogjakarta.Jogjakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Sutton, R.A.1984. Who is the pesindhèn?Notes on the female singing tradition in Java. Indonesia,37, 118–33. Sutton, R.A.1991. Traditions of gamelan music in Java: musical pluralism and regionalidentity.Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. (Cambridge Studies in Ethnomusicology.) Tirtaamidjaja, Nusjirwan.1967. The Solonese Bedaya Ketawang dance.Indonesia,3, 31–62. Vetter, R.R. Unpublished. Music for The Lap of the World’: gamelan performance, performers, and repertoire in the kraton Yogyakarta. [PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1986.] Vetter, V.M.Unpublished. Bedhaya Durma: change and continuity in a Javanese court dance. [MA thesis, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1984.] Warsadiningrat, R.T.1972. Wédha pradangga.Surakarta: Konservatori Karawitan Indonesia. [Translated by Susan Pratt Walton in Becker and Feinstein, 1988.] Wolbers, P.A.1986. Gandrung and angklung from Banyuwangi: remnants of a past shared with Bali. Asian Music,XVIII (1), 71–90. Wolbers, P.A.1989. Transvestism, eroticism, and religion: in search of a contextual background for the gandrung and seblang traditions of Banyuwangi, East Java. Progress Reports in Ethnomusicology (SEMPOD Laboratory, Dept. of Music, University of Maryland, Baltimore), II (6), 1–21.

9 Sung epic narrative and lyrical songs: carita pantun and tembang Sunda WIM VAN ZANTEN

Introduction It is assumed that the musical genre tembang Sunda (Cianjuran) originated from the epic narrative carita pantun around the middle of the nineteenth century. Since that time the repertoire and performance practice of tembang Sunda have very much changed, whereas the carita pantun has remained relatively stable. In this paper I shall compare text and performance of these two Sundanese genres of music as they are performed these days in West Java. I shall discuss how some cultural themes are dealt with in these two different performing arts. There is a relation between content and context, and I shall try to ‘bring to light the ways non-musical elements in a performance occasion or event influence the musical outcome of a performance’ (Béhague, 1984:7). Below I shall first give a description of carita pantun and tembang Sunda and then compare the differences with respect to performance and text. Carita pantun The (carita) pantun is an epic narrative sung by a male singer who accompanies himself on a kacapi (zither), or sometimes on a tarawangsa (two-string bowed lute). A pantun is performed in recitational chanting, alternated with melodically more elaborate songs, interspersed in the long recitatives. The rate of recitation varies from normal speech tempo to very fast, or very slow. The Sundanese carita pantun should not be confused with the Malay pantun, which is a special type of short poem and which is called sisindiran by the Sundanese. The pantun contain myths and legends about the nobility of the old Sundanese kingdoms such as Pajajaran and Galuh. Often the story is about the hero’s initiation period before marriage, for instance in the stories Mundinglaya di Kusumah and Lutung Kasarung, The Sulanjana story may be seen as a myth about the origin of rice. Rice as a gift from the ‘heavenly mother’ Sunan Ambu is also important in the pantun Lutung Kasarung. Other pantun stories are non-indigenous Islamic tales, and historical tales (babad) from Cirebon. Weintraub (unpublished:21) lists stories about

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Figure 1.The blind pantun bard Enjum is tuning the kacapi indung before he starts reciting the story Mundinglaya di Kusumah. Sitting with him are his two sons. In the large bowl is the offering (sasajén), which also includes the coconut. The charcoal on which the incense will be burnt lies on a plate behind the coconut. Recitation in the house of Uking Sukri, Ujungberung, 4–5 No vember 1989.

the gods, like Batara Kala which is used by the bard Enjum for the purification of a person, as a fourth category. Pantun are recited at feasts such as circumcision, wedding, or harvest ce ebrations. They are also narrated on the occasion of someone’s purificatio (ruatan), or that of a house or some other object (ruat tumbal: Weintraub, ui published:14; see also Pleyte, 1910:xx-xxii; Eringa, 1949:14–19). On such occ sions the story will be recited from about eight o’clock in the evening (aft the Islamic isa prayer) until five o’clock in the morning (before the Islam subuh prayer). An offering is placed in front of the singer, and at the beginning of th evening incense is burnt, after the singer has spoken a magical formula (jampmantra); see Figs. 1 and 2. The singer will start the pantun with a rajah (pamnah): the opening section in which protection and blessing is asked from th gods for telling the story. In Appendix A the first part of a rajah text, as recite by the blind bard Enjum from Ujungberung during the night of 5–6 Septen ber 1981, is presented. This rajah text is very similar to the rajah that I recorded from Enjum i 1989: Mundinglaya di Kusumah as recited on 4–5 November, Lutung Kasarur as recited on 8–9 November, Ciung Wanara as recited on 12–13 Novembe and Sumur Bandung as recited on 16–17 November 1989. It is also very similar to the rajah as given in Eringa (1949:138), Enjum (1970:1; 1974:1), Weintraub (unpublished:86, 114–32), and Pleyte (1910:135–36). However, whereas the text of Appendix A comprises

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Figure 2.The bard Enjum says a magical formula (jampé) above the paper with incense, consisting of pieces of resin that he will put on the burning charcoal before starting the recitation with the rajah. Ujungberung, November 1989.

almost the whole rajah as given in Pleyte and Eringa, the rajah as recorded since the 1970s are all at least four to five times longer. The transcriptions of Weintraub also come from recitation by the bard Enjum in January 1989. Rajah as used by bards from other regions such as, for instance, Atjeng Tamadipura (1970[a]; 1970[b]; 1971; 1973) from Sumedang, Subarma (1973) from Ciwidey, Sajin (1973; 1974) from Kanékés (Baduy), and Samid (1971[a]; 1971[b]; 1971[c]) from Sukabumi, are all very different. Only some lines or phrases are similar to the text as recited by Enjum. For a particular bard the rajah is fairly constant, and independent of the story that is told. This holds for the following bards of whom I could compare three or more recordings/transcriptions: Enjum (Enjum, 1970; 1974; five recordings by the author in 1981 and 1989; and the recording in Weintraub, unpublished), Atjeng Tamadipura (1970[a]; 1970[b]; 1971; 1973), and Samid (1971[a]; 1971[b]; 1971[c]). However, the rajah differ between the local traditions. From this evidence, I suppose that we may assume that the rajah given in Pleyte (1910:135–36) and the manuscripts which were used by Eringa (1947:121–30) for construction of his rajah (which is very short as compared to the later recordings) are based on recitations by bards from Enjum’s tradition. It is of course also not impossible that the publication of the rajah in Pleyte (1910:135–36) influenced the rajah of Enjum and/or his teacher. Enjum uses, like a dalang in the wayang, different voices for the characters of the story. For instance, in the Lutung Kasarung (recitation 8–9 November 1989) the god Guru Minda speaks through Enjum with a low and quiet voice and the princess

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Figure 3. While his son is asleep, Enjum imitates the sounds of a monkey. His right hand is placed before his mouth to achieve the right effect. He has a plectrum on both forefingers.

Purbararang speaks with a high and drawling, ‘weeping’, voice. When Enjum describes different genres of music in Sunda (recitation Ciung Wanara 12–13 November 1989), he imitates them very well on his kacapi: angklung, kendang penca, réog, lisung, and ketuk tilu. In this section of Ciung Wanara he also imitates the sound of rain on his instrument. The imitation of ketuk tilu becomes even more realistic by the singing of Enjum’s longtime assistant Mang Ili, who sings sisindiran like the ronggéng dance-girl. See also Fig. 3. The group of about 6,000 Baduy people from Kanékés (Lebak) are in many respects more traditional than the other Sundanese. It is therefore interesting to analyse their performance of pantun as well. Unfortunately, I have only heard one pantun recitation by a bard from Kanékés (Baduy): Sajin, recorded by myself in Jakarta, 8–9 January 1977. In this recitation, the dramatic effects are less pronounced than in the performances of Enjum. Sajin’s virtuosity on the accompanying kacapi is far less than Enjum’s, and sometimes he does not touch the instrument for many minutes at a stretch. On the other hand Sajin’s speed of recitation varies much more than Enjum’s speed: from very slow to very fast. The recitational singing of a pantun is interspersed with short sections which are melodically more elaborate: the ‘songs’, which are called lagu panganteb pantun, that is, ‘songs to intensify the (beauty of the) pantun’, by Enip Sukanda (1978:9–10). I am especially interested in these songs, because it is assumed that the tembang Sunda genre developed from them around 1840. These melodically elaborate sections in the pantun are similar to the kakawén songs of the wayang golék (puppet theatre),

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which are called ‘mood songs’ by Foley (unpublished:28, 153–54). Weintraub’s thesis deals for the greater part with the analysis of these songs (lagu) of the pantun. He classifies the opening section (rajah) and closing song (panutup) as ‘songs’, and remarks about these songs: The opening and closing lagu are both genre-specific but not story-specific. Lagu texts are used to tell the story; provide dialog; restate an action; suggest a mood; describe a scene; describe a character’s thoughts, feelings, motivations, or attributes; and accompany the movement of a character from one location to another. (Weintraub, unpublished:26–27) I shall come back to such a song (‘Mupu kembang’) later. There is no information about whether pantun have always been recited in this way. However, it is clear that such stories already existed at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The pantun recitation was well known during the Pajajaran era (beginning of the fourteenth-end of the sixteenth century), as the bard and a few stories are mentioned in the palm-leaf manuscript SanghyangSiksa kandang karesian (Atja and Saleh Danasasmita, 1981:14, 40), which dates from 1518. As far as I know there are no audio recordings of pantun before the 1970s. Dutch scholars like Pleyte and Meijer wrote down only the texts of pantun around 1900. Pleyte gave some translations and information about the context and music, but Eringa (1949) was the first scholar to analyse a pantun text systematically. Pleyte (1912: unnumbered pages after p. 425) gives a short section of transcribed music of the beginning of Paksi Ke(u)ling. In the 1970s Ajip Ro sidi (1973) recorded and transcribed about twenty pantun. Weintraub (unpublished) is the first one to give a systematic analysis of the pantun music of the bard Enjum from Ujungberung (Bandung), based on field-work and audio and video recordings. Carita pantun have also been set to wawacan, that is long written texts using the pupuh verse forms of Central Java, like Kinanti, Sinom, etc. The stories have also been used for theatre and films (see for instance Kartini and others, 1980:1). Tembang Sunda (Cianjuran) Tembang Sunda in the Cianjuran style is a genre of vocal music. The songs are sung solo by men and women, and the accompaniment is provided by a large zither (kacapi indung), a bamboo flute (suling), and sometimes also by a small zither (kacapi rincik) and a two-string bowed lute (rebab). Tembang Sunda may briefly be described as sung poetry. A major theme of the poetry is the wishful longing (waas) for the glorious past, represented by the former kingdom of Pajajaran, in which people lived together harmoniously. Another theme is the description of the Sundanese land with its many mountains, which are places for asceticism and contact with the supernatural world, and other historical places where the heroes lived. The most frequent theme is love, often indirectly described

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with sound associations (sisindiran) which allude to the real meaning of the words. See also van Zanten (1989:62–79; 1984). The music may be performed during an evening’s gathering at someone’s house, just for the pleasure of the musicians and their relatives and friends. It may also be performed for the entertainment of some guest. In addition, it may be played at wedding or circumcision parties, or during a meal for the well-being of people (salametan). On such occasions the music may be played for just a few hours, with people chatting, drinking tea or coffee, and taking a snack in between. It may also be performed in the course of a whole day, for instance in between the official ceremonies of a wedding party. However, evenings and nights, which are also much cooler and quieter, are considered better times for performing the music. Tembang Sunda is mainly played for its own sake. The radio stations in Bandung, like the RRI, have regular weekly broadcasts of tembang Sunda. The repertoire of the songs is divided into Papantunan, Jejemplangan, Dedegungan, Rarancagan, and Panambih songs. The Papantunan and Jejemplangan songs are considered to be the historical beginning of what is now referred to as tembang Sunda (Cianjuran). It is said that around 1840 the Regent of Cianjur, Dalem Pancaniti (that is R.A.Koesoemaningrat, Regent from 1834 to 1863), ordered four of his poets to write songs based on episodes in the pantun stories which might be sung outside the context of such pantun, to the accompaniment of a kacapi. There is another story that tembang Sunda developed in the first half of the nineteenth century in Cianjur, but as a local variant of beluk, that is singing poems in (Central Javanese) pupuh metres. These pupuh metres were most probably introduced around 1650, during the Mata-ram era. In the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries the originally Sundanese region was entirely dominated by Javanese culture. The reversal started in the nineteenth century (see references in van Zanten, 1989:66, 75–77). It is also believed that in the beginning it was just the men who sang and played the instruments in tembang Sunda (see, for instance, Enip Sukanda, 1978:15). Nowadays the singing is mainly done by women and playing the instruments is almost exclusively done by men. From the beginning of the eighteenth century the regents of West Java were very affluent (Sutherland, 1973:125–26). The introduction of the ‘Preanger system’ (Preanger stelsel) by the Dutch colonizers enabled them to become rich by implementing this system of forced supply of certain goods by their subjects. It is therefore not surprising that they tried to legitimize their position by developing some prestigious art forms, which were different from the Javanese. Apart from tembang Sunda, it is most likely that the typical Sundanese gamelan degung was also developed at that time. It seems unlikely that the gamelan degung already existed in the Pajajaran kingdom (fourteenth-sixteenth centuries) as Soemintaatmadja (1967:10) states, or that the Cirebonese gamelandenggung comes from the Pajajaran kingdom (North, 1988:5). There is not much evidence for this. The Sundanese manuscript Sanghyang Siksa kandangkaresian (Atja and Saleh Danasasmita, 1981), written on palm leaves in 1518, mentions many performing arts, but definitely no gamelan.1 The tendency to stress the long tradition can also be

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noticed in the performance practice of tembang Sunda. The opening of an evening with the song ‘Kuna sari’ (not very common), which resembles the rajah in the carita pantun, dates from the late 1970s-early 1980s. This song is ascribed to Idi Rosadi, who died in 1959. The development of tembang Sunda and gamelan degung around 1800–50 enabled the rich Sundanese regents to legitimize their power and also to establish their cultural position, independent from the Javanese. These genres were developed from existing vocal genres and instrumental ensembles. The carita pantun, with its stories about the former Sundanese kingdoms, formed an excellent starting-point. The independence from the Javanese with their saléndro and pélog gamelan sets was for instance expressed in the 5-pitch tuning of the gamelan degung, which is often called pélog degung. Until this day the saléndro songs are not popular in the more traditional tembang Sunda groups. In the nineteenth century, most noble families claimed descent from the famous Pajajaran king Siliwangi (Sutaarga, 1964:8, 23; Stockhausen, 1862; Drewes, 1985:401). Without a great deal of other evidence, placing the origin of the gamelan degung in the Pajajaran period should rather be seen as another attempt to stress the heroic past of the Sundanese nobility. There is little doubt that the Papantunan and Jejemplangan songs were the first songs of the tembang Sunda repertoire. This is supported by the fact that the some twenty Papantunan and fifteen Jejemplangan songs form a more or less closed set from the beginning of this century: there are (almost) no new songs added. These songs are considered the classical ones, not to be changed. The Rarancagan songs, which exclusively use texts in pupuh metres, presumably came somewhat later. The Rarancagan repertoire, however, was greatly expanded in the early decades of this century, as were the songs to a melody taken from the gamelan degung: Dedegungan. It seems that the set of Dedegungan songs is now more or less closed as well (Williams, unpublished:88). The Papantunan, Jejemplangan, and Dedegungan use exclusively the pélog tone system. Only the more recent Rarancagan and Panambih songs may use the pélog, sorog, or saléndro tone system. The songs of all categories, except the Panambih, are sung in rubato style (sekar merdika) and called mamaos, after the verb maca: recitational chanting of poetry. Further classification of the songs is based on differences in the formal aspects of the poems (sisindiran, pupuh, etc.), the tone system used (pélog, sorog, saléndro), and the style of playing and singing. From a musical point of view the mamaos songs, especially the Papantunan and Jejemplangan, resemble the recitational singing in the pantun. The main instrument used to accompany the singing is the kacapi indung (large zither). Only the much more recent Panambih or kawih songs, most of which date from the 1950s, are sung metrically (sekar tandak, literally ‘dance songs’), with the smaller kacapi rincik used for additional accompaniment. Whereas the mamaos songs are ideologically much more

1

See van Zanten (1989:33) for a critical note on Atja and Saleh Danasasmita’s (1981:22, 48) translation of manguyu by ‘ahli gamelan’ (‘gamelan expert’).

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important than the Panambih (‘added songs’), the latter songs are more popular these days. The singing in tembang Sunda is very much characterized by delicate ornaments, as are the parts of the bamboo flute (suling) and the rarely used two-string bowed lute (rebab). These embellishments are not that pronounced in other types of Sundanese music. Proper performance in a musical sense means in the first place the right application of the embellishments within the musical structure. A fairly detailed discussion of these ornaments may be found in van Zanten (1989:160–90). The accompaniment of the Papantunan is characterized by the kacapi playing two main notes (kenong (2), galimer (5)), lying one fifth (kempyung) apart. The accompaniment of the Jejemplangan is characterized, among other things, by playing as in the Papantunan, but now and then shifting to another pair of notes lying a fifth apart: barang (1), bem (4). The accompaniment of the Rarancagan songs is less similar to the pantun accompaniment. The kacapi indung accompaniment of the Rarancagan consists of phrases with many notes, all very fast, ending on certain core notes. This playing technique is called pasieupan, as compared to the kemprang technique used in the Papantunan and Jejemplangan songs. The playing technique used in the Panambih, that is, the metricized songs, is again different: the kait technique, in which thumb and forefinger of both hands are used and also the middle finger of the left hand (van Zanten, 1989:142–43, 149). Comparison between the two genres Without doubt, the two genres, carita pantun and tembang Sunda, are very much related. Apart from the difference in popularity and prestige of the two genres, there are some parallels between them. These parallels lie partially in the content of the stories and song texts, the musical idiom, and the textual form. However another parallel is the clear marking of the beginning of the performance. In the pantun it is explicitly shown that there will be communication with the supernatural world: magical formula (jampé), offering and burning of incense, and rajah. These are ritual actions, necessary to mark the transformation from ‘social time’ to ‘ritual [musical] time’: ‘Social time is made to appear discontinuous by inserting intervals of liminal, sacred non-time into the continuous flow of normal secular time’ (Leach, 1976:83). Nowadays tembang Sunda may be considered the ‘visiting-card’ of the Sundanese élite. Williams (unpublished: 152–72) gives interesting information on the different performance settings. She shows that, although the genre is very prestigious, this does not mean that government officials, the military, and foreigners understand the real meaning of this performing art: to express the shared tradition and to reflect critically on the human situation. Many Sundanese who perform tembang Sunda, or listen to it, would say that the musical sounds are just the outer (lahir) form of the inner (batin) human life, that is, playing tembang Sunda is an attempt to understand the essence of life.

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Tembang Sunda should in the first place be considered as a secular music genre. Williams shows that this genre is mostly found in urban areas, and has become part of modern city life. However, the beginning of a traditionallystyled performance begins, after an instrumental opening (bubuka), always with an invocational line (daweung), and/or the song ‘Lagu rajah’, usually performed by a male singer (Williams, unpublished:72–73). The line(s) ‘Daweung’ may for instance be Daweung ménak Pajajaran (‘Let us contemplate the nobles of Pajajaran’), or Sumangga urang ngawitan (‘Let us start’, implying: search for the roots of the tradition). The musical time shows clear aspects of the ritual time. The pantun, on the other hand, is not very prestigious, nor very well adapted to the urban, modern life-style. This is not just a question of the duration of the performance; a wayang golék performance also lasts the whole night, but the genre is reasonably flourishing. It may be that the pantun, which is like the wayang golék considered to be ‘simple’ (kasar) as compared to the delicate and refined (lemes) tembang Sunda by the élite, does not show enough dramatic effects to attract the present-day audience. Also, it may be that the female singers, who nowadays play a very important role in wayang golék, tembang Sunda, and gamelan degung, attract a larger audience than the male pantun bard. This difference in popularity between the genres is also expressed by the availability of commercial cassette tapes. Whereas a few cassettes with tembang Sunda or wayang golék can always be found in the larger shops, there are mostly no cassette tapes with recordings of carita pantun. Since the 1970s the total number of commercial cassette tapes with carita pantun may not be more than five, whereas the number of tembang Sunda tapes distributed since 1970 lies around one hundred. The same is true for the 78 rpm gramophone records with Sundanese music from the 1920s and 1930s: most of these contain tembang Sunda and gamelan degung, and none carita pantun, as far as I know. The content of many Papantunan songs is taken from pantun stories, certain phrases frequently verbatim. In items (a), (b), and (c) of Appendix B I present the text of the song ‘Mupu kembang’ three times: (a) performed in the pantun Mundinglaya di Kusumah by Enjum (5–6 September 1981), (b) performed in the pantun Lutung Kasarung by Enjum (8–9 November 1989), and (c) as (sometimes) used for tembang Sunda. The theme is really the same: the beautiful princess Déwi Asri (or some other princess, like Purbasari in item (b)) is described. I recorded this pantun section of Enjum three more times. Each time the text is slightly different, but the three lines mentioning the parts of a loom (limuhan, baréra, galégér) are always there. These lines allude to the (preparations for) marriage, like the flower-picking (mupu kembang), and are apparently essential in Enjum’s story. In contrast, the text as given in item (c) for tembang Sunda is fixed in the sense that a performer, when she or he chooses this text, will not change these words during the performance. Tembang Sunda vocalists make their own handwritten collection of song texts, or they buy a booklet with the most common texts. These written texts are used when they perform. A pantun singer does not use any written text.

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The song ‘Mupu kembang’ is very well known in tembang Sunda, and it has distinct musical features. Although the text of ‘Mupu kembang’ as recited by Enjum in the pantun is—in my recordings—constant in the way described above, it does not occur in the transcribed text Enjum, 1974. Therefore, it may be that this song became part of Enjum’s repertoire after 1974. During a tembang Sunda evening songs in pélog, sorog, and saléndro may all be played. The evening will then mostly start with pélog songs, continue with the sorog songs, and end with saléndro songs. In between the sections the two kacapi zithers are retuned, and in the saléndro songs the bamboo flute (suling) is replaced by the spike fiddle (rebab). However, the vast majority of the songs is in pélog. A pantun performance is exclusively in pélog or saléndro. The bard Enjum can play his whole repertoire in either pélog or saléndro. In tembang Sunda the kacapi indung accompaniment of Papantunan and Jejemplangan songs (all in pélog) is characterized by stressing the notes kenong (2) and galimer (5). The Jejemplangan songs are, among other things, characterized by a shift to the core notes barang (1) and bem (4) now and then, within the structure of the core notes kenong (2) and galimer (5): all Jejemplangan songs end with galimer (5) and start with the higher kenong (2) or sometimes galimer (5) (van Zanten, 1989:137). These characteristics can also be observed in recordings of the pantun as performed by Sajin (Baduy, village of Kanékés) and Enjum (Ujungberung). However, from the musical analysis of the pantun as recited by Enjum (Weintraub, unpublished: 114–62) it seems that the notes barang (1) and bem (4) are more pronounced in pantun than in the Papantunan and Jejemplangan of tembang Sunda. In 1981 I interviewed the pantun bard Enjum from Ujungberung and made a recording of Mundinglaya di Kusumah. At that time he only used the kemprang playing technique on the kacapi (using a plectrum on each index finger). When I recorded again four pantun stories in 1989, Enjum sometimes used the kait technique in the ‘songs’. This kait technique is definitely a recent (1950s) development in the playing of kacapi indung in the Panambih of tembang Sunda. So, Enjum recently introduced a kacapi playing technique from tembang Sunda into the pantun. On each occasion Enjum played on the host’s kacapi indung as used in tembang Sunda, and not on his own flat kacapi siter. He admitted that the brass strings of the tembang Sunda instrument were less suitable for his strong touch with the plectrum than the steel strings of his kacapi siter on a few occasions in 1989 a brass string broke during the performance. Enjum never used a small unvarnished kacapi with 9–15 strings, like the Baduy still do. During the pantun recordings of Ajip Rosidi in Bandung, Atjeng Tamadipura (1971: photo on second title-page) and Samid (1971 [c]: photo on second title-page) also played on a varnished kacapi indung as used in tembang Sunda. The main differences between carita pantun and tembang Sunda are summarized in Fig. 4.

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Conclusion In this article I have compared two Sundanese genres of music. It is not really doubted in West Java that the carita pantun is one of the roots of tembang Sunda. The exact historical relation is difficult to establish, because of the lack of written and aural documentation. However, it is obvious from the available sources of the last hundred years that the two genres share a common tradition: texts, musical features, and some performance aspects. Whereas the carita pantun have influenced tembang Sunda, I have shown that in the last twenty years the reverse process has also taken place in the case of the pantun bard Enjum. He may have taken the song ‘Mupu kembang’ in his repertoire after 1974, and he adopted the kait playing technique on the kacapi from the tembang Sunda genre. In tembang Sunda the tendency to stress its cultural roots becomes clear from the recent ‘ritual introduction’ in the form of the ‘Lagu rajah’ (‘Kuna sari’). This song stresses the notes 1 (barang) and 4 (bem)—which are typical for the rajah in the carita pantun—and not 2 (kenong) and 5 (galimer). It is interesting to see how performing practices have changed in the last century. This has presumably been an ongoing process for the past centuries: change has always taken place, although musicians are not always consciously aware of it. Existing cultural themes, musical grammar, and performance principles are used in re-creating the music culture. This process runs parallel to the change in social structure and the system of norms and values.

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Figure 4. Comparison of a few aspects of pantun and tembang Sunda

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Appendix A Rajah starting Mundinglaya di Kusumah, a carita pantun recited by Enjum from Ujungberung, during the night of 5–6 September 1981. Recorded by the author. Text given in brackets […] is not in Eringa, 1949:138; * means that the words are different from Eringa; /indicates the end of a musical phrase in this particular recitation, marked by a (short) pause. This text of the first part of the rajah is almost identical with the other transcriptions of Enjum (Enjum, 1970:1, 1974:1; Weintraub, unpublished:86). The total rajah as recited by Enjum is much longer and it can be found in the three aforementioned publications. However, in Eringa (1949:138) the text below is about the whole rajah.

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Notes about the rajah in Appendix A The above text is presented according to the principle that classical Sundanese poetry often consists of 8 syllables per line. These lines show much repetition of sound patterns (purwakanti). One may wonder whether it would not be better to present the text according to a division in musical phrases, which I indicated by slashes/. Weintraub (unpublished:86–87) analysed, for instance, the number of syllables per musical phrase in Enjum’s rajah (in recording of Mundinglaya di Kusumah, 5 January 1989). However, the division of the text in musical phrases differs very much between the performances of Enjum. Therefore, without a more thorough analysis, this primacy of the text form over the musical phrases seems best to me. In line 10, Eringa (1949:138–39, 212) gives bahayu and he points out that Pleyte (1910:135) made a mistake in writing rahayu: all manuscripts give bahayu and rahayu does not fit that well with laku, in a semantic sense. However, I definitely hear rahayu in my recordings of Enjum, and so does Weintraub (unpublished:86). In line 11, Eringa (1949:138–39) gives nyilokakeun nyukcruk laku, ‘to follow the course of actions in siloka form’. In line 13, Weintraub gives lulurung tilu ngabandung. This might indeed be concluded from his recording. However, at this point Enjum’s pronunciation is not very clear, and in all my recordings he definitely says tujuh. This seems also much more logical with respect to the next line. See also Eringa (1949:215–17) who gives on p. 148 the lines Lulurung tilu ngabandung, Kaopat nu keurdisorang, Kalima heuleutheuleutan. In line 17, the words used might be galur ing (Weintraub, unpublished:86), instead of galuluring. In line 21, Weintraub (unpublished:86) gives ti instead of di\ this seems less logical to me in connection to tetepna. In line 29, Eringa (1949:138, 227–28) gives di jaksana, and he does not agree with Pleyte (1910:136, line 3) who gives bijaksana. This word would also violate the parallelism between the two lines in Eringa: Ku nu weruh di semuna, Ku nuterang di jaksana. However, transcriptions in Enjum (1970; 1974) and Weintraub (unpublished) and by myself all choose bijaksana.

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Appendix B (a) ‘Mupu kembang’ (Picking flowers), ‘mood song’ from Mundinglaya diKusumah, a carita pantun recited by Enjum from Ujungberung during the night of 5–6 September 1981 (van Zanten, 1989:179).

(b) ‘Mupu kembang’ (Picking flowers), ‘mood song’ from Lutung Kasarung, a carita pantun recited by Enjum from Ujungberung during the night of 8–9 November 1989.

(c) ‘Mupu kembang’ in tembang Sunda Cianjuran, Papantunan songs (first stanza from van Zanten, 1989:197).

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References Ajip Rosidi.1973. My experiences in recording ‘Pantun Sunda’. Indonesia,16, 105–11. Atja and Saleh Danasasmita.1981. Sanghyang Siksakanda ng karesian: naskah Sundakuna tahun 1518 Masehi. Bandung: Proyek Pengembangan Permuseuman Jawa Barat. Atjeng Tamadipura.1970[a]. Tjarita Mundinglaja di Kusumah. Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun. [Recited by Atjeng Tamadipura from Situraja, Sumedang, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Atjeng Tamadipura.1970[b]. Tjarita Sri Sadana atau Sulandjana. Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun. [Recited by Atjeng Tamadipura from Situraja, Sumedang, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Atjeng Tamadipura.1971. Tjarita Panggung Karaton. Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Atjeng Tamadipura from Situraja, Sumedang, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Atjeng Tamadipura.1973. Tjarita Budak Mandjor. Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Atjeng Tamadipura from Situraja, Sumedang, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Béhague, G.1984. Introduction. (InBéhague, G., ed. Performance practice: ethnomusicological perspectives. Westport, Connecticut; London, England: Greenwood, 3–12.) Drewes, G.W.J.1985. The life-story of an old-time Priangan regent as told by himself. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,CXLI (4), 399–422. Enip Sukanda. 1978. Pangeuyeup ngeuyeup kareueus kana dunya seni mamaos(tembang Sunda Cianjuran).Gambaran sabudeureun ngadeg katut sumebarna.Bandung: Panitia Pasanggiri Tembang Sunda Daya Mahasiswa Sunda 1978 Satatar Sunda. Enjum.1970. Tjarita Nji Sumur Bandung. Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun dan Folk-lor Sunda. [Recited by Enjum from Ujungberung, Bandung, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Enjum.1974. Mundinglaya di Kusumah: cerita pantun.Bandung: Lembaga Kesenian Bandung. [Recited by Enjum from Ujungberung, Bandung.] Eringa, F.S.1949. Loetoeng Kasaroeng: een mythologisch verhaal uit West Java. Bijdrage tot de Soendase taal-en letterkunde.‘s-Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, VIII.) Foley, K.Unpublished. The Sundanese wayang golék: the rod puppet theatre of West Java. [PhD thesis, University of Hawaii, 1979.] Kartini, Tini, and others.1980. Struktur cerita pantun Sunda. [By] Tini Kartini [and 3others].Bandung: Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. (Laporan Penelitian Proyek Penelitian Bahasa dan Sastra Indonesia dan Daerah Jawa Barat.) Leach, E.1976. Culture and communication: the logic by which symbols are connected.Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Sajin [Sadjin].1973. Carita Lutung Kasarung.Bandung: Proyek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Sajin (Baduy) from Lebak, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Sajin [Sadjin].1974. Carita Buyut Orenyeng.Bandung: Proyek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Sajin (Baduy) from Lebak, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Samid.1971[a]. Tjarita Badak Pamelang.Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Samid from Cisolok, Sukabumi, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Samid.1971[b]. Tjarita Badak Pamelang II.Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Samid from Cisolok, Sukabumi, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Samid.1971[c]. Tjarita Perenggong Djaja.Bandung: Projek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Samid from Cisolok, Sukabumi, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Soemintaatmadja, Zakaria.1967. Gamelan Sunda.Djakarta: Ikatan Karjawan Musium (IKAM). Stockhausen, C.M.F., ed.1862. Inlandsche verhalen van den regent van Tjiandjoer, in 1857. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,X, 291–313. Subarma.1973. Carita Ciung Wanara.Bandung: Proyek Penelitian Pantun dan Folklor Sunda. [Recited by Subarma from Ciwidey, Bandung, and supervised by Ajip Rosidi.] Sutaarga, Moh. Amir.1965. Prabu Siliwangi, atau Ratu Purana Prebu Guru DewatapranaSri Baduga Maharadja Ratu Hadji di Pakwan Padjadjaran, 1474–1513: penelitian sementara.Bandung: Duta Rakjat. Sutherland, H.1973. Notes on Java’s regent families. Part 1. Indonesia,16, 113–47. Weintraub, A.N.Unpublished. The music of pantun Sunda: an epic narrative tradition of West Java, Indonesia. [MA thesis, University of Hawaii, 1990. Accompanied by cassette tape of 30 minutes with musical examples.] Williams, S.Unpublished. The urbanization of Tembang Sunda, an aristocratic musical genre from West Java, Indonesia. [PhD thesis, University of Washington, 1990.] Zanten, W.van.1984. The poetry of tembang Sunda. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, LandenVolkenkunde,CXL (2–3), 289–316. Zanten, W.van.1989. Sundanese music in the Cianjuran style: anthropological andmusicological aspects of Tembang Sunda.[Book with accompanying cassette tape.]Dordrecht: Foris. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, CXL.)

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10 Co-ordination between music and language in Balinese shadow-play, with emphasis on wayang gambuh TILMAN SEEBASS

Introduction Musical theatre is a particularly complex art form. It is a multi-media event which depends on a harmonical union of language, music, and dance. The participants are actors/dancers and musicians. Depending on the type of drama, the actors are singers too and the off-stage group of musicians may include vocalists. All these participants need to co-ordinate their actions. Although it is not necessary for them to agree on every aspect of the performance (choreography, layout of text and music), even in purely oral traditions the possibilities of improvisation are very limited, since such a considerable number of people requires a high degree of coordination and frequent rehearsing. In Indonesian musical theatre (wayang) the degree of improvisation among the actors varies according to their social status in the drama. Improvisation is fairly restricted in the formal dances of groups, couples, or single figures of high status; it has more room in scenes, where the loose talk of the servants and clowns dominates action. Even more limited are the possibilities for improvisation among the musicians. Yet, notwithstanding these difficulties, wayang is a purely oral tradition, except in cases where songs of the geguritan,kidung, and kakawin type (vocal genres with a written tradition) are inserted.1 To study this interdependency of the components of drama—action, text, music (and sometimes dance)—requires interdisciplinary efforts and skills which lie beyond what can be reasonably expected from an individual scholar, yet we have to give it a try, if we are serious about understanding the true nature, depth, and quality of this art form. The following thoughts are meant to be a suggestion as to what lines of inquiry we might take. I am a musicologist, and my knowledge of the neighbouring fields lags far behind my curiosity, and I would not have undertaken even this modest essay had I not had as a basis a complete Balinese wayang gambuh performance recorded and observed by myself and Hedwig Hinzler, a scholar in Balinese literature. She also made a textual transcription and translation of the play. Needless to say that a scholarly colloquium like the one organized by SOAS in August 1990 provided an ideal environment for trying out my ideas.

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The purpose of this article is, then, to study the music of a wayang gambuh performance—not per se, but in its function within the whole. The goal is to define music’s dependence and influence on dramatic action and text, and to understand how instrumentation, structure, and function of the music are explained through each other. Music and drama Let us step back for a moment and consider the entire dramatic process of a Balinese theatrical work as the key to the function of the music. There are three broad categories of pieces: (1) gendings (music pieces) for choreographed dance. They last between five and fifteen minutes or so. Their form is determined by the character types of the dancers, emotional atmosphere, and choreographic requirements. All three together determine modality, melodic phrases, rhythm, and formal layout, i.e. the colotomy. (2) gendings for scenes which are not, or only roughly choreographed. They provide the emotional environment for action and serve as its background. One could call them ‘affect’-pieces. Their form tends to be short, permitting repetition ad libitum. (3) More autonomous gendings of five to eight minutes which serve as overtures, interludes, or conclusions. In the traditional court genres such as topéng (mask drama with [gamelan]gong) and gambuh (court drama without masks and with [gamelan] gambuh), pieces for choreographed dance (first category) are dominating. Outside of the court milieu, where the choreography is less formal and less complex, the second category, affectpieces, is prevailing. Modern dance drama is of a different kind and cannot easily be classified either way, because it relies on much more flexible structures for which the kebyar style is appropriate.2 The last category (overtures and so on) does not pose particular problems. Pieces of this kind are not related to text or dance; they are neutral in character and structurally very close to, or identical with instrumental gendings for non-theatrical occasions.

1

I am mostly familiar with wayang in Bali and Lombok and somewhat familiar with Javanese genres. The rules are so consistent that it may be justified to claim them for Indonesia as a whole. They do not, however, necessarily apply to kréasi baru, contemporary art forms. There is no study of the genres of vocal music as a whole in Indonesia, and a discussion of the special literature on single genres is beyond the scope of this article.

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(Gamelan) gambuh Let me briefly describe the musical ensemble for gambuh. Wayang gambuh3 and gambuh dance drama (Bandem and deBoer, 1981:28–48) do not only share the same underlying story, Malat,4 but also the musical ensemble and the music played by this ensemble (McPhee, 1966; Rembang, 1973; Seebass, 1983). The musicians of the ensemble can be grouped into four categories according to their structural function: (1) the melody is played by a spike fiddle (rebab, rebad) and one or more flutes (suling). (2) the tempo and the agogic flow of the rhythm is regulated by a pair of doubleskinned, hand-beaten drums (kendang gupekan); they also contribute to the colotomy. (3) the main punctuation is marked by one hanging gong (kempul). (4) the secondary colotomy and a very distinct ‘sound-carpet’ is provided by a number of small bronze-and brass-idiophones. They also contribute to dynamic variety in the music. In Blahbatuh the group consisted of three gong kettles— celuluk (elsewhere kajar), 5 kemong, and kelénang—held by the players in their laps, and by small cymbals (rincik). All these instruments are used in both theatrical forms of gambuh. For the accompaniment of the more lavish dance drama performed in a large open space the ensemble is enhanced by additional flutes and by more instruments in the fourth category that enrich the musical texture and allow for greater dynamic projection. But these differences do not affect the substance of structure. As everywhere else in Indonesia, generic characteristics of musical genres are not much affected by duplication and other changes in instrumentation, as long as the structural functions of the various groups of instruments remain the same.6 Troupes for gambuh dance drama also include a tandak singer and, when-ever possible, a small choir (which reminds us of Javanese court orchestras). The songs are kidungs (songs in tengahan metres) cited from the Malat. These performers are absent in the wayang kulit (shadow-play) version we recorded. The dalang (puppeteer) sings a fair amount during the performance, but we were not able to clarify whether his tandak was in any way, textually or musically, related to kidung Malat.

2

The standard studies on kebyar technique are the kebyar chapter in McPhee, 1966, and Ornstein, unpublished. For a discussion of the dramatic qualities of kebyar style see Seebass, 1985/86. 3 Hedwig Hinzler and I have prepared a complete disc recording with transcriptio n, translation, and commentary; see Hinzler and Seebass, 1992. Our recording was made at the occasion of a commissioned wayang lemah (daytime wayang) performance in 1973 in Blahbatuh. The dalang, I Ketut Rinda, died shortly after our performance. Fortunately a few dalangs saved the genre from extinction; but performances are still rare.

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Differences between gambuh dance drama and wayang gambuh One of the most fascinating aspects of Balinese music is the intimate relation between the purpose of the music, the choice of instruments, the technique of playing they require, and the structure of the gending. One must therefore wonder how the musical structure of gambuh dance drama can be transferred to the shadowplay. For, as I have emphasized, in gambuh dance drama the music is linked to a very precise choreography; there is hardly room for improvisation, and practically all the musical pieces are measure by measure coordinated to the dance movements. Their structure and length, their rhythm, their modality, and their purpose are linked to individual figures or situations which themselves are narrowly defined too. Only the melodic ornamentation and the filling of the drum patterns are areas of a certain freedom. In shadow-play,7 on the other hand, there is no choreography. The figures move freely and if there are rhythmical elements in their gestures and moves, they either depend on the music or on the rhythm of language emphasized by the cepala (mallet) with which the dalang accompanies his actions and words. As to the dramatic process, contrary to dance drama, where the succession of rehearsed scenes with fixed dances and dialogues resembles a construction with pre-cut building blocks, in wayang kulit the succession of scenes and their content is, for the most part, only loosely defined; their real shape emerges only at and during the performance. Clearly then, music functions in shadow-play differently; the symbiosis of dance and music is replaced by a hierarchy with an improvising actor and director in charge of every aspect of the drama and the musicians in a subordinated position. 8

The special requirements of the shadow-play The musical categories in wayang kulit are: (1) (2) (3) (4)

ostinato-type pieces for textless scenes (mostly fights). fanfare-like pieces meant to accentuate rhetorical or dramatic key points. affect-pieces providing the background for singing, talking, and acting. fairly autonomous gendings played as overtures or postludes. No action takes place on the screen, except in the second part of the introduction, when the dalang plays with the kekayon, the tree of life.

4Malat has not yet been edited and translated. For a summary of the stories (as they are used in theatre), choreography, and costumes see de Zoete and Spies, 1938:134–43. 5 Term used by the musicians in Batuan (information 1972–73 and McPhee, 1966:29, 118, 166, 201), and in Lombok (Seebass and others, 1976:36). 6 The flute player at the Blahbatuh performance brought with him three more flutes (all identical in size) and told us that in the old days they had been used too, which would make the number of melodic instruments of the ensemble equal to the famous sekaha gambuh (gambuh troupe) of Batuan, a village close by.

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Obviously the functional differences between music for dance and for shadow play make it difficult to use all music of the former for the latter. Particularly the dance pieces are not very suitable for the improvisations of the dalang. Given the problems of adapting a long gending gambuh to a shadow-play scene, one would expect that music is used very sparingly; but the opposite is the case: In our wayang gambuh performance only a fourth of the play is without music! How is this possible? To make wayang gambuh work, both dalang and musicians have to make adjustments. The dalang has to accept certain restrictions in his improvisation, the music will have to give up part of its autonomy. One solution is to shorten the extremely long periods of the gending. Pieces with very extended colo tomies—as they are typical for gambuh—cannot be stopped at any point; a dalang would have to wait for the stroke of the main gong until he could initiate a change. Short gendings, however, can be repeated ad libitum—thus giving the dalang more freedom in designing his scenes. A second solution is to use two different colotomic systems, the regular one and another one, called batélBatél is a rhythmical ostinato of two or four beats; it replaces the ordinary long and thin colotomy and can be combined with the regular melody of the gending or with melodic ostinati of two or four beats. While in ordinary colotomy the gong appears only every 8, 16, 24, or 32 beats, in batél it comes every two or four. Similarly the secondary and tertiary punctuation is compressed so that it fits into the very short gongan (gong period); the result is a pattern. Most audible in batél is the rincik—an instrument which has, among all metal instruments, the greatest possibilities in dynamics and for texturing. Batél ostinati are a common feature in Balinese music. They must belong to a very old stratum of Indonesian music, because their technique and function are spread over a great number of insular cultures, regardless of religious boundaries and ritual practices. The most common functions are processional and for inducing a fighting spirit or trance. Batél is not bound to a single musical genre. It is a playing technique produced by a set of instruments found in various types of gamelan. But is has a special value for shadow-play, because it is such a flexible accompaniment and can adjust quickly to changes of the situation on the screen.

7

The only thorough study of the dramatic structure of Balinese shadow-play I know of is Hinzler, 1981. 8 Using the word ‘replace’ I obviously assume that historically gambuh dance drama comes first and that wayang gambuh is an adaptation of it to the medium of the shadow-play.

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Figure 1. ‘Geginoman’

The wayang gambuh performance of The burning of the woods of King Tratébang’: analytical remarks Let me exemplify with two successive scenes from our wayang gambuh, performed by the dalang I Ketut Rinda and the sekaha (club) of Blahbatuh, how, through shortening, repetition, and batél, the gambuh music becomes flexible enough to be suitable for the shadow-play. I believe it does so without losing its substance and character.

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The first one is the pemungkah, the opening gending, for which the musicians play ‘Geginoman’. It is used later again and has ordinarily a colotomy of 4 sub-periods (paléds) with a gongan of 32 measures. Here the musicians use batél colotomy instead and a much shorter melodic period which is given eight times (see Fig. 1). (a) Dramatic action and batél. The scheme makes evident that the instrumentalists with percussion instruments follow closely the actions of the dalang. By choosing between four levels of batél playing (pp without rincik, p, mf, and/with rincik) they provide markers and caesurae to the actions of the dalang so that these appear as blocks. Not every block is equally visible; some receive their distinctness very much through the music. (b) Melodic phrases. While batél music and action on the screen are strictly coordinated, the same cannot be said about the flute/rebab melody. Three points are noteworthy here: (1) the length of the melody varies between 8 and 11 beats by the celuluk, the time marker; (2) Of the eight possible points of coordination between the eight repeats of the melody and the blocks created by action/batél only four are used (at 0•25•, 1•50•, 3•23•, and 3•46•); (3) the heterophonic differences between flute, rebab, and tandak are so great that it is impossible to determine where exactly the melody begins and where it ends; even the batél pulse is disregarded. (c) Cepala. The cepala is a tool used by the dalang for emphasizing his play and cueing the batél playing musicians (at 1•17•, 2•03•and 3•46•). In the following scene, the first in the proper sense, speech and dialogue are added to the play. The music piece is gending ‘Madu segara’. Following the dramatic outline it is divided into two parts; the first one uses gambuh colotomy, the second batél. But the tune remains the same throughout (see Fig. 2). Several things are interesting here: (1) In part (A), we find a smooth and precise co-ordination between the musical periods and the divisions of the scene in logical sections, each with an identical structure, beginning with the introduction of a new figure, followed by a dialogue between the king and the figure, a dismissal by the king, and, as a conclusion, a few lines of tandak singing. (2) Occasionally the musical period and scene are not lined up exactly. I believe this is done for aesthetic reasons, i.e. to avoid lifeless regularity and prevent boredom.9 (3) For part (B), with the mood so much changed, colotomy is replaced by batél. The actors have disappeared, the dalang removes the kekayon from the trunk and describes the dark atmosphere and the spirits and then gives the story of the king. (4) The musicians use terraced dynamics (with short forte-eruptions) for each section in part (A); in part (B) they replace them by steep crescendi. As far as I

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know, these crescendi are a rare occurrence in traditional Balinese music of the pre-kebyar period. As a result of all these means, each paragraph of the text in part (A) neatly corresponds to the musical periods of the gending, and each narrative unit in part (B) is outlined by batél playing in a technique similar to the one discussed in our first example. For the present purpose the two examples may suffice and we can proceed to a summary and a synthesis.

Figure 2. ‘Madu segara’

9

See the third and fifth gongan with the inversion of text and tandak.

TILMAN SEEBASS 171

Summary and synthesis Dalang and musicians have worked out a mechanism which keeps action, word, and music very closely together. The sophistication and complexity and beauty of gending gambuh is not in jeopardy, nor is the puppeteer in a strait-jacket. If action prevails and the word is unimportant or absent, the musicians use the batél configuration and thus remain flexible for the precise accompaniment of the action. They can, by observing what is going on on the screen or by being cued by the dalang, stress caesurae, while he can push the action forward or slow it down and charge it with emotion by inserting songlines. When the batél is absent and regular colotomy used instead, the possibilities of the musicians to tailor their music to the action are non-existent, except for the option to repeat. Then it is the dalang who has to adjust and he has several options for this. He can spread speech and action over several gongans, since for the purpose of the shadow-play, the gongan of the gending has been shortened to a ‘manageable’ length. Or he can stretch time by inserting song fragments and joining the heterophonic web of suling and rebab. Or he can pick up the gending melody for tandakan, and if so he can either observe the caesurae of the gongan or not. Singing as a means of filling time, e.g. when the dalang searches for the next puppet, or refills the lamp with oil, or as a means to mark the change from the position of actor into a commentator and priest, is not a feature known only in this type of shadow-play. But contrary to wayangkulit with genders (metallophones with thin keys and tuned bamboo resonators) it is intimately tied to the instrumental melodies and they actually invite tandakan. The interplay of flute, rebab, and tandakan is an inexhaustible source for chromatic delight and tension. Tandak is here a much more intense feature than in other types of wayang kulit (which will be discussed below). This has, of course, ramifications for the dramatic process and the character of the performance. Tandak brings the element of distance and reflection into the play. On the surface level it slows down the action; but from a musical point of view it enhances the artistic quality; and on the deeper level it intensifies the action and heightens the awareness of the listening spectators for the mythical, microcosmic and macrocosmic dimension of wayang. Tandak underlines the wisdom of the dalang, his role as a mediator between past and present, gods and humans, and his mystical power. Other performances, other genres of shadow-play Wayang gambuh is nowadays so rare that I did not have the chance of a second recording of the same group or another. Also, the present version as a wayanglemah cannot be compared with the much longer regular nightly wayang with lamp and screen. In such a performance one would expect a greater variety of gendings, and in particular more use of longer gongans with sixteen or thirtytwo beats. But even if

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one discounts these facts, it is safe to say that the musicalization of the drama is here particularly intense and more sophisticated than in other types. What I could not show with these rough charts is the heterophonic interplay of human and instrumental melody and the variety of joints by which the dalang links the scenes together and the musicians their pieces. Sometimes a joint becomes so elaborate that one has difficulties in defining the precise borderline between two successive scenes. Sometimes the music overlaps and the gongan has no import. In one instance, the dalang actually initiates the next gending by singing the first few notes—perhaps because the musicians had a lapse in memory or attention. It remains now to proceed beyond the internal analysis and make, in conclusion, a few comparisons with the gambuh dance drama and other types of shadow-play. To begin with the former, in gambuh drama the demarcations between the scenes are more clear-cut and often appear as incisions. This is true for other genres of dance drama as well. The dance drama consists of a chain of formesfixes. Gambuh dance drama also uses a singer, but he is almost inaudible and seems to sing more for the gods than for the audience. Tandakan is never prominent, and therefore it can never assume the mystical character which it has in the shadow-play. Next we turn to the other genres of shadow-play, (a) wayang Mahabharata, (b) wayang Ramayana, wayang Cupak, and wayang Calonarang, and (c) wayangSasak.10 The music for genders only, as used in the wayang Mahabharata (a) is without colotomy, hence altogether different. Although it consists not only of regular gendings but also of pieces which one would describe in Western terminology as breaks, riffs, fanfares, and various forms of comments on the action on the screen, the overall effect of gendér wayang music is more static. It paints a particular affectus and is more moodoriented than action-oriented. Finally it is used more sparingly, for setting the mood and occasional comments; it is more subordinate and serves the actions of the dalang. The sub-genres which I grouped under (b) differ from simple gendér wayang by the addition of the batél group and a small flute. The consequence is greater dynamic flexibility, melodic interplay between flute and dalang’s voice, and the availability of batél This increase in means results in an increase in musical presence in the play. Although the batél group—which is, after all, basically not different from the batél group in wayang gambuh—is perfectly capable of providing colotomic structures, colotomy does not seem to play a major role. The reason could be that the gendings gendér do not need a colo tomic basis. But we will have to await thorough studies of this genre before we can say more. So far my impression is that the enlargement of the instrumentation functions more as an enhancement and extension of the concept based on the genders, with which it shares, after all, the repertoire of gendings; it does not create a new genre. Most noticeable is the difference in the melodic material. The flute is chosen for playing in the high and mezzo registers heterophonically linked either to the genders or to the singing dalang. The overall melodic impression, including the sléndro tuning, reminds one of gamelan angklungi. In sum, this genre still keeps a distance from wayang gambuh where the musical substance resides in the tunes of the flutes with their modal variety and the stretched colotomy with slow drumming.

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The fact that the kajar is used in gendér wayang batél indicates a historical link between wayang batél and wayang gambuh. The kajar differs from other gong kettles by the sunken boss with which the player produces three different sounds. It occurs practically only in gambuh. Unfortunately the music groups with which I made recordings had adopted so many kebyar techniques that they resembled modern kebyar far more than either gambuh or the the-atrical and processional batél music produced by semar pegulingan, gong topéng, etc. I do not know whether there are still ensembles which have a more traditional batél Undoubtedly the flexibility of these gamelans is very suitable for wayang. These gendér batél types are probably the most dramatic; what they may lack in substance compared with the modal variety and melodic grandeur of gambuh music is perhaps made up by an almost nervous directness and striking quality. Equally unknown and unstudied is the music of wayang Sasak I would locate it between the various forms of Balinese wayang batél and wayang gambuh. With the former it shares the lack of colotomy, with the latter the dominance of long flute phrases. It is distinct from both by its Islamo-Indonesian melodic characteristics and a different technique of drumming. Otherwise the sound carpet of wayang Sasak, woven by the drumming and the idiophones, resembles the batél. It matches any Balinese batél group in dynamic subtleties and varieties of texture. As to the collaboration between musicians and dalang my impression from the three recordings I have made is that it is more straightforward; the dalang is freer in his play, the musicians assume more the role of accompanists.

10 There is, of course, a considerable literature on Balinese wayang kulit in general, but none which compares the types with each other. Outlines of the stories can be found in de Zoete and Spies, 1938, except for wayang Sasak, for which one has to turn to the serat Ménak literature accessible via Pigeaud, 1967–80, I, 212–17, and the index in vol. III. For the music of gendér wayang see McPhee, 1936. A few brief notes on the others are found in Seebass and others, 1976:36. (NB On that page, by mistake, the three gong kettles in the gambuh column are omitted.) Balinese and Sasak use the story and the type of gamelan as criteria in differentiating the following genres:

wayang Mahabharata gendér wayang (2 or 4)—mode: saih gendér wayang [sléndro] wayang Ramayana gendér wayang (2 or 4)+gong, gong kettles, drums (played with hands and sticks), rincik and small suling—same mode wayang Calonarang same—same mode wayang Cupak same—same mode wayang gambuh [gamelan] gambuh—mode: saih gambuh [seven-tone pélog] wayang Sasak suling (of the long gambuh-type), rebab, drums, gong, gong kettles, rincik—mode: [pélog] The Javanese modal terms sléndro and pélog and the generic term gamelan are traditionally not used among indigenous musicians in Bali and Lombok.

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But I do not want to impose on the reader in these comparisons too much personal judgment. It seems more important to demonstrate that the coordination of word, action, and music in wayang gambuh is complex, but convincing, and therefore fascinating. In all genres of shadow-play, each of the three elements is dependent on the other two. To examine them together as thoroughly as possible, seems to me the best way to arrive at a true understanding of a wayang performance as a whole, both in its structural aspects as well as its meaning. References Bandem, I Madé, and deBoer, F.E.1981. Kaja and kelod: Balinese dance in transition.Kuala Lumpur, etc.: Oxford University Press. de Zoete, B., and Spies, W.1938. Dance and drama in Bali.London: Faber and Faber. [Reprinted 1952 and 1973.] Hinzler, H.I.R.1981. Bimaswarga in Balinese wayang.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, XC.) Hinzler, H.I.R., and Seebass, T.1992. Wayang gambuh: a shadotuplay performance ofthe story of ‘The burning of the forest of Tratébang’.Berlin: Museum für Völkerkunde. McPhee, C.1936. The Balinese wajang koelit and its music. Djåwå,XVI, 1–50. [Reprinted inBelo, J., ed, Traditional Balinese culture.New York: Columbia University Press, 1970, 146–97, and republished by the American Musicological Society as a monograph, New York, 1981.] McPhee, C.1966. Music in Bali: a study inform and instrumental organisation in Balinese orchestral music.New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Ornstein, R.S.Unpublished. Gamelan gong kebyar: the development of a Balinese musical tradition. [PhD thesis, University of California at Los Angeles, 1971.] Pigeaud, T.G.T.1967–30. Literature of Java.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. 4 vols. Rembang, I Nyoman.1973. Gambelan gambuh dan gambelan2 lainnya di Bali.Denpasar: Listibiya. Seebass, T.1983. Compressed version of ‘gambuh’ (dance drama) in Batuan (districtGianyar, Bali).Göttingen: Institut für den wissenschaftlichen Film. [Textbooklet and film.] Seebass, T.1985/86. A note on kebyar in modern Bali. Orbis Musicae (Tel Aviv), IX, 103– 21. Seebass, T., and others.1976. The music of Lombok: a first survey.[By] T. Seebass[and 3 others].Berne: Francke. (Forum Ethnomusicologicum, Ser. I.Basler Studien zur Ethnomusikologie, 2.)

11 The dramatic principles of Javanese narrative temple reliefs EDI SEDYAWATI

The depiction of stories in a row of consecutive panels of reliefs is one among the dominant features of ancient Javanese art. The temples of ancient Java which are found to have reliefs in a row depicting a story are Barabudur and Lara Jonggrang (Prambanan), built during the Central Javanese period (eighth to tenth centuries), and those temples built during the East Javanese period (eleventh to fifteenth centuries) which are Jawi, Jago (Tumpang), Panataran, Tégawangi, Kedaton, and Surawana. More temples having reliefs depicting scenes from a story are also known, but they mostly consist of just one single panel for a scene taken from a story.1 These reliefs are in essence a form of story-telling expressed in stone. Meanwhile, in ancient Javanese society oral story-telling was also known. An inscription of the early tenth century mentions the term macarita (to tell a story), of which the stories .2 The latter story is also depicted in told were Bhimma Kumara and rows of reliefs at the Lara Jonggrang temple, which was built probably in the second story in Old part of the ninth century.3 A written poetic rendering of the Javanese is also known. This literary work is considered to have been written either at the time when the temple complex of Lara Jonggrang was built4 or during the reign of the king who issued the inscription mentioned earlier.5 A survey of dance

1

Stories depicted in rows of reliefs are for instance: (a) the story of Rama and the story of at the Lara Jonggrang temple; (b) the stories , ,Parthayajña, , and Arjunawiwaha at the temple of Tumpang, Malang; (c) the stories of Satyawan, Krsnayana, and the story of Rama at the Panataran temple; (d) the story of Sudamala , Bhomakawya, and Arjunawiwaha at at the temple of Tégawangi; (e) the stories of ; and (f) the stories , Sri , and the temple of Arjunawiwaha at Surawana temple. Single relief panels depicting a scene from a story include a scene from Sudamala and another one from Bima Suci at the Sukuh temple; a story at Candi Gambar; and Arjunawiwaha scenes in the scene from a caves of Sélamangléng and Guwa Pasir. 2 This is the inscription of Wukajana issued in A.D. 907 by King Balitung. For text and Dutch translation see van Naerssen, 1937, and for a free translation in English see Holt, 1967: 282. 3 The inscription of ivagrha, issued in A.D. 856, has been supposed to refer to this temple complex (de Casparis, 1956:287).

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reliefs and written sources has also shown that performing arts flourished during the Central Javanese era.6 The question is whether there was some kind of relationship between the different forms of art, namely the narrative art in stone, oral literature, written literature, and the performing arts. We know that today in Javanese art there is a close relationship between the visual and the performing arts, especially concerning the presentation of stories. Characters are characterized within the same set of principles in both art forms. For instance, the thin limbs and narrow eyes in the visual arts parallel the same forms in stage make-up, as well as the calm movements and the soft and deep voice in the performing arts. There is also a specific genre of Javanese literature, called the pakem, which contains the scenario for a play within a set, prescribed pattern. The dramatic performance itself is in presentday Java not a purely acting matter, but involves also dancing, music making, and the exposition of literary competence. The situation of art activities in ancient Java is still to be investigated. The specific question asked at present is, whether the visual arts, especially those concerning the narrative reliefs, did in ancient Java correspond in one way or another to the . A dramatic principles expounded in Hindu manuals such as the mentions that there were three modes of passage in the representation of a story. The first was the actual representation by the performers of a drama, the second was the representation through pictorial art, and the third was that through words alone (Tarlekar, 1975:7). The ground for the comparison of ancient Javanese ‘story-telling’ data with Hindu prescriptions is the fact that from previous studies in dance and image sculpture7 it is obvious that the art of the ancient Javanese élite agreed with the Hindu prescriptions in many respects. This fact refers specifically to the Central Javanese period, when Hindu influence from India still held sway. In this case it has been demonstrated that basic dance poses concerning the torso, arms, legs, feet, and hands delineated in Javanese temple reliefs of the Central Javanese period complied . Likewise, the proportions of with the prescriptions expounded in the Hindu images of deities, either compared to one another or within their components, agreed with the iconometric rules prescribed in the agama literature.

4

This assumption is based on the fact that a description of a aiva sanctuary in the kakawin closely resembles the actual Lara Jonggrang temple (Sedyawati, 1980/ 81: 133; Poerbatjaraka in 1932 proposed that the description referred either to the temple of Séwu or the temple of Lara Jonggrang). 5 This assumption is based on the similarity of terms and hierarchy of government officials mentioned in both the kakawin and the inscriptions of king Balitung (Poerbatjaraka, 1932). 6 Dance poses depicted on the reliefs on Central Javanese temples conform to the (Sedyawati, 1982). prescriptions of the 7 For studies on dance reliefs see Sedyawati, 1980/81 and 1982. For studies on statues see Sedyawati, 1986 and unpublished.

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Observations on the Central Javanese

reliefs

The row of narrative reliefs chosen for observation is that of the Lara Jonggrang temple of the Central Javanese period, when conformity to Hindu rules in art is in some respects evident.8 The choice is also based on the fact that the story depicted, , was not only known among the sculptors but also among narrators the kakawin. This is evidence as well as by the court poet who wrote the that artists of different specialities did have relationships of some kind. At least, they must have in some respects a common source.9 A question to be posed is whether were used as guide-lines to the dramatic principles prescribed in the delineate scenes in stone. It may be assumed that the scenes in stone were expected to emanate bhava (states of mind) and generate rasa (flavour, feeling, sentiment), as this is always expected from a theatrical scene. To test this assumption, some scenes from the Lara Jonggrang relief will be examined. The scenes chosen are those that reflect a mood which can be clearly determined through our knowledge of the story. Meanwhile, it is understood that the ‘channel’ towards bhava consists of the details of abhinaya (expressive forms that ‘lead towards’ definite meanings). The classical Indian manuals on theatrical art give a fourfold classification of abhinaya into the sattvika (temperamental), angika (physical), vacika (verbal), and aharya (dress, ornaments, make-up).10 The temperamental and verbal abhinaya can only be perceived in actual theatrical performance, and are not discernible in a static representation of a scene in stone. The aharya-bhinaya is mostly related to the provenance (in India) of the roles in a story. Thus it might not be relevant to the scenes in the Lara Jonggrang temple, as these are supposed to have recourse to the local, Javanese landscape. Besides, the prescriptions on aharya pertain mostly to particularization of colours, something that is non-existent at Lara Jonggrang. It is, then, only the physical abhinaya that is left to be checked.

8

Sedyawati’s 1986 study on iconometry has shown that within the Central Javanese period the first locus of acculturation centre was the Kedu area, and later on, the Prambanan area. The iconometry of the Lara Jonggrang main statues still conforms to the Hindu prescriptions known from the agama literature. 9 Although the Rama reliefs of Lara Jonggrang and the kakawin can be regarded as the products of the same era, there are, apart from the many agreements, also some differences, such as: (1) on the reliefs king Daaratha, Rama’s father, is not present at Mithila, while the kakawin mentions that he is; (2) the scene of Rama being angry with a bird, depicted on the relief, is not found in the kakawin; (3) Jatayu is described as a very big bird (‘like a mountain’) in the kakawin, but on the relief he appears not that big (as tall as a standing man’s thighs); (4) the demon shot by Rama, who then regains his original appearance as a heavenly being, is in the kakawin described as female and having very long arms, while on the relief it is a male demon with a face on his belly; (5) the kakawin relates are in the forest they are by themselves; no attendants that when Rama, Sta, and are ever mentioned, while on the reliefs attendants often appear in the forest scenes. 10 See Ghosh, 1951:148–49; Tarlekar, 1975:67.

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For this survey, the reliefs are identified by means of the Roman ciphers (for panels) and lower-case letters (for stones) that were used by Willem Stutterheim in the Tafelband of his Rama-Legenden und Rama-Reliefs in Indonesien (1925).11 The kakawin text has been published by Hendrik Kern (1900), Soewito Santoso (1980), and I Wayan Wama and others (n.d.). The rows of reliefs depicting the Rama story are found on the inner side wall of around the body of the the balustrade. Thus when one is doing the temple (thus putting oneself in such a position that the body of the temple, being the revered object, is on one’s right), walking in the corridors, one will find the row of reliefs on one’s left-hand side. In this way, the sequence of panels should be read from left to right. There are two kinds of relief panels on the walls of the Lara Jonggrang temple: the single-scene panels and the multiple-scenes panels. The multiplescenes panels are again of two varieties: those representing two or more scenes which happen consecutively, depicting the same character(s) in different situations, and those representing different scenes that happen at the sametime. As for the last-mentioned case, the feeling of concurrence was built up by differentiating the set of characters for each scene, or the suggestion of acontinuous space which is sub-divided into segments while each segment is made a site for a separate scene. An example of multiple simultaneous scenes in a panel is: From our knowledge of the story, we can be sure that the three scenes were meant as three simultaneous events. The depiction in relief of Rama going away follows that of the sad king Daaratha, while the literary text tells us that the reason for the king’s sadness was Rama’s departure. In this case of representation, the viewer’s impression is that of three consequences of one decision, rather than of three successive happenings. This panel is, however, the only example of simultaneous scenes. Other multi-scene panels depict two or more consecutive scenes. Scenes from the siva temple of Lara Jonggrang to be reviewed for their details, and compared to the Hindu histrionic prescriptions are among others:

EDI SEDYAWATI 179

More scenes will be dealt with in relation to specific poses. Elements of abhinaya on the reliefs Certain gestures of different parts of the body are shown on the reliefs, and they can . be compared to rules mentioned in the textbook on dramatics, the There were many other guidebooks or commentaries on the classical theatrical art, , it is considered sufficient for a but as they are somehow related to the preliminary study like the present one to limit comparisons to literary information (see Ghosh, 1951, and Tarlekar, 1975). taken from the Sitting positions It is only the static poses that can be discussed, while other related movements cannot be interpreted accurately from reliefs. For this discussion on sitting positions references are taken from descriptions of sitting postures (Ghosh, 1951:233–34; Tarlekar, 1975:114–15), poses of the breast (Ghosh, 1951:191; Tarlekar, 1975:98), and poses of the head (Ghosh, 1951:150–52; Tarlekar, 1975:78–79). Sad persons are depicted several times. They are among others Daaratha in scene 4, Rama in scene 8, and Sta in scene 10. It is stated in the text that the sitting posture for men and women should be made to conform to the different bhava (states of feeling) which they are in (Ghosh, 1951:233). On sitting positions, the descriptions are ‘a person in deep sorrow is to put up his hand for supporting the chin, or his head is to rest on the shoulder, and he is (to look like) one whose mind and sense organs are lost’, while ‘when a person is fainting or intoxicated, tired, weakened or sad, he is to stretch his arms loosely while the two feet are at rest, and to sit depending on (some) support’.

180 DRAMATIC PRINCIPLES OF NARRATIVE TEMPLE RELIEFS

A pose of the breast called abhugna (slightly bent) is described as ‘the breast lowered, back high, shoulders slightly bent and at times loose (not stiff)' (Ghosh, 1951:191), and its uses are among others to portray despair, fainting, sorrow, and broken-heartedness. Gestures of the head related to sadness are dhuta, añcita, and adhogata. The dhuta is a ‘slow (sideways) movement’ to portray, inter alia, sadness, astonishment, and confidence; in the añcita head ‘the neck is slightly bent on one side’ and it is used to denote, inter alia, sorrow, anxiety, and sickness; and adhogata is ‘the head with the face looking downwards’, depicting bowing, shame, and sorrow. We see in our scenes that the sad Rama has his head slightly bent to the left, his left hand supporting his head. Thus it conforms to the prescription on ‘sitting position for a person in deep sorrow’ and the añcita head gesture. The sad Daaratha and Sta both have the sitting posture for a ‘fainting, weakened or sad person’, in which they are stretching a flexed arm for ‘leaning against some support’, in this case the cushion on their respective seats. Daaratha has his head in the adhogata position (face looking downwards) and his breast in abhugna, probably denoting at once several bhavas like fainting, despair, a broken heart, and sorrow. The (slightly) downcast face is also found in the depiction of the sad Rama on panel XXIIb. In Sta’s case, her situation was a combination of weariness and sorrow (because she was separated from her beloved husband), but at the same time confidence (because she was meeting Hanuman, her husband’s envoy). Therefore, although she is depicted leaning against some support to denote a ‘fainting, weakened or sad person’, she also has the dhuta head gesture (moved sideways slowly) to denote confidence. It should be noted, however, that at Lara Jonggrang, presumably out of the ancient Javanese sculptor’s ingenuity, the ‘sitting at ease’ position was already it is differentiated between that for men and that for women. In the described as a kind of basic position from which varieties are drawn (cf. the descriptions in Ghosh, 1951:233). The description is ‘in sitting at ease the two feet are at rest and in añcita pose [‘the heels on the ground, the forepart of the feet raised and all the toes spread’, Ghosh, 1951:196], the trika [loins; Monier-Williams, 1899: 461] is slightly raised, and the two hands are put on the thighs on the two sides’. This description must be meant for either sex because no differentiation was made. On the Lara Jonggrang reliefs the differentiation made between that for men and that for women is as follows. Men sitting at ease are depicted cross-legged in an ‘easy’ way, like Javanese men do today. It is neither the ardhaparyankasana nor the vajrasana/padmasana, but both shanks are crossed in front of the body, on the seat. Thus the support of the sitting body is upon the buttocks, both thighs, and both sides of the feet. This position is found throughout the panels. The ‘normal’, that is the most frequently found way of sitting for women is that both flexed legs are put on the seat, one upon the other. The leg which is under the weight of the other is dir ected diagonally towards one side, while the other one is directed more or less towards the front. This front-directed thigh is put upon the shank of the other leg. Sometimes it is clearly depicted that the foot of the superposed leg is held in the añcita pose. Clear depictions of this sitting position for women are: Daaratha’s wife

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on panel Id-e, Sta on panel XIIg, Sugrva’s wife on panel XVIIIf, a female attendant on panel XIXi, and Sta on panel XXd-e. Other poses of the head and sitting positions Beside the head poses described above in relation to the sad feeling, there are other poses denoting other specific feelings. One is the adhuta head (Tarlekar, 1975:79), which is ‘turned up once, slantingly’. It is used among others to denote self-esteem. An example of this pose at Lara Jonggrang is that of panel VIIa-b (scene 3), depicting Bharata during his inauguration as crown prince. Another pose is the udvahita (Ghosh, 1951:151), which is described as ‘the head is once turned upwards’, and this is used, inter alia, to denote self-esteem as well, but also to represent ‘looking high up’. In the latter meaning it is found in scenes depicting people of Lengka looking up at Hanuman climbing on their houses (panels XIXi-k and XXIcd). The paravrtta head gesture, in which the face is turned around, is used to depict ‘turning away the face, looking back, and the like’. This gesture is often used for the alert Hanuman, and is depicted on panels XIXa, XIXj-k, XXIa-b, and XXId. Another sitting posture to be mentioned is that described as ‘sitting in deliberation’, in which ‘one foot should be stretched a little, the other resting on the seat and the head should be slightly bent to one side’ (Tarlekar, 1975:114). A scene on the Lara Jonggrang temple which might be connected to this description is that of panel VIh-i (scene 2), depicting the serious talk between Kaikey and her husband Daaratha. Kaikey’s head is slightly bent towards her husband. , in which Sitting with both knees on the ground is described in the it is asserted that it should be combined with a downcast face. This posture is ‘to be assumed in adoring a deity, pacifying the angry (superiors), bitterly crying for sorrow, seeing a dead body, the fear of persons of low spirits, the begging of something by lowly persons and servants, and attendance during the Homa and the sacrificial work’, and ‘ascetics while practising austerities’ (Ghosh, 1951:234). The notion of ‘paying homage to superiors’ or ‘submission’ seems to be essential in this gesture. This core meaning was presumably adopted by the sculptors of Lara Jonggrang, but the delineation of the gesture is modified, in which the kneeling position was not necessarily combined with downcast face. Examples of ‘sitting on the knees’ to denote homage, respect, devotion, submission, or obedience are shown by the following panels: It is remarkable that in none of these scenes are the respecting persons shown with downcast face.

182 DRAMATIC PRINCIPLES OF NARRATIVE TEMPLE RELIEFS

Standing positions Standing postures are described as sthanas (Ghosh, 1951:201–03; Tarlekar, 1975:105– 04), and on visual renderings they can be perceived in combination with feet gestures (Ghosh, 1951:195–96; Tarlekar, 1975:100). Both feet gestures and standing postures are given their uses in dramatic performances. standing position, which is described as: the two First of all there is the feet five talas (spans) apart, obliquely placed and turned sideways, while the right leg , in which the right is stretched and the left one bent. The reverse is leg is bent and the left one stretched. When both legs are evenly turned sideways the . All three postures are related to the use of weapons. The posture is called posture is ‘assumed in the use of weapons like the bow and the posture is for the initial movement to throw thunderbolt’, the is for the actual release of missiles, and also ‘assumed in all missiles, while the acts relating to the Heroic and the Furious sentiments, duel of wrestlers, an attack, and in the representation of enemies’ (Ghosh, 1951:202–03).12 All three postures are found at the Lara Jonggrang panels, and indeed all the scenes are related to wrath or the launching of weapons. Nevertheless, the weapon launched by the hero, in this case Rama, was always the bow and arrow, and never missiles of any kind. Moreover, there are varieties of the postures regarding the position of the body. The normal position is the straight, more or less vertical one. Variety (1) is the whole body thrust to the left side, while variety (2) is the body slightly inclined to the left with the head bent to the left. The respective postures shown on the panels are as follows. was It can be assumed from the above list that variety (2) of the used to denote a deeply felt anger, especially that of Rama. The other scenes with also depict anger, possibly in a lesser degree. The poses, moreover, were used to denote heroism, not necessarily imbued by a feeling of wrath. If this is the case, then the application of both standing postures at Lara . Scenes 1 and 9 Jonggrang was contrary to what was stated by the posture show that this posture was meant to depict a composed with the hero showing his capability, without any interference of anger.

12 Gösta Liebert (1976:11) made a compilation of descriptions by Western icono-graphers and postures but did not quote Ghosh and his source, the on the . In view of the fact that descriptions of both postures are varied, and even opposed to each other, Liebert suggested that both postures should not be differentiated in terms of right and left, but in terms of ‘neutral’ and ‘violent’ modes, in which is considered as the more forceful attitude. I myself prefer to take the definition given by the , in which the description of uses of both postures is logical when we take it for granted that a person throws missiles with his right hand.

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Other specific movements Some movements or poses depicted in scene 5 show other agreements with the . This scene represents Bharata’s visit to Rama in the forest. It is depicted in two sequences: in the first part Bharata accompanied by his attendant and guards approaching Rama, and in the second part Bharata stooping in front of Rama to receive Rama’s sandals. In the first sequence, the approaching Bharata has the nata movement of the sides. This nata movement is described as ‘the waist and one side are slightly bent and one shoulder slightly drooping down; it is used in approaching someone’ (Tarlekar, 1975:98). The same ‘waist and one side slightly bent, one shoulder slightly drooping down’ can also be seen in the depiction of Sta approaching Rama after the latter succeeds in stretching siva’s bow (scene 1). In the first sequence of scene 5 Bharata’s attendant shows a tryasra, movement of the neck, a movement which is ‘resulting when the face is turned sideways, used in carrying a burden on the shoulders and sorrow’ (Tarlekar, 1975:85). In this case, the ancient Javanese sculptor may have had in mind that Bharata’s attendant must be sorrowful at seeing Rama isolated in the forest. In the second sequence of scene 5 Bharata is shown with an abhugna breast gesture (‘the breast is slightly bent, back high, shoulders slightly bent and at times loose’) denoting, inter alia, sorrow, a broken heart, or being ashamed (Tarlekar, 1975:98). His drooping limbs may also have been meant to represent the gait of a pathetic actor (for a description of the gait of an actor in the pathetic sentiment see Tarlekar, 1975:108– 09). To complete the delineation of the unhappy Bharata, he is made to have the

184 DRAMATIC PRINCIPLES OF NARRATIVE TEMPLE RELIEFS

adhogata position of the head, which is explained as ‘the face is turned down; it is used in shame, salutation and sorrow’ (Tarlekar, 1975:79). The steadfast Rama, on the other hand, is shown with a dhuta ‘slow sideways movement of the head’ denoting confidence (for a description of dhuta see Tarlekar, 1975:78). As a last note, let us consider scene 3, in which Bharata is inaugurated and an elegant dance is performed. A female dancer is depicted in an ardhaparyanka standing position, waving a sword above her head with her right hand, and with her left hand holding a shield by the side of her head, the shield facing the back of the head. Compared with the description of nyayas (ways of fighting) given in the , it shows conformity with either the bharata or the kaiika way of fighting. The bharata is described as: Putting forward the shield with the left hand and taking the sword (lit. weapon) the actor should walk about on the stage. Stretching the hand forward fully and then drawing it back he should move the shield at his back from side to side and flourish the sword (lit. weapon) around his head, and it should also be turned round [about the wrist] near the cheek. And again the hands holding the sword and the shield should be flourished gracefully around the head. (Ghosh, 1951:204) And the kaiika as: The flourishing of the sword (lit. weapon) near the breast or the shoulder which is to take place in the Bharata [Nyaya] will hold good in case of the Kaiika. But [in the latter] the sword (lit. weapon) should be made to strike only after being flourished over the head. (Ghosh, 1951:204) These preliminary comparisons between the details of relief renderings and the are only indications that conventions prescriptions found in the concerning the classical Hindu dramatic art were not unknown to the ancient Javanese sculptors. To what extent they really relied on dramatic prescriptions is still to be found out in further surveys, if sufficient data are available. Different versions and all their commentaries on classical Hindu dramatic art should also be considered, as we have to be aware of the possibility of variations due to differences in time and regional traditions. The comparisons have been limited to the narrative reliefs of the Lara Jonggrang temple in Central Java, a place where there was a centre of government which assumed a strongly Hindu character. At Lara Jonggrang, apparently, the presentation of a story, with scenes of differing sentiments, was done by sculptors who were aware that elements of the Hindu classical dramatic art, especially concerning gestures, could be used to produce cues or symbols in the course of the narration in relief form. Those established symbols must have functioned, in a society having a strong Hindu reference, as a channel for rasa, the essential ‘flavour’ of art, in this

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case, to understand and feel with empathy the sentiments denoted in those scenes in stone. References Casparis, J.G.de.1956. Selected inscriptions from the 7th to the 9th centuries A.D.Bandung: Masa Baru.(Prasasti Indonesia, 2.) ascribed to Bharata-muni.Calcutta: Royal Asiatic Society Ghosh, M.1951. The of Bengal. (Bibliotheca Indica, Work No. 272, Issue No. 1559.) Holt, C.1967. Art in Indonesia: continuities and change.Ithaca, N.Y., and London: Comell University Press. Kem, H., ed.1900. kakawin: , Oudjavaansch heldendicht.‘sGravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff. Liebert, G.1976. Iconographic dictionary of the Indian religions. Hinduism-BuddhismJainism,Leiden: E.J.Brill. (Studies in South Asian Culture, V.) Monier-Williams, M.1899. A Sanskrit-English dictionary, etymologically and philologically arranged, with special reference to cognate Indo-European languages. New edi-tion.Oxford: Clarendon Press. [Reprinted Delhi, etc.: Motilal Banarsidass, 1984.] Naerssen, F.H.van.1937. Twee koperen oorkonden van Balitung in het Koloniaal Instituut te Amsterdam. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde van NederlandschIndië,XCV, 44l-6l. Poerbatjaraka, R. Ng.1932. Het Oud-Javaansche . Tijdschrift voor IndischeTaal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,LXXII, 151–214. Sedyawati, Edi.1980/81. Permasalahan sejarah tari dilihat pada kasus masa Jawa Kuna. Majalah Ilmu-ilmu SastraIndonesia,IX (2–3), 103–41. Sedyawati, Edi.1982. The question of Indian influence on ancient Javanese dance. Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs,XVI (2), 59–82. Sedyawati, Edi.1986. Kajian kuantitatif atas masalah ‘local genius’. (In Pertemuan IlmiahArkeologi IV. Cipanas, 3–9 Maret 1986. III. Konsepsi dan metodologi.Jakarta: Pusat Penelitian Arkeologi Nasional, 33–49.) Sedyawati, Edi. Unpublished. Pengarcaan masa Kadiri dan Singhasari: sebuah tinjauan sejarah kesenian. [PhD thesis, University of Indonesia, Jakarta, 1985.) Soewito Santoso, ed. and tr.1980. Ramayana kakawin,New Delhi[: International Academy of Indian Culture]. 3 vols. Series, Indo-Asian Literatures, 251.) Stutterheim, W.1925. Rama-Legenden und Rama-Reliefs in Indonesien. Tafelband.München: Georg Müller Verlag. Stutterheim, W.1989. Rama-legends and Rama-reliefs in Indonesia. Translated by C.D.Paliwal and R.P.Jain.New Delhi: Indhira Gandhi Centre for the Arts/Abhinav Publications. Tarlekar, G.H. 1975. Studies in the Natyaastra with special reference to the Sanskritdrama in performance.Delhi, etc.: Motilal Banarsidass. Wama, I Wayan, and others, ed. and tr. n.d. [1986?]. Ramayana: kakawin miwah tegesipun. [Denpasar:] Dinas Pendidikan lan Kabudayan, Propinsi Daérah Tingkat II, Bali. 2 vols.

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12 Sléndro and pélog in India? RICHARD WIDDESS

Introduction Despite the historical influence of India in many areas of South-East Asian culture— including visual arts, religion, language, dance, and drama—musical traditions such as those of Central Javanese or Balinese gamelan show few obvious links with Indian music. Laurence Picken summarized the problem as follows: From bas-reliefs on the great stupa at Borobodur in Java (750) it is known that orchestras of the time included all the instruments of ancient India. The evidence suggests that in Java, at any rate, Indian musical influence was at one time paramount in court and ritual orchestras; it renders even more striking the fact that Java now shows so little trace of this influx of foreign instruments. If one assumes that Siam and Cambodia were at one time no less Hinduized than was Java, it is remarkable that they also exhibit so little Indian influence in their current musical practices. (Picken, 1957:182f.) Picken here refers both to musical instruments and to musical practices-. in the case of the Central Javanese gamelan, for instance, neither the instruments themselves, nor the music that is played on them, appear at all related to their Indian counterparts. The same is true of the West Javanese and Balinese gamelans. Tuned gongs, xylophones, and metallophones are virtually unknown in the Indian subcontinent; even the flutes and bowed or plucked chordophones used in the gamelan are of different types from the characteristic Indian equivalents. The musical style of the gamelan is so influenced by the dominance of tuned percussion that it is impossible to imagine gamelan music played on any dissimilar set of instruments. In order to account for this situation we have to assume that Javanese court and ritual music has evolved in the intervening centuries away from whatever Indian models may have been current in the eighth century or earlier. But we should also recognize that similarly profound changes have occurred in Indian art-music, especially with the advent of instruments and musical practices from Islamic Central Asia from the twelfth century onwards. To a large extent the two musical cultures have evolved along divergent paths. In India, recent centuries have seen the

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Example 1.Matra and kala

predominance of solo, improvisatory performances by virtuoso singers or players of stringed and wind instruments, who com mand a large and varied repertory of scales, tunings, and modes. Indonesia, by contrast, has developed highly integrated ensemble performances based on fixed compositions, played primarily on tuned percussion instruments having two or three scales or tunings and a limited number of modes (pathet). The ‘un-Indian’ character of gamelan music is therefore hardly surprising if we are comparing it with what we hear as Indian music today. If, however, we compare it with what is known about Indian music of the early first millennium A.D., the period at which the two cultures were in closest contact, the distance between them does not appear quite so great; and it seems at least possible that certain features of early Indian musical practice have been retained in Indonesia, that have been lost or transformed in India itself. The evidence for early Indian music includes both a pictorial record, going back almost a thousand years earlier than Borobudur, and a tradition of written musical theory in the Sanskrit language. The earliest written text about music, the , is an elaborate treatise on the production of dramatic performances, in which dance and music played an important part. It was probably compiled not later than about A.D. 500, from earlier sources of unknown date, and therefore falls into the period of Hindu-Buddhist influence in South-East Asia. Although this text may not have been known directly in South-East Asia (Brandon, 1967:22–23), its account of musical theory and practice gives some clues as to the nature of whatever Indian music may have been exported to the Hindu-Buddhist courts of early Java. It would be beyond the scope of this short essay to explore every aspect of the relationship between early Indian musical theory and practice, as documented in the sculptural and literary record, and the Indonesian gamelan traditions. It may be expected, however, that traces of Indian influence will be found at a deep level of musical structure, if anywhere, rather than at the surface levels most liable to disturbance and change. This essay will therefore examine two fundamental aspects

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Example 2.

Inscription, first line

of musical structure, first rhythmic organization, and secondly the organization of scales, tunings, and modes. Rhythmic organization There are, I suggest, three respects in which the organization of rhythm in early Indian music was similar to that of the modern gamelan. First, unlike modern Indian music in which a range of different metres is employed (including binary and ternary metres and metres of five, seven, ten, fourteen, etc. units), in early theory rhythm is measured by exclusively binary units, called kala. According to the tempo and style of the piece, this kala could comprise two, four, or eight equal beats, called matra (see Ex. 1). The length of the matra is considered to be constant; the length of the kala is consequently variable. This fundamentally binary organization is a feature shared with modern gamelan, where the equivalent of the kala is perhaps the gatra of four equal beats. Ex. 2 shows part of one of the earliest surviving notated Indian in Tamil Nadu, South melodies, preserved in a rock inscription at India, dating from the seventh or eighth century (transcription from Widdess, 1979): note the four-beat, gatra-like rhythm. Each section of this melody comprises sixteen kalas of four beats each. Secondly, the kalas were grouped together into larger units of measurement, just as in gamelan music the gatra are grouped into gongan. The defining feature of the modern gongan is of course the stroke on a large gong on the final beat. In early Indian music the equivalent feature was a clap of the hands or a stroke on small

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Example 3.Rovindaka song, kalas 1–96, cheironomic pattern

cymbals, falling either at the beginning or at the end of the metrical pattern or tala. Just as in the gamelan a range of gongs of different pitches is used to punctuate the gongan, according to a number of set colotomic patterns corresponding to different genres, so in early Indian ritual music the tala pattern was punctuated by a variety of different hand-gestures—both audible slaps (of either hand on the seated musician’s thigh) and silent gestures—arranged into different patterns according to genre. Ex. 3 shows the pattern of hand-gestures for part of the genre Rovindaka (after Rowell, 1988): each number denotes one kala, so this is, so to speak, an enormous gongan of 96 gatras. Syllables printed in italics—a, ni, vi, pra—denote silent hand-movements; those in roman type—a, ta, and S[am]—denote audible claps.1 Note that the most emphasized clap or cymbal-stroke, called samnipata (and indic ated as S in the example), falls at the end of the tala, like the gong ageng stroke at the end of the gongan. The third point of comparison is that since the kala could comprise two, four, or eight beats, the value of the beat remaining constant, then we have here something analogous to the Javanese concept of irama or rhythmic levels. There is some evidence to suggest that, in early India as in modern Java, the same melody, or at least the same genre, could be presented at any of the three rhythmic levels, an idea that also underlies the Thai concept of thao. A similar idea indeed survives in India 1

Both hands were employed in making the gestures and claps. The silent gestures were made with palm up or down, fingers contracted or straight (see Rowell, 1988, for further details). The three audible slaps were made with left or right hand alone (striking the seated musician’s thigh), or both hands together (samnipata).

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today: in South India, for example, one may be taught a composition at medium tempo, at half speed, and at double speed. In North Indian dhrupad the composition may be first sung at the slowest level of speed, then at double and quadruple speed (not to mention triple, sextuple, and other proportional speeds).2 A fundamentally binary rhythmic organization, the use of audible signals to demarcate and punctuate rhythmic periods in fixed patterns according to genre (with the most emphasized signal typically at the end), and the relationship of three rhythmic levels in the proportion 1:2:4, are therefore features common to early Indian music and modern gamelan music; they may also be found in other SouthEast Asian ensemble-music traditions, especially those in areas most exposed to Indian cultural influence—Burma, Thailand, and Cambodia. Melodic organization Turning to melodic organization, we find that the Indian/Indonesian parallels are more deeply buried. At first sight there seems little in common between the scale and modal systems of India and Indonesia. In contrast to the two laras or basic tunings, sléndro and pélog, and the relatively small number of pathetor modes in Indonesia, India today boasts a large number of different scales—10 in the North, 72 in the South—and a couple of hundred or so modes or ragas in common use. Furthermore, while in Indonesia most instruments have their tuning so to speak ‘built in’, and cannot easily be re-tuned to a different laras, in India all instruments emulate the pitch-flexibility of the voice and can be re-tuned at will. To all intents and purposes, therefore, the melodic principles of Indian and Indonesian music now appear unrelated. To find any common ground between the two, we must again and look to the early Indian musical system as documented in the

2

In this context it is important to distinguish change in the rapidity of an underlying beat from change in the relationship of rhythmic events to a beat of constant rapidity. In changing from one irama to another, both the rapidity of the beat, and the rhythmic density (the number of successive sounds per beat) can remain unchanged; what changes is the rapidity of the colotomic gong-pattern (the number of beats per gongan), and hence the rapidity with which the basic melody (balungan) is presented and the extent to which it is elaborated. In early Indian music theory the rapidity of the beat (matra) similarly remains unchanged (at a value of around sixty beats per minute), whether there are two, four, or eight to the kala; what changes is the length of the kala, and consequently, since there is generally one clap or gesture to each kala, the rapidity of the pattern of hand-gestures (tala). In modern Indian music the beat again remains unchanged during augmentation and diminution, but the length of the tala pattern also normally remains constant, and the density of events per beat and per tala cycle increases or decreases (cf. Widdess, 1977). In early Indian music it was also possible to double or quadruple the number of kalas in a tala pattern; the pattern of hand-gestures (or cymbal-strokes) was expanded accordingly, by interpolating extra hand-gestures between those of the basic pattern. Ex. 3 represents a tala pattern at its quadruple stage of expansion, hence the large number of silent gestures. For further discussion, see Lath, 1978; Widdess, 1981; and Rowell, 1988.

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Example 4.Sléndro and pélog

other first-millennium texts. Here we find a system that is based, as in Indonesia today, on two contrasting basic scales or tunings. The intervallic structure of the laras sléndro and laras pélog is a matter of some controversy, and since every gamelan may be tuned differently, and can incorporate intervallic differences between octaves, there is nothing to be gained by attempting a precise definition.3 I therefore propose a crude formulation which will, I believe, be sufficient for comparative purposes. Larassléndro may be described as a pentatonic tuning, the intervals more or less equal in size, such that the largest interval in any sléndro tuning is always lessthan twice the size of the smallest (Ex. 4, a). I shall refer to this as Pentatonic Type I. Laras pélog may also be regarded as a pentatonic pitch-set, but in this case the intervals are far from equal, so much so that the two largest intervalsare more than three times the size of the smallest (Ex. 4, b). The two largest intervals may each be divided by an auxiliary or exchange tone, on account of which this laras is often represented as a heptatonic scale from which two or three different pentatonic tunings can be derived. Pélog is thus a more complex pitchsystem

Example 5.

3

and Madhyama-grama

For data on gamelan tunings the following sources were consulted: Kunst and Kunstvan Wely, 1925; Kunst, 1949; Hood and Harrell, 1966; McPhee, 1966; van Zanten, 1986; Vetter, 1989.

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thansléndro, but for purposes of comparison I shall regard it as a single tuning or scale-type, essentially pentatonic, which I shall refer to as Pentatonic Type II. I am of course aware that in both laras, the voice and rebab can add additional pitches and microtonal inflections to those of the basic tunings, but I regard these as a secondary phenomenon of which we need not take account for present purposes. It is, I suggest, only at the deepest levels of structure that we are likely to find any meaningful parallels with Indian music. was based on two The early Indian melodic system described in the and Madhyama-grama. These both gramas, scales or tunings, called the had seven pitches to the octave, and the constituent intervals were defined in terms of a theoretical microtonal interval, the ruti, of which there were considered to be 22 to the octave; that the rutis were regarded as equal has been conclusively demonstrated by Bhandarkar (1912) and Jairazbhoy (1975). Ex. 5 shows the structure of these scales as defined in rutis. Suffice it to say that the two gramas bear no obvious resemblance to the essentially pentatonic sléndro and pélog. Calculating the exact values of the ruti-intervals and comparing them with actual sléndro and pélog tunings of modern Indonesia would not, I suggest, lead to any definitive results, given the intrinsic variability of the two laras. further, however, we find that the heptatonic grama Reading the scales were the basis for markedly pentatonic melodic structures in which two notes were suppressed—that is, either omitted entirely, or treated as weak auxiliary notes. For as well as scales, the text gives detailed descriptions of modes or jatis, and these descriptions give us some clues as to how the grama scales were used in practice. There were eighteen such jatis; but of these, seven were considered primary or basic, while the remaining eleven were combinations or variants of the basic seven. The seven primary jatis thus represent the most important modal structures of early Indian music (Ex. 6). For each jati, various melodic features are prescribed by the text; but we shall limit our attention to the distinction between ‘strong’ (bahutva) and ‘weak’ (alpatva) notes, for it is the strong notes that represent the nucleus of the mode, while the weak notes are to be suppressed or omitted. Notice first that six of the seven jatis have a pentatonic basis, since each contains two weak notes, either or both of which may be omitted entirely. The first jati, , is anomalous; it has only one omissible note, and hence a hexatonic basis.4 We for the present. Notice secondly that of the remaining, pentatonicshall ignore , and three to the Madhyamabased jatis, three are at tributed to the grama. No rationale for the attribution of particular jatis to particular gramas has previously been proposed in the literature of Indian music theory, but we can now see that these two groups of jatis represent two contrasting pentatonic types. In the

4 The second degree is also weak in , but may not be omitted. The jati (like all the . The primary jatis) is named after the pitch that serves as Final (nyasa), in this case name , literally ‘born of six’, may reflect an association between this note (or the jati based on it) and hexatonicity.

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Example 6. Primary jatis

Sadja-grama jatis, the largest intervals, of seven rutis, are more than three times the size of the smallest, of two rutis. The intervals of the Madhyama-grama jatis are less disparate in size: the largest intervals, of five or six rutis, are not more than twice the size of the smallest, of three rutis. Now some similarity between the Indian and Indonesian scale-systems begins to emerge. It seems that a pair of contrasting pentatonic types played an important role jatis clearly in early Indian music, as in modern Indonesian music. The belong to our Pentatonic Type II, to which laras pélog also belongs. The intervals of , but less the Madhyama-grama jatis are more equal than those of the equal than those of laras sléndro, and it is therefore less certain whether they can be regarded as belonging to Pentatonic Type I. The hypothesis that sléndro has evolved through equalization of the intervals of an anhemitonic pentatonic scale was however proposed many years ago by Sachs (1943:130ff.), who also noted the

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existence of pentatonic types similar to sléndro and pélog in India. We can now see that, at a time when India and Indonesia were in close cultural contact, these two pentatonic types played a fundamental role in the modal system of Indian music. It is therefore plausible that Indonesian musicians were influenced by Indian scaletypes, and that the originally unequal, anhemitonic pentatonic scale-type represented by the Madhyama-grama jatis evolved through a process of equalization into the tempered sléndro of today. We may also note that in both India and Indonesia, each Pentatonic Type is manifested in three modes or tunings: thus there are six primary pentatonic jatis— three attributed to each grama; in Central Java, six pathet or modes, three for each laras. Within each grama the three pentatonic-based jatis are distinguished from each other mainly by their final pitch, which is different in each case;5 a shift in tonal centre or gong-pitch appears also to be part of the difference between pathet, though other factors are also important. Along with the twofold division of Pentatonic Types, therefore, India may have bequeathed to Indonesia the idea of a threefold classification within each Pentatonic Type based partly on distinctions of final pitch or tonal centre. It seems possible that the modal system of Burma, another area of South-East Asia strongly influenced by India, exhibits a similar arrangement of two pentatonic types with three or four tunings in each type (cf. Garfias, 1975). What is perhaps most significant is that in ancient India and Indonesia, melodic theory and practice developed from this possible common basis in quite different directions, so that the common basis itself is now almost undetectable. In India, the six pentatonic primary jatis did not account for all melodic types; there were in , and the eleven ‘mixed’ or variant jatis.6 Further addition the hexatonic jati combination of existing modes, and the acceptance into court tradition of melodytypes derived from folk or popular music, gave rise in the late first and early second millennium to a vast repertory of modes or ragas, in which the jatis disappeared except as theoretical entities, and the original distinction between the gramas became almost totally obscured. With the advent of music and musical instruments from Central Asia in the period of Muslim dominance, the repertory of scale-types and modes was even further expanded, and other fundamental changes, such as the introduction of a drone-tonic, occurred. Even theorists eventually acknowledged that the two-grama system was no longer significant in practice. Meanwhile, in court music, the importance of improvised solo virtuoso performance gradually overtook

5

In Ex. 6, the Final is placed at the extreme left of each scale-diagram, and corresponds to the Final is , in it is the next a different scale-degree in each case: in , etc. Each of the seven degrees of the scale is thus the Final for one higher degree primary jati. The jatis are usually listed in the ascending scale order of their final degrees: , , Gandhar, Madhyama, Pañcam, Dhaivat, . This order, however, cuts across the grouping of jatis according to grama, and it may be for this reason that the partial correlation of grama and pentatonic type has previously gone unnoticed. For further details on early Indian modal theory, see Lath, 1978.

196 SLÉNDRO AND PÉLOG IN INDIA?

that of memorized compositions performed in ensemble, although the latter are still important in classical dance. In Indonesia, perhaps because of the difficulty of re-tuning melodic percussion, no expansion in the number of scale-types occurred, and a system of two-scalestimes-three-modes was retained, at least in Central Java. A more elaborate modal system is perhaps to be found in West Java, which would merit comparison with the extended jati and raga systems of early India. In all these areas a preference remained for ensemble performance of composed pieces, albeit with scope for spontaneous variation by certain instruments. Most remarkable is the development of instrumental ensemble playing, for in India instruments have always been treated as inferior to the voice. The foregoing observations are not intended to prove that either the melodic system or the rhythmic system of modern gamelan have their origins in India. I believe this to be one possible interpretation of the historical and musical evidence from India, Indonesia, and elsewhere in South-East Asia. Unless further evidence concerning the early history of music in Indonesia comes to light, it is perhaps unlikely that this interpretation could be tested; mean-while, however, we cannot rule out the possibility of Indian influence on Indo nesian music, occurring at a remote period of history and manifested at a deep structural level. Thus the apparent absence of Indian characteristics in the music of South-East Asia today, observed by Picken in the passage quoted at the beginning of this essay, may reflect the divergent development of music in both areas, and may conceal underlying structural elements that are ultimately of Indian origin. References Bharata[muni].1964. of Bharatamuni, with the commentary Abbinavabharat by Abhinavagupta. Edited by M.R. Kavi. IV. Baroda: Oriental Institute. (Gaek-wad’s Oriental Series, 145.) Bhandarkar, Rao Bahadur P.R.1912. Contribution to the study of ancient Hindu music. Indian Antiquary,XLI, 157–64, 185–95, 254–65. Brandon, J.R.1967. Theatre in South-east Asia,Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Garfias, R.1975. Preliminary thoughts on Burmese modes. Asian Music,VII (1), 39–49. Hood, M., and Harrell, M.1966. Sléndro and pé1og redefined. [By M, Hood.]—Note on laboratory method, by M. Harrell. Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology,I (1), 28–37, 37– 48. Jairazbhoy, N.A.1975. An interpretation of the 22 rutis. Asian Music,VI (1–2), 38–59. Kunst, J.1949. Music in Java: its history, its theory, and its technique. Second revisedand enlarged edition, translated… by E. van Loo.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. 2 vols.

6

The ‘mixed’ jatis are explained as combining various and Madhyama-grama primary jatis. They include a wide variety of scale-structures, many of them not pentatonicbased.

RICHARD WIDDESS 197

Kunst, J., andKunst-van Wely, C.J.A.1925. De toonkunst van Bali: beschouwingenover oorsprong en beïnvloeding, composities, notenschrift, en instrumenten.II. Weltevreden: G.Kolff. Lath, M.1978. A study of Dattilam: a treatise on the sacred music of ancient India.New Delhi: Impex. McPhee, C.1966.Music in Bali: a study inform and instrumental organisation in Bali-nese orchestral music.New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Picken, L.E.R.1957. The music of Far Eastern Asia. II. (InWellesz, E., ed. New Oxfordhistory of music.I. London: Oxford University Press, 135–89.) Rowell, L.1988. Form in the ritual theatre music of ancient India. Musica Asiatica,V, 140– 90. Sachs, C.1943. The rise of music in the ancient world, East and West.London: J.M. Dent and Sons Ltd. Vetter, R.1989. A retrospect on a century of gamelan tone measurements. Ethnomusicology,XXXIII (2), 217–27. Widdess, D.R.1977. Trikala: a demonstration of augmentation and diminution from South India. Musica Asiatica,I, 61–74. inscription: a source of early Indian music in Widdess, D.R.1979. The notation. Musica Asiatica,II, 115–50. Widdess, D.R.1981. Tala and melody in early Indian music: a study of Nanyadeva’s songs with musical notation. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and AfricanStudies,XLIV (3), 481–508. Zanten, W.van.1986. The tone material of the kacapi in Tembang Sunda in West Java. Ethnomusicology,XXX (1), 84–112.

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13 Notes on the acoustics and tuning of gamelan instruments ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER and ANDREAS E.BEURMANN

1 Introduction As is very well known, there have been quite a number of studies investigating aspects of tone-systems, scales, and tuning in the music of Java and Bali. Since the measurements and speculations of Alexander John Ellis (1885) it has been customary to interpret a number of non-European scales as equidistant, among them several of South-East Asia, and Indonesia as well as Thailand in particular.1 While the view that for instance laras sléndro belongs to the group of equidistant scales is still advocated here and there, the basic assumptions of such a hypothesis have rarely been taken into account. The goal of the present paper is thus to discuss some issues relevant to the theory of equidistant scales on the one hand, and acoustical facts related to gamelan instruments on the other. We hope to demonstrate that any theory of scales derived from the measurement of idiophones (xylophones, metallophones, lithophones) must consider the acoustic behaviour of this class of instruments which of course is also relevant to pitch perception. It will be shown that especially with respect to xylophones, metallophones, etc., pitch is quite complex and can by no means be equated with the perception of a ‘fundamental’ or any other single frequency component. Therefore, frequency measurements as they have been applied to tonometric research on gamelan instruments, can produce results that are ambiguous or even misleading. To speak of laras sléndro as an ‘equidistant five-pitch scale’ in our opinion asks for some clarification of what is understood by ‘pitch’, and also for a few remarks on the concept of equidistance which, to be sure, is a mathematical construct that has been adopted in both the fields of psychology, especially psychophysics, and musicology. 2 Annotations on ‘equidistance’ As can be seen from the original papers of Ellis (and Hipkins), it was his favourite idea to interpret a number of non-Western scales in the light of an achievement of European keyboard tuning, namely equal temperament.2 He simply wanted to

200 ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER AND ANDREAS E.BEURMANN

Figure 1

prove that by no means all scales in use around the world are based on framing intervals like fourths and fifths, and in his zeal to find what he labelled ‘nonharmonic scales’ (Ellis and Hipkins, 1884) went so far as to claim that equal temperament is the working principle behind a number of scales outside Western music theory and influence. However, one can neither ignore the speculative nature of much of what is offered as explanatory (with sentences like: ‘instead of observed… I propose tempered’, Ellis, 1885:513), nor can one disregard the difference between the concepts of temperament and equidistance. Temperament in most cases refers to a predefined system of tone-relations (very often that based on ratios of small integers like 2:1, 3:2, 4:3, 5:4, etc.) which serves as a standard; for practical reasons of tuning and modulation certain ratios may be tempered (that is, flattened or sharpened) as was and still is the case in the tuning of keyboards (see Barbour, 1951; Vogel, 1975). Equidistance in contrast is a principle of sectioning by which any given straight line or span may be spaced into equal parts; this method has been employed in music to derive scales on the monochord and probably on aerophones, too (see Vogel, 1975: 12ff., 179ff.). To divide a string (on the monochord, tanbr, or similar instrument) into sections of equal length however will not result in intervals that give rise to a sensation of equal size; for instance, divisions of a string of a given length into five parts will yield the musical intervals shown in Figure 1. It should thus be clear that the allegedly ‘equidistant five-pitch’ scale of larassléndro cannot be traced back to equidistant sectioning of strings or air columns in aerophones. In fact, breaking an octave into five equal-distance inter vals results in which certainly is quite complex steps of the numerical value of and difficult only to imagine as a standard of tuning; pitch relations in an equidistant heptatonic scale as has been claimed to be in use in Thailand and adjacent areas

1

In this article, we will not discuss earlier contributions dealing with scales and tunings such as Ellis, 1885; Stumpf, 1901; von Hornbostel, 1927; Kunst, 1949; Lentz, 1965; Rahn, 1979. See, however, Schneider, 1976, 1986, 1988, 1991, 1992; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[a, b].

2

This seems to be a paradox in the history of ethnomusicology, in that Ellis on the one hand claimed general diversity of non-Western musical scales, and on the other set out to reduce a variety of data to a very small number of temperaments including ‘equal temperament’, a view that was indeed ‘very capricious’ (cf. Ellis, 1885:526) with respect to empirical observations and data at hand.

ACOUSTICS AND TUNING OF GAMELAN INSTRUMENTS 201

similarly would be defined by a step (‘interval’) size of . Stumpf in his famous article ‘On the tone-system and music of the Siamese’ (Stumpf, 1901) rightly wondered about how people without the help of a logarithm table and extraction of roots could have achieved such a complicated scale (1901:89). The cue to an understanding of the ‘equidistant’ approach of interpretation of non-Western scales pursued by so many scholars must probably be sought in the realms of the theory of hearing on the one hand, and psychological issues concerning distance estimation on the other.3 In short, we may summarize that according to the theory of hearing developed, above all, by Helmholtz (1863) with respect to complex sounds (that is, sounds which contain more than one spectral component), the fundamental frequency of the sound mainly accounts for the sensation of ‘pitch’, while all the other components are due to result in the sensation of timbre. It is assumed that complex periodic vibration can be built up from a series of simple harmonic vibrations whose frequencies have the ratio 1 : 2 : 3 : 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 : 8 : 9 :…:n. A complex sound is thus made up of components which are sine waves in a way usually called additive synthesis according to the well-known theorem of J.B.Fourier (cf. Bracewell, 1986; Randall, 1987). In the theory of hearing advanced by Helmholtz and others, it has conversely been implied that the ear performs an analysis by which complex sounds are decomposed so that the lowest partial (understood as the ‘fundamental’ of the series of frequencies) is perceived as the pitch, and the number and relative amplitude of the ‘overtones’ present in the spectrum account for timbre. Fascinating and illuminating as this model has been, it falls short of explaining certain auditory phenomena, among them pitch caused by sounds which lack a ‘fundamental’ (see Roederer, 1975; de Boer, 1976). Moreover, as will be seen below from the analysis of gamelan sounds, by no means all of the instruments produce harmonic spectra yet they produce the sensation of pitch in both the musician and the listener. It seems that basic elements of the Helmholtz theory of hearing have also been adopted in the description of scales: for if ‘pitch’ even of complex sounds is assigned to a single constituent of the spectrum, namely the ‘fundamental’ frequency, and if a scale is understood as a set of pitches, one may consequently define any scale by an arrangement or table of frequency values meant to represent a set of pitches. Of course, this has been the most com mon method in tonometric research since Ellis had reported ‘On the musical scales of various nations’ (1885) and had also provided a means to state the size of any interval by calculation of cents from frequency values (Ellis and Hipkins, 1884).

3

It should be noted that Carl Stumpf was, in the first place, a psychologist and philosopher whose interest in comparative musicology was expressedly to solve some of the most intricate problems of psychophysics as well as perception with the help of non-Western (‘culturally unbiased’ with respect to European art music) subjects, namely musicians from South-East Asia (see Stumpf, 1901; Schneider, 1988, 1991).

202 ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER AND ANDREAS E.BEURMANN

Figure 2

Because it is so easy to use, the approach summarized here (for more details see Beurmann and Schneider, 1989; Schneider, 1976, 1986, 1988, 1991, 1992) has gained wide currency and was employed by, among others, Carl Stumpf, Erich M. von Hornbostel, and Jaap Kunst. Stumpf in particular in his psychological treatise on foundations of perception and sensation in music (Stumpf, 1883–90) had reflected upon sensation of arbitrary two-tone stimuli and had concluded that we are well able to judge the distance two notes are apart in pitch. The latter Stumpf believed to be one-dimensional for reasons that need not be discussed here (see Schneider, 1991; Schneider and Beurmann 1990[b]). Yet if ‘pitch’ has but one dimension, this may be conceived of as a straight line so that various values of pitch are strictly points (in a mathematical sense, a straight line consists of an infinite number of points though the single point is defined to have no extensions) which build up, and lie on, this straight line that is the dimension labelled ‘pitch’. According to Stumpf’s Tonpsychologie (1883, I:122ff.), and also Carl Seashore’s Psychology of music (1938: 53ff.), ‘pitch’ thus is a continuum constituted in the main by an almost infinite number of possible frequencies that may occur as ‘fundamentals’ of musical sounds; the dimension of course is that of lowness •highness of ‘pitch’, as shown in Fig. 2. As every single ‘pitch’ is equivalent to a simple frequency, the position on the dimension is determined by the frequency value (for instance, the pitch of a1 is determined by the frequency of 440 hertz). It is possible with no great effort to state the absolute distance of two ‘pitches’ or frequencies in terms of cents; for example, we may measure sounds of a pan pipe two of which have the fundamental frequencies of 415.0390 and 366.2109 Hz respectively. From the two frequencies we calculate a distance of about 216.95 cents to conclude that the interval measured indeed is quite close to a major second (204 cents) yet considerably sharpened. The view that the psychological category of ‘pitch’ may be equated with the physical sound property of (fundamental) frequency is valid with respect to sine waves or stimuli that come close in their vibration pattern and respective spectrum, for instance, simple flutes, pan pipes, and the like. As soon as we turn to more complex sounds (for example, bowed strings), the ‘fundamental’ may be very weak and difficult either to measure or to recognize by ear; with idiophones as they are so prominent both in Indonesian and African music (see Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[a]), things are much more refined as this class of instruments for reasons to be discussed soon (section 3) exhibits no harmonic spectrum at all so that there is no ‘fundamental’ frequency to be equated with ‘pitch’ in the aforementioned fashion.

ACOUSTICS AND TUNING OF GAMELAN INSTRUMENTS 203

3 Acoustics of idiophones: some basic facts and features It is interesting to note that while the bulk of articles on non-Western scales is based on measurements of xylophones and metallophones (as these were believed to stay in tune over a long period of time), very little has been published on the actual acoustic behaviour of the instruments in question, namely idiophones. As the name already implies, sound production in this class of instruments is effected in such a way that after excitation the three-dimensional body (wooden or metal slabs, bars, rods, bellshaped bodies, lamellae or plates, etc.) is set in vibration. However, unlike sounds obtained from vibrating strings or air columns, there is no stationary (or quasistationary) period after the attack as sounds from idiophones with a few exceptions (in particular gongs and bells in which damping is very low due to the fact that these are usually suspended) tend to die away quickly. As most of the sounds produced by xylophones and metallophones like the gendér, saron, and bonang are quite short with an average duration of less than 0.5 seconds, tonometric determination of ‘pitch’ by means of stroboscope or tuning device is difficult, if possible at all. The problem is that such devices were designed to measure the ‘fundamental’ frequency (see above) of harmonic spectra, and such will not be found in idiophones as the vibration of three-dimensional bodies (bars, plates, etc.) always yields inharmonic spectra. The different modes of vibration in rods and thick strings (such as those used in the bass register of the piano) had been investigated in 1852 (Seebeck, 1852), and in 1890 J.W.Strutt, later to become Lord Rayleigh, published a paper ‘On bells’ in which he discussed ‘a socalled hemispherical metal bell’ not unlike the shape of a bonang-gong of which he had determined four partials that did not conform to a harmonic series (Strutt, 1890:5f.). His findings led to research into the acoustics of bells and carillons whereby different modes of vibration as well as spectral characteristics have been reported (see Rossing, 1984). It is not necessary here to enter into the complex mathematical and physical background of the vibrations registered in idiophones;4 it may suffice to state that because of the various modes of vibration including bending waves (German: Biegeschwingungen) and so-called natural frequencies (German: Eigenschwingungen) the patterns of vibration are sometimes quite irregular so that there seems to be no clear periodicity especially in the onset or attack of sounds obtained from the bonang and similar instruments (‘Gongspiele’ according to the Hornbostel-Sachs classification). Due to this vibration pattern, the spectrum is likely to exhibit the same unstable behaviour, and in fact we find marked shifts of spectral energy over time. As in many cases spectra of metallophones are quite dense, shifts of energy distribution will result in a modulating effect. Modulation, however, can be very regular as is the case with the ombak (‘waves’) of the gong ageng that is an amplitude modulation of a predefined frequency (see Giles, 1974; for examples of vibration patterns, spectra, 4

Relevant information will be found in Trendelenburg, 1961; Fasold and others, 1984; Rossing, 1984 and in the literature listed there.

204 ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER AND ANDREAS E.BEURMANN

Figure 3

and modulation effects, see Beurmann and Schneider, 1989; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]). Amplitude modulation can also be caused by two instruments that differ slightly in pitch, a feature known in Balinese music with the pengisep and pengumbang pairs of instruments that produce penyorog, regular beats (see Hood and Harrell, 1966). As a matter of fact, spectral density which is already fairly high in the single instrument or single bar (of the gendér or saron will increase as two instruments play simultaneously. As an example we take the spectrum of two gangsas sounding together in a gong kebyar ensemble;5 first, there is the signal display (Fig. 3) which shows the total envelope of the vibration over about 1.6 seconds with the hard attack or onset of the sound that decays quickly yet with a reasonable amount of sustain that exhibits some amplitude modulation. We may unroll the same sound as spectral display (Fig. 4) in a quasi-three-dimensional plot where it becomes obvious that spectral density is high though there are some components which are more salient considered by their relative amplitude. These components, however, are not completely stable consequent to the modulation effect. If we take a closer look at the spectrum at a given point in time (Fig. 5), the inharmonic structure is prominent as the majority of spectral components will not be found on the dotted lines which indicate harmonic ratios of the lowest partial deliberately chosen here as a (pseudo-)’fundamental’ frequency (of 421.1425 Hz). Such inharmonic spectra will always be found in idiophones as in rods, bars, etc., the propagation velocity of the bending waves is a function of wave-length so

5‘Surya

kanta’, played by gong kebyer, Sebatu (Bali), recorded in Bali by J.Brunet in

ACOUSTICS AND TUNING OF GAMELAN INSTRUMENTS 205

Figure 4

that the higher natural frequencies will not be in a harmonic ratio to the lowest one. Thus, inharmonic spectra are unavoidable and characteristic to the class of idiophones. However, the degree of inharmonicity may vary considerably due to the material (wood, stone, metal) and the shape of the body set to vibration. Spectral density and inharmonicity moreover can be influenced by both the tuning process and, to some extent, by the playing technique employed. Generally speaking, spectral density seems to be more marked in metallophones than in most of the xylophones we have been able to analyse.6 Spectral density and distribution of partials though depends a lot on the actual construction of the instrument if we consider factors such as damping and resonance. Both play a major role when it comes to the tuning of idiophones, in particular xylophones and metallophones with bars or slabs that rest on supports. As the vibrating bar will produce nodes and anti-nodes typically for several of the natural frequencies, positioning of the supports has an influence on the damping of the modes; in ‘Western’ xylophones (to be used in the modern orchestra, jazz ensemble, etc.) it is customary to place the supports exactly at the nodes of the basic mode (cf. Wood, 1962:148). As the nodes of the higher modes as a rule deviate from that of the basic mode, damping of the other partials will be considerable so that one component is more salient than the others and may produce a sound which comes closer to those which have a true ‘fundamental’. Moreover, one may add resonators (tubes of

1972; digitally sampled from disc and analysed by means of a Synclavier II; spectrum analysis is based on Fast Fourier Transform (FFT). Details of the method are discussed in Randall, 1987.

206 ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER AND ANDREAS E.BEURMANN

Figure 5

bamboo, calabashes) that will reinforce one of the spectral components of each bar or slab as is the case with the gendér and a number of African xylophones.7 Yet, as has been found out in experiments recently, even the addition of resonators cannot stop a certain ambiguity of ‘pitch’ that is inherent in the sounds of the gendér wayang in particular (see Deutsch and Födermayr, 1986), and in the sounds of idiophones in general. 4 ‘Pitch’ in the sounds of idiophones: preliminary remarks It has long been noted that idiophones pose special problems with respect to pitch perception for on the one hand they all produce inharmonic spectra, and on the other in many cases they cause sensations of tones or sounds that are clearly audible yet cannot be measured by any apparatus in terms of frequency and/or amplitude. The most prominent phenomenon to be mentioned here is the so-called ‘strike note’ that has been reported with respect to the sounds of ‘Western’ bells and carillons but will also be found if sounds of a bonang barung or similar instrument (e.g., Balinese réyong or trompong) are used as stimuli, and perhaps even in sounds of the saron (resp. the gangsa) or gendér as these share basic spectral characteristics with belland gong-type instruments.8 The ‘strike note’ which has been investigated for quite

6

See Beurmann and Schneider, 1989; Schneider, 1986, 1988, 1991; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[a, b].

ACOUSTICS AND TUNING OF GAMELAN INSTRUMENTS 207

Figure 6

some time since Schouten’s stimulating study (1940), is a purely psychoacoustic phenomenon, namely the sensation of a ‘pitch’ component which as a rule is not itself present in the spectrum yet dependent on the spectral content. For example, a non-harmonic series of eight partials (see Fig. 6, after Schouten, 1940:293) will result in a perceived strike note of c’ which obviously is not contained in the series. Similarly, such strike notes could occur with respect to sounds of gamelan instruments as the spectra of the instruments in question are both quite dense and unharmonic (see examples in Beurmann and Schneider, 1989; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]), and spectral density tends to increase with the strength of playing. If there is a distinct style of loud’ playing (as actually is the case with gamelan music), not only the overall sound pressure level (SPL) will increase, but so will spectral density, the amount of modulation caused by shifts of spectral energy as well as slight differences in tuning, and thus, ambiguity of ‘pitch’ or pitches. It should be clear, in any event, that with the given spectral characteristics even single notes produced by gamelan instruments like the gendér, saron, and bonang are much less definite in ‘pitch’ than those of a conventional chordophone or aerophone with a marked fundamental and a harmonic spectrum. The main reason seems to be that especially the trained listener is well able to distinguish several components of ‘pitch’ in the sounds of the aforementioned instruments, one of which is more or less sinusoidal and lasts for the time sounds are presented while another component is usually described as a kind of ‘click’ of high partials which die away soon after the onset (cf. Deutsch and Födermayr, 1986). In our own tests, subjects have repeatedly tried to isolate and name more than these two pitch components; however, they did

7

Of interest are also instruments which make use of tuned bamboo tube keys such as the grantang (Bali) and calung (Java); see McPhee, 1966; Kunst, 1949, 1973. 8 The strike note (cf. Schouten, 1940; de Boer, 1976; Rossing, 1984) seems to be dependent, to some extent, on the strength of playing which of course has an influence on spectral energy distribution; saron and gendér exhibit spectra which are in most cases less dense than such obtained from the gong of a bonang yet share the basic inharmonicity due to vibration characteristics.

208 ALBRECHT SCHNEIDER AND ANDREAS E.BEURMANN

Figure 7.Classification of bonang sounds

not always succeed in matching the pitch of the component they believed they had perceived with the frequency of a generator that was sweepable and could be manipulated by the subject at will up and down (cf. Schneider and Beurmann, 1990 [b]). This again points to the fact that (1) the ‘pitch’ of the sounds of gamelan instruments comprises of several components, (2) not all of which must be directly related to partials present in the spectrum. It seems that here as in bells, etc, what is perceived, sensed, and/or ‘imagined’ as ‘pitch’ (which, to be sure, is a cognitive rather than a physical category) is very much dependent on the distribution of spectral energy, that is, on the pattern and relative salience of spectral components: if, for instance, some of the partials come close to a section of a harmonic series in their respective frequencies, it is much easier to assign a certain ‘pitch’ to the sound than is the case with sounds that are distinctly inharmonic, clangorous, and thus difficult to analyse as is the case with many of the kettles/gongs of the bonang barung and similar gong chimes. In a small experiment carried out recently, students experienced in acoustics and music were asked to classify the sounds of a bonang barung9 with respect to the categories of (a) tone, (b) complex tone, and (c) noise. By ‘tone’ a musical note that is of a defined ‘pitch’ and stable timbre was understood, by ‘complex tone’ a sound that contains several or even many partials so that timbre is as prominent as is pitch; ‘noise’ was taken in the physical sense, namely as random distribution of spectral energy with no marked pitch. Eighteen subjects took part in the rating which employed a scale of five degrees or alternatives; the stimuli, sounds that had been recorded before, were played back at a SPL of approx. 75 dB by means of audio equipment; the ratings as well as individual remarks have been noted down. According to the ratings of five of the bonang-sounds, this instrument was judged to produce complex tones in the main with a fair amount of noise, and a certain timbre

9

This instrument belongs to the Museum für Völkerkunde (Hamburg) and was a gift of a merchant from Parakan, Salak (West Java) in 1889, together with more gamelan instruments we have been able to record for experimental work thanks to the support of Prof. H. Zwernemann and Dr C.Wilpert, Hamburg.

ACOUSTICS AND TUNING OF GAMELAN INSTRUMENTS 209

Figure 8

(sound colour) rather than distinct musical notes (though the stimuli used were nothing but part of a scale played up and down). (See Fig. 7.)

Figure 9

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Several of the subjects made remarks as to the ‘clangorous’ sound of the bonang that was reviewed, to contain ‘a fair amount of noise and to sound like out of tune’, especially in comparison to the sounds of a saron demung (sléndro scale up and down) that were played back under the same conditions. The sounds obtained from the saron were judged to be much ‘smoother’ than those of the bonang, and to allow a clearer definition of ‘pitch’ notwithstanding the fact that the spectrum of the saron keys will also usually contain numerous partials. However, the opinion that the saron sounds are ‘smoother’ than those of the bonang may offer a clue to peculiarities of pitch perception which we believe could be relevant here. Psychoacoustic findings seem to indicate that the perception of complex tones or ‘sounds’ is dependent on several factors, among which we have (cf. McAdams, 1982:281): (a) harmonicity of spectral content; (b) the co-ordinated modulation of spectral components; (c) the relative familiarity of the spectral envelope.

If we apply these criteria to the perception, and rating, of gamelan sounds, there can be no doubt that harmonicity of spectral content generally is poor consequent to the acoustics of the instruments (see above). Spectra not only are quite dense but spacing of components especially in the bonang is so tight that ‘pitch’ naturally must be more or less blurred; as an example, we give the spectrum of a gong of a bonang barung (see Fig. 8). The lowest relevant component (which due to the non-harmonic structure of the partials aptly could be labelled ‘pseudo-fundamental’) is at 360.1074 Hz, the next at about 595 Hz and thus considerably lower than the second partial of a harmonic spectrum which naturally would have a frequency of 720.25 Hz. Another very prominent component that equals or even supersedes the ‘pseudo-fundamental’ in amplitude, according to Fig. 8 seems to have the frequency of the fourth partial that a harmonic spectrum with a fundamental of 360.1 Hz would register (1480.4 Hz). However, with better resolution in the frequency domain (see Fig. 9) it becomes very obvious that the component in question falls short of the relevant frequency and thus cannot be considered in terms of harmonic partials. Turning to the second criterion, co-ordinated modulation of spectral components will be found in the ombak (‘waves’) of the gong ageng (gong gedhé) as this is a welldefined amplitude modulation, and also in the penyorog phenomenon (see above). Amplitude modulation will also occur in the sounds of the bonang, and even in the sound of the single kettle that by its shape may be defined as a ‘small gong’ not unlike others employed in gamelan music (e.g. the kempyang and kethuk in Java, and the kelénang and kajar in Bali; see Kunst, 1973; McPhee, 1966). Modulation in the bonang, however, on the one hand is much faster and on the other less regular than that observed in the large gongs (for examples, see Beurmann and Schneider, 1989; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]). Thereby sounds gain a ‘shimmering’ timbre that by its very nature is not stable; neither is the ‘pitch’ of such sounds which are

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thus time-variant due to the modulation inherent in the vibration. The degree to which modulation of spectral components can be called ‘coordinated’ in bonang sounds is in any case much less than is the case with large gongs, and it is likely that the actual dimensioning of the kettles/gongs of the bonang (relative thickness of walls in proportion to overall size) will account for the vibration patterns and the modulation effects observed.10 Besides a more regular amplitude modulation, shifts of spectral energy distribution have been registered that did cause sensations of pitchbending in subjects who claimed that the ‘pitch’ of the re spective sounds was higher by the end than at the onset (cf. Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]). Admittedly, such experiments (see also Deutsch and Födermayr, 1986) so far have been carried out with ‘Western’ subjects as well as with students who had formal training in Western art music; the experiments, which moreover were of a preliminary nature, can further be criticized for being, in the main, outside the musical and cultural context, as the results have been obtained in the laboratory and class-room, and not in a field situation with Indonesian musicians and listeners. Notwithstanding these restrictions, there are reasons to conjecture that the Javanese or Balinese musician/tuner/listener will have similar sensations of the sounds in question even though—to turn to the last of the aforementioned criteria—one may expect him to be indeed familiar with spectral envelopes. However, ‘Western’ subjects who are used to listening to music played on carillons, will also be somewhat familiar with the spectral envelopes of ‘exotic’ instruments such as the bonang or trompong yet are likely to report the same basic ambiguity of ‘pitch’ in almost all of the respective sounds which, to sum up this section, have in common not only inharmonicity of spectral content but a tendency to modulation effects that can be quite regular, though shifts in spectral energy distribution which are nonrecurrent may occur especially in the gong-chimes. While marked inharmonicity, high spectral density, and narrow spacing of partials give rise to the sensation known as ‘roughness’, distinct shifts in spectral energy distribution may cause the sensation of modulation and/or pitch-bending. In any case, there is little doubt that because of the given spectral characteristics and the degree to which quite a number of the signals are time-variant (as there is no ‘quasi-stationary’ section after the onset/attack in idiophone sounds), ‘pitch’ is not always that easy to detect. In sounds that lack a clearly detectable ‘fundamental’, perception of ‘pitch’ moreover cannot be dependent on but one constituent so that the equation of ‘pitch’ with a certain

10

Sounds of the bonang have also been analysed by means of a more advanced method known as ‘adaptive filtering’ (see DeFatta and others, 1988) or ‘autoregressive spectral analysis’; this technique is in particular suited to spectral analysis of signals which are very short and/or non-stationary as are transients and sounds that undergo frequency modulation. Results that were presented as part of this paper in the SOAS symposium exhibit unusual shifts of spectral energy distribution even within very short ‘time slices’ of one microsecond each; as such observations are more interesting to the acoustician, they will be published elsewhere.

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‘frequency’ will not work, and more refined models of pitch perception like that of the so-called ‘virtual pitch’ have to be taken into account.11 5 Conclusion: acoustics, measurements, and the ‘emic/etic’ debate What has been presented in this and in a number of related articles, are mainly facts and empirical findings that might be useful in testing some of the conventional views with respect to scales and tuning of non-Western instruments. As it has traditionally been held that (a) there are ‘equidistant scales’, which (b) can be determined by means of ‘frequency measurement’ and (c) computation of the respective frequency distances into cents, perhaps the first objection to be made is that even if there might be scales based on certain ‘pitches’ that perceptually may be judged to have an ‘equidistant’ structure, every single ‘pitch’ especially of idiophones as a rule is not based on, and thus cannot be reduced to, but one frequency. If pitch perception of, for example, gamelan sounds obtained from the saron, gendér, and bonang, by and large is based on spectral content as a whole, it follows that a description of the scales found in such instruments in principle would require a full reading of at least those spectral components which by their relative amplitude salience are likely to exercise an influence on the ‘pitch’ of the key in question. Consequently, ‘pitch’ of idiophone sounds in particular should be conceived of as a sensation that in very many cases comprises several constituents, namely such spectral components that are so salient as to establish a pattern of partiais from which according to a model based on subharmonic matching (cf. Terhardt, 1979) the musician/listener will sensate ‘virtual pitch’. And as the signals/sounds are often markedly time-variant, strictly speaking also the amount of modulation and/or shift would have to be registered. It will thus be obvious that the conventional approach which states a scale measured from a saron in laras sléndro as six frequency and five cent values as in Fig. 10 contains a fair amount of abstraction. To outline a scale in this fashion in fact seems legitimate only with respect to such sounds where ‘pitch’ is mainly dependent on, and may be equated with, a clearly detectable ‘fundamental’ frequency. Thereby, such a schematic representation is sufficient for certain sounds or instruments (e.g. pan-pipes, recorders) while it fails adequately to model pitch relations in complex sounds as obtained from the many idio-phones. There can be little if any doubt that the ‘one-

11

See Terhardt, 1979; de Boer, 1976. By ‘virtual pitch’ is understood sensation of a pitch that is derived from perception of spectral content of a complex sound in such a way that certain components of the signal spectrum will be integrated into ‘virtual pitch’, which thus itself is not present in the spectrum of the sound in question.

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Figure 10. Saron(demung) (after Ellis and Hipkins, 1884:377)

dimensional approach’ of ‘pitch’ such as occurs in Fig. 2, is but an upshot of the concept theoretically elaborated in Stumpf’s Tonpsychologie which tried to parallel the physical property of frequency and the sensational quality of brightness so that with rising ‘pitch’ we measure rising frequencies and sense increasing brightness of tone colour. As the increase of frequency, brightness, and pitch is both monotonous and parallel, Stumpf was of the opinion that all three are interrelated and can be varied on (or along) one dimension (see above, Fig. 2). As a consequence, differences in ‘pitch’ can easily be stated as differences of frequencies (and vice versa) so that any ‘tone distance’ to be observed in nonWestern scales and tone-systems may be expressed as the ratio of two frequencies f1/ f2, or the cents calculated therefrom. Stumpf’s ‘one-dimensional’ approach that is as elegant as it is problematic, gained wide currency and has been employed (mostly without apparent knowledge of the theoretical background; see Schneider, 1988, 1991; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]) in much of the tonometrical research done in comparative musicology/ ethnomusicology to the present day. And it is due to this approach that most of the measurements obtained from gamelan instruments have been carried out in practice as registrations of single frequencies rather than of complex sounds; even the meritorious study of Surjodiningrat and coworkers (1972) which challenged, most of all, the hypothesis of ‘equidistance’ by showing the great variety inherent in the data, is based on frequency measurements of sounds that had been filtered by means of a low pass so the spectral component that has been registered seems to have been what is labelled here, for reasons of inharmonicity of the spectrum, as ‘pseudo-fundamental’. It should be clear, however, that this single frequency is but a part of the spectral content that makes up ‘pitch’ as a whole. Recently, in ‘A retrospect on a century of gamelan tone measurements’, Roger Vetter has rightly said ‘that the Javanese tuning concepts of sléndro and pélog do not lend themselves to be understood in terms of cents alone’ (Vetter, 1989:226); also his criticism of ‘our continued efforts to reduce Javanese tunings to numerical representations and subject them to western patterns of analytical logic’ as well as his call for attention to factors that are culturally significant, seem to be apt as of course there has been a lot of measurement, calculation, and also speculation in tonometric research. Yet it cannot be ignored that measurement in the laboratory (see Hood and Harrell, 1966; Surjodiningrat and others, 1972) was necessary to gain a clearer picture of the tunings/scales in question, and, above all, to end speculative views as well as to have ‘Sléndro and pélog redefined’ (Hood and Harrell, 1966). Moreover,

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the ‘scientific’ approach adhered to in this paper also may well add to an understanding of culturally significant phenomena; for example, it has been noted that gong forgers and musicians at Bogor (West Java) distinguish between four types of ombak according to the frequency of the amplitude modulation built in the large gongs (see DeVale, 1989). Obviously, the forgers are well aware of the modulation process, and know exactly how to achieve a distinct timbre as well as a sound that will blend with other gamelan instruments. Thus, with respect to the debate on ‘emic’ and ‘etic’ approaches that still continues in anthropology, and also ethnomusicology, 12 the outstanding craftsmanship of gong forgers and tuners may well be described in ‘emic’ terms (see DeVale, 1989) whereas it can hardly be denied that forgers and tuners themselves must have some ‘scientific’ understanding of the acoustical properties of the instruments they work on in order to tune, for example, the pengisep and pengumbang instruments to obtain the penyorog beats with the exactness that has been observed (cf. Hood and Harrell, 1966). ‘Measurements’, to be sure, thereby just reveal certain standards that are part of the musical tradition, and in this way the laboratory can add to the results of field-work. Finally, it is worthy of interest that Javanese musicians and tuners seem to make use of ratings in order to judge exactness of tunings, and especially the intervallic structure (embat) obtained; as Hardja Susilo has pointed out, in Javanese musical culture there are various remarks as to the quality of embat which can be translated into a clear-cut ‘emic’ rating scale (see Susilo, 1975:62): Contrary to opinions held in publications which claim that exactness of tuning is of little if any relevance in non-Western music, and that a wide range of tunings would be acceptable in Java and Bali, ratings such as those quoted above are probably indicative of a more subtle system of categories that should be investigated further as it might allow a better understanding of cognitive concepts related to ‘pitch’, scales, and tuning. ‘Pitch’ in particular has been discussed in psychological perspective as being ‘multi-dimensional’ (cf. Shepard, 1982) rather than ‘onedimensional’, a view that deserves attention especially in re-evaluation of scales realized in idiophones which are based on keys or ‘pitches’ that almost always comprise several constituents or components. Thus, in order to achieve embat that is judged to be sekéca sanget, the tuner of any gamelan idiophone basically will have to ‘balance’ the keys, and is likely to proceed in two directions, namely (a) by tuning the spectral content of each of the bars or gongs (saron, bonang), and (b) in balancing

12

The distinction of ‘emic’ and ‘etic’ analogous to that of phonemic and phonetic description in linguistics, according to Pike’s original discussion of the topic (see Pike, 1967)

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the keys in relation to each other. Tuning of spectral content is usually carried out by either suppressing or reinforcing certain components so that the spectrum will be more ‘smooth’; suppression of partials can be achieved by way of dimensioning the vibrating body in a suitable shape as well as by damping; reinforcement of partials similarly can be influenced by shaping/dimensioning, and also enhanced with the aid of resonators. The approach to ‘smooth down’ a basically inharmonic spectrum obviously has already been chosen in the forging and tuning of ancient Chinese bell chimes (cf. Schneider and Stoltz, 1989), and it seems to be the guiding principle also in the tuning of some of the gamelan instruments such as the gendér where spectra will be found which, though still of an inharmonic structure, in parts tend to approximate relations of partials that come close to sections of a harmonic series (cf. Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]). Balancing of spectral content often includes the ‘pseudo-fundamental’ yet it should be clear by now that the overall ‘pitch’ of each of the respective keys can be related to more than just one constituent or component, and it seems to be dependent on the number, density, spacing, and relative salience of partials as well as on modulation effects, etc.13 Generally speaking, one may infer that the ‘pitch’ of idiophone keys will be more definite if components approximate sections of a harmonic series while ‘pitch’ is likely to be somewhat ‘blurred’ if partials are spaced irregularly and densely, or if several instruments which have different spectral characteristics, play simultaneously and give rise to modulation processes. However, the ‘shimmering’ sound obtained thus must not be considered as an obstacle, but seems to be the result desired musically and aesthetically as is obvious in ombak, penyorog, and the distinct metallic timbre of gong kebyar (cf. McPhee, 1966, ch. 19). Modulation characteristic of gongs such as the gong ageng and the kempul can be regulated by forgers and tuners, and also changed subsequently if required (see DeVale, 1989). In metallophones which have the task of rendering audible melodic formulae (such as the nuclear theme played by the sarons), ‘pitch’ relations are sensitive to, and can be influenced by, alterations in the spectra of each of the keys which therefore really need to be balanced until an acceptable intervallic structure (embat) is established. As can be experienced by playing a scale up and down on a saron or gendér, the set of pitches thus obtained at the same time constitutes a timbre sequence, as especially in idiophones, due to inharmonicity of partials, sensation of ‘pitch’ is related to spectral content, and consequently to the ‘timbre’ of such complex sounds. So with respect to ‘equidistant pitch’ allegedly present in laras sléndro, such a pattern, it seems, would require quite an intricate arrangement of a substantial number of partials or components in the six keys to result in the sensation of a scale of complex sounds that would be felt by subjects to be in ‘equidistance’. As cognition of such a scale is based on spectral content as a whole, it follows that

must not be conceived of as a dichotomy but rather as two complementary approaches that often make use of the same corpus of empirical data yet apply different types of analysis to them.

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the measurement of certain frequencies believed to be ‘fundamentals’ that can be taken for the respective ‘pitches’, is a reduction of data which is dangerous and may cause grave misinterpretations. Though it has been claimed from the standpoint of psychophysics ‘that the subject perceives only a single quantitative relation between stimuli’ (Torgerson, 1961:205), there is no reason to assume that distance estimations with respect to, for instance, interval size and pitch relations, must be ‘one-dimensional’ (see above) and restricted to ratios of fundamental frequencies.14 If we conceive of ‘pitch’ to be a ‘functional whole’ (Koffka, 1936), we may conjecture that subjects should be well able to integrate several components into one consistent sensation of ‘pitch’ as happens with sounds that lack a fundamental yet contain sections of harmonic spectra (‘overtones’ of the frequency ratios 2 : 3 : 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 : 8 :…: n). With gamelan sounds and similar stimuli making use of (more or less marked) inharmonic spectra, a certain ambiguity of ‘pitch’ has been registered in experiments (Deutsch and Födermayr, 1986; Schneider and Beurmann, 1990[b]), and there is some circumstantial evidence that time-variance of signals caused by shifts in spectral energy distribution and modulation effects adds as much to such ambiguity as does spectral inharmonicity. However, gamelan music that employs beats as well as some distinctly ‘clangorous’ sounds, takes advantage of the acoustic properties of idiophones, instruments that are of interest in a musical and cultural (cf. Hood, 1980–87; Bernet Kempers, 1988) as well as in a ‘scientific’ perspective. References Barbour, J.M.1951. Tuning and temperament.East Lansing: Michigan State College Press. [Reprinted New York: DaCapo, 1972.] Bernet Kempers, A.J.1988. The kettledrums of Southeast Asia: a bronze age worldand its aftermath.Rotterdam: Balkema. (Modern Quaternary Research in Southeast Asia, X.) Beurmann, A.E., andSchneider, A.1989. Probleme und Aufgaben akustisch-tonometrischer Forschung in der Vergleichenden Musikwissenschaft. Acustica,LXIX, 156–62. Boer, E. de.1976. On the ‘residue’ and auditory pitch perception. (In Keidel, W.D., andNeff, W.D., ed. Handbook of sensory physiology.Heidelberg, New York: Springer, V (3), 479–583.) Bracewell, R.1986. The Fourier transform and its applications. Second edition,New York: MacGraw-Hill. DeFatta, D.J., and others.1988. Digital signal processing: a system design approach. ByD.J. DeFatta, J.G. Lucas, and W.S. Hodgkiss.New York, etc.: John Wiley and Sons. Deutsch, W.A., andFödermayr, F.1986. Tonhöhe versus Frequenz: zur Frage der indonesischen Tonsysteme. Musicologica Austriaca,VI, 197–226. DeVale, S.C.1989. Gong forging in Bogor, West Java: the process through its soundscape. Pacific Review of Ethnomusicology,V, 89–123.

13

Even in sounds with harmonic spectra, sensation of ‘pitch’ must not be based (and in fact rarely is) on the ‘fundamental’ only. As to the problem of spectral content in pitch sensation, see also Stoll, 1982.

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Ellis, A.J.1885. On the musical scales of various nations. Journal of the Society of Arts,XXXIII, 485–527. Ellis, A.J., andHipkins, A.J.1884. Tonometrical observations on some existing non-harmonic musical scales. Proceedings of the Royal Society,XXXVII, 368–85. Fasold, W., and others.1984. Taschenbuch Akustik. [By] W.Fasold, W.Kraak, W.Schirmer.Berlin: VEB Verlag Technik. 2 vols. Giles, R.1974. Ombak in the style of Javanese gongs. Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology,II (1), 159–65. Grey, J.1977. Multidimensional perceptual scaling of musical timbres. Journal of theAcoustical Society of America,LXI, 1270–77. Helmholtz, H. von.1863. Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen als physiologischeGrundlage für die Theorie der Musik.Braunschweig: Vieweg. [Third edition 1870.] Hood, M.1980–87. The evolution of Javanese gamelan.I-III. Wilhelmshaven: Heinrichshofen; New York: C.F. Peters. Hood, M., andHarrell, M.1966. Sléndro and pélog redefined. [By M. Hood.]—Note on laboratory method, by M.Harrell. Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology,I (1), 28–37, 37– 48. Hornbostel, E.M. von.1927. Musikalische Tonsysteme. (InGeiger, H., and Scheel, K., ed. Handbuch der Physik.VIII. Berlin: Springer, 425–49.) Koffka, K.1936. Principles of Gestalt psychology.London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co. Kunst, J.1949. Music in Java: its history, its theory, and its technique. Second revisedand enlarged edition, translated.. .by E. van Loo.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. 2 vols. Kunst, J.1973. Music in Java. its history, its theory, and its technique. Third enlargededition, edited by E.L Heins.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. 2 vols. Lentz, D.1965. The gamelan music of Java and Bali.Lincoln, Nebraska: University of Nebraska Press. McAdams, S.1982. Spectral fusion and the creation of auditory images. (InClynes, M., ed. Music, mind, and brain.London, New York: Plenum Press, 279–98.) McPhee, C.1966. Music in Bali: a study inform and instrumental organisation in Balinese orchestral music.New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Pike, K.1967. Language in relation to a unified theory of the structure of human behavior. Second edition, revised.The Hague and Paris: Mouton. (Janua Linguarum. Series Maior, XXIV.) Rahn, J.1979. Javanese pélog tunings reconsidered. Yearbook of the International FolkMusic Council,X, 69–82. Randall, R.B.1987. Frequency analysis. Third edition,Naerum: Bruel and Kjaer. Roederer, J.1975. Introduction to the physics and psychophysics of music. Secondedition.New York, Heidelberg: Springer. Rossing, T., ed.1984. Acoustics of bells.New York: Van Nostrand-Reinhold Co. Schneider, A.1976. Musikwissenschaft und Kulturkreislehre.Bonn: Verlag für Systematische Musikwissenschaft. Schneider, A.1986. Tonsystem und Intonation. Hamburger Jahrbuch der Musikwissenschaft,IX, 153–99. Schneider, A.1988. Musikwissenschaftliche Theorienbildung, aussereuropäische Musik und (psycho-)akustische Forschung. (InSchröder, H., ed. Colloquium: Festschrift für Martin Vogel.Bad Honnef: G. Schröder, 145–74.)

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Schneider, A.1991. Psychological theory and comparative musicology. (InNettl, B., andBohlman, P., ed. Comparative musicology and anthropology of music.Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 293–317.) Schneider, A.1992. Early history of ethnomusicology: Germany and Austria. (In Myers, H.B., ed. The new Grove handbook of ethnomusicology.London, New York: Macmillan.) Schneider, A., and Beurmann, A.1990[a]. ‘Okutuusa amadinda’: zur Frage äquidistanter Tonsysteme und Stimmungen in Afrika. (In Peterson, P., ed. Musikkulturgeschichte:Festschrift für Constantin Floros.Wiesbaden: Breitkopf und Haertel, 493–526.) Schneider, A., andBeurmann, A.1990[b]. Tonsysteme, Frequenzdistanz, Klangformen und die Bedeutung experimenteller Forschung für die Vergleichende Musikwissenschaft. Hamburger Jahrbuch der Musikwissenschaft,XI, 179–223. Schneider, A., andStoltz, H.1989. Notes on the acoustics of ancient Chinese bell chimes. (InHickmann, E., and Hughes, D., ed. The archaeology of early music cultures.Bonn: Verlag für Systematische Musikwissenschaft, 265–74.) Schouten, J.F.1940. The perception of pitch. Philips Technical Review,V, 186–294. Seashore, C.1938. Psychology of music.New York: McGraw-Hill. [Reprinted New York: Dover, 1967.] Seebeck, A. 1852. Über die Querschwingungen gespannter und nicht gespannter elastischer Stäbe. Abhandlungen der Mathematisch-Physikalischen Classe der KöniglichSächsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften,I, 131–63. Shepard, R.1982. Structural representations of musical pitch. (In Deutsch, D., ed. Thepsychology of music.Orlando, etc.: Academic Press, 343–90.) Stoll, G.1982. Spectral-pitch pattern: a concept representing the tonal features of sound. (In Clynes, M., ed. Music, mind, and brain.London, New York: Plenum Press, 271– 78.) Strutt, J.W., 3rd Baron Rayleigh.1890. On bells. Philosophical Magazine,XXIX, 1–17. Stumpf, C.1883–90. Tonpsychologie.Leipzig: Hirzel. 2 vols. Stumpf, C.1901. Tonsystem und Musik der Siamesen. Beiträge zur Akustik und Musikwissenschaft,III, 69–138. Surjodiningrat, Wasisto, and others.1972. Tone measurements of outstanding Javanesegamelans in Jogjakarta and Surakarta. By Wasisto Surjodiningrat, P.J. Sudarjana, andAdhi Susanto.Jogjakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press. Susilo, Hardja. 1975. [Review of] Jaap Kunst, Music in Java. Third edition. Asian Music,VII (1), 58–68. Terhardt, E.1979. Calculating virtual pitch. Hearing Research,I, 155–82. Torgerson, W.1961. Distances and ratios in psychophysical scaling. Acta Psychologica,XIX, 201–05. Trendelenburg, F.1961. Einführung in die Akustik. Dritte Auflage.Berlin, Heidelberg: Springer. Vetter, R.1989. A retrospect on a century of gamelan tone measurements. Ethnomusicology, XXXIII (2), 217–27. Vogel, M.1975. Die Lehre von den Tonbeziehungen.Bonn: Verlag für Systematische Musikwissenschaft. Wood, A.1962. The physics of music. Sixth edition.London: Methuen and Co.

14 Rassers’s comparison of the Panji tales to The tempest: an early case of anthropology of performing arts KEES P.EPSKAMP

It was the Belgian anthropologist van Gennep who first applied himself to a process analysis of ritual, as early as 1908. Since then, his theories on rites of passage have had their impact, both within and without the world of anthropology, on any structural approach to ritual, the most evident follower during the 1970s being Victor Turner. Long before that time, in fact shortly after the publication of the brief edition Rites de passage, van Gennep’s ideas had been adopted by a Dutch anthropologist who grew ever more profoundly interested in non-Western drama, owing to his academic study of Indology at the time. His name was W.H. Rassers (1878–1973). It was long before his work became known to the public, as it was published in the Dutch language only. Due to the influence of the French social scientists, such as Mauss, Hubert, and Durkheim (de Josselin de Jong, 1975), Rassers came to approach elements of Javanese culture, such as literature, drama, and ritual, from what was later to be known as a structuralist point of view. Through a study of cultural expression he looked for a social organization model which would affect the general order maintained by the Javanese in other fields of life: flora and fauna, the natural environment, etc. Rassers has frequently been criticized for his point of view, as were his French colleagues; often in too radical tones, according to de Josselin de Jong (1972, 1974). This paper will chiefly reflect Rassers’s ideas. In his pre-war analysis of some wayang tales he was inspired by Mauss’s and Durkheim’s lines of thinking about ‘primitive classification systems’. ‘Rassers’s particular contribution to cultural anthropology lies mainly in demonstrating the close links between myth, ritual, drama and social structure…’ (Locher, 1974:6). It was Ras (1973; 1976), however, who proved the usefulness of Rassers’s ideas by making one or two differentiations. Another name in this context is Pigeaud (1929), who, long before structural analysis became a trend in letters and in anthropology during the late 1950s, analysed Javanese customs and classification systems along the lines of Mauss and Durkheim and using a terminology entirely parallel to that of post-war structuralism. He took it for granted that in the Javanese world view every conceivable thing in human life was intimately connected and correlated to the surrounding world, animate and inanimate, to the entire cosmos. This world of ideas, he felt, had created chains of correspondences:

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They are the correspondences which, in Javanese opinion, exist in the mutual association of units derived from groups which, in the modern Western dissociating line of thought, are basically different: colours, units of the calendar, numbers, animals, plants, gods, astronomic units, sections of the heavens, mental conditions. In particular circumstances, two units of the same group, for example two numbers, may bear the same relations as two units of another group, for instance two calendar units. If the visible or (according to modem Western everyday logic) rationally conceivable groups such as colours, sections of the heavens, and mental conditions are visualized as layers separated by horizontal lines, the series of corresponding units, also known as classifications, can be imagined to be positioned between vertical lines, drawn across the horizontal ones. For example: white is related to red as east to south, as phlegmatic to sanguine. (Pigeaud, 1929:275) Rassers followed Hazeu in his conviction that ‘as to the technical construction, all lakons (wayang stories) are identical without exception, and above all, the essential content of all lakons is the same, being a battle between good and evil powers, with the representatives of the good being victorious’ (Rassers, 1959:3). In his application of the theories of van Gennep he demonstrated the close relation between, on the one hand, the ritual and theatrical structure in the plots of the stories, and on the other hand the structure of the performance of wayang stories. Quite unintentionally he thus came to be one of the first anthropologists to achieve a process analysis of non-Western theatre. During the last few years of his life Rassers made a study of Shakespeare’s Tempest. Although his notes were provisional and incomplete, they are an indication of where he was heading. Through the ages Javanese society had reflected the everchanging social context forming the base of any wayang study; similarly Shakespeare’s plays are to be seen as products of the Elizabethan age in the English renaissance. Tillyard (1976) has demonstrated the existence of strictly defined classification systems in sixteenth-century England, with respect to the cultural and the natural world, systems which found their origin in evidently microcosmological as well as macrocosmological thinking. In the course of time various authors have shown how this cosmological line of thought is reflected in Shakespeare’s work. In his notes on The tempest as well as in his previous work, Rassers implicitly tended towards a rather sketchy diachronic study mainly revealing the desire to find some kind of ‘primeval myth’. In any case, he tried to discover, in this unfinished study, a universal story theme which he believed he had found earlier on in the Javanese literature dealing with Panji the culture hero, and which he was eager to test against a wider European field of classical literature. The ‘prototypical’ story of Panji In the realm of the gods (suralaya) there is a divine couple who have, to their great distress, remained childless. By adopting an ascetic way of life they at tempt to

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change things. By sheer concentration the husband, in his absence, brings about in his wife an immaculate conception, and she bears twins, a boy and a girl. The children grow up separately, to meet for the first time when they have reached a marriageable age. They fall in love. However, the inevitably incestuous relationship is a barrier to their marrying. They transform into a blue and a white lotus. Similarly, there is a royal couple living on earth, in the realm of Koripan, equally without children. They attempt to invoke the aid of the gods by prayers and rituals. And the king makes an agreement with his cousin, the king of Daha, that if each of their marriages brings forth a child, and if the children are of different sexes, these two cousins will marry each other. One morning the two queens go bathing, and on their way home they find a blue and a white lotus by the wayside, which they eat. They become pregnant, one bearing a boy, prince Inu, the other a girl, princess Candra. Meanwhile Inu’s divine attendants have adopted human shapes, the most prominent of which is the comic servant Prasanta. Inu and Candra reach marriageable age. But a neighbouring sovereign has a dream, which says that Inu is later to rule all of Java, unless he dies or becomes his son-in-law. Inu is kidnapped, but he refuses to comply to a marriage, and is consequently stoned and, assumed dead, thrown into the river. Inu is washed ashore, where he is found by Prasanta, his servant and ‘guardian angel’. Inu changes his name into Cékél. At the court of Daha the brutal king Manggada comes to claim Candra’s hand. A tournament is held, the winner of which is to get the hand of princess Candra. The first test of competence consists in catching a black doe with gold horns. King Manggada fails to catch the doe, whereas the unknown tramp Cékél passes the test. The second test is to solve riddles, and again Cékél comes out the victor. The third test presents itself—Cékél’s brother is about to invade Daha. There is division among the realms of Java. King Manggada offers to protect Daha, provided that Cékél leaves the country immediately. Cékél hides and remains on guard. When Manggada is about to lose, he intervenes. Unaware of the true identity of his enemy, he wages battle with his brother and cuts off his head. That moment the body regains its true shape, and Cékél recognizes his brother. The enormity of the disgrace leaves him no choice but to commit suicide. When news of these disasters is broken to Candra, she flees into the woods, where she is found by the king of Lasem, who adopts her as a daughter. The god Kala takes pity and restores Cékél and his brother to life. Together they start a campaign, conquering large parts of Java, which brings more peace to those areas. Cékél changes his name into Panji, and with his servant Prasanta makes his way to the court of Gagelang, where Candra is visiting a friendly sovereign. One day Candra looks over a wall to find out who is making such wonderful gamelan music, recognizing in Panji her Cékél. The king of Gagelang, Panji’s uncle, proposes a marriage between Panji and Candra to unite the realms of Lasem and Gagelang. But before the wedding takes place, Panji is seduced by the queen of the underworld (pasétran). At the same time Candra falls ill, and Panji alone

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can cure her. Panji comes back to earth and seduces Candra, who is instantly cured. Their marriage takes place, and their first child is a son, Tandraman. After several years the political situation has settled in Java. It is time for the princes of Koripan, Mataram, Daha, and Gagelang to abdicate and be succeeded by the younger generation. But things are not to remain quiet for long. Again it is starcrossed love which stirs war, this time between the kings of Java and foreign kings. For several years god Indra’s daughter has been madly in love with Tandraman, Panji’s son. Annoyed because Tandraman does not return her love, she makes the king of the non-Javanese realm of Keling invade Java from Palembang. It is a war of arms, ruses, and magic tricks. Natural elements serve as weapons. Finally the Javanese heroes are overcome. Tandraman escapes in the guise of a dragon. The king of Keling also changes into a dragon, which results in an air battle between Tandraman and the king of Keling. The god Kala joins his power with Indra’s. Now the king of Keling begins to doubt his own power, for there is no fighting the gods. He returns to the battlefield, joined by several gods. Thus the war between Java and Keling culminates into a war among the gods. Shiva fears the worst and makes all parties reach a settlement. Now there is permanent peace between Java and the exterior, and Java itself is united by Panji, or Inu of Koripan. Comments: original texts instead of reconstructions Panji is a literary hero who has been given a more or less legendary shape. The tales concerning Panji are in essence non-historic, but rather mythical in nature (Rassers, 1922:293). Among the Javanese, reading these texts was, and still is, a matter for the élite, since the majority of the population were illiterate. Never-theless the wayang performances at the Javanese court and in rural areas have turned Panji into a popular hero. In his first book, De Pandji-roman (1922), Rassers collected a number of primarily Balinese versions of Panji stories, from which he reconstructed a prototypical story which is not proper to Javanese or Balinese culture. The Panji tales are known beyond Java and Bali, in Malaysia and Cambodia. Serrurier (1894:291–94) recorded a Cambodian story; in this case the Panji tales formed part of the Hindu heritage and as such were a contribution to the the-atrical repertory of the Khmer culture on the mainland. Panji is here named Eynao, and the young Candra is called Bossaba. On the continent, too, the stories are about a prince in search of his beloved, performing numerous heroic feats which—all but unintentionally—cause the birth of one great realm, or rather a federation of realms, united by laws of succession and intermarriage. It was Poerbatjaraka (1940) who issued a collection of seven Panji stories containing versions derived from Java, Bali, Malay-speaking areas, and Cambodia. All the versions are marked by local distinctions. These range from different names given to the heroes, heroines, and comic servants to variations in war exploits, in riddles, in the names of kingdoms, and in family relations. An

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unmistakable aspect of these seven versions is the close relation between Candra Kirana and agriculture. Candra Kirana is really a reincarnation of Déwi Sri, the goddess of rice. Panji is a reincarnation of the god Vishnu; this is underlined by the prevailing theme of hunting, in which Panji demonstrates his eminent capability. It is once more reinforced by Poerbatjaraka’s summary (1940:1–3) of the Malay version. This makes clear that Panji is a reincarnation of Arjuna, hence of the god Vishnu, and Candra of Arjuna’s wife Subadra, hence of Déwi Sri. There are more themes recurring in several different versions,1 such as Panji's talent for disguise, which he uses in martial as well as in amorous conquests. He frequently assumes the figure of a (likeable) tramp, a man without a home. This change of status, which forms part of Panji’s initiation, is also rewarding in love and in battle. The disguises include travesty. We see this in the Cambodian version, when Candra (Bossaba) changes into a youth (Poerbatjaraka, 1940:67). Poerbatjaraka (1940:349) even reports a double travesty, with both Panji and Candra in drag, both pretending to be dalang. There are several versions featuring Panji as dalang or gamelan player. According to Zoetmulder (1974:427) it was Robson who, in 1971, was the first to publish a printed form of Panji kidung.2 He published Wangbang Wideya, adding notes and an English translation. Robson (1971:12) definitively disproves the notion that the various Panji manuscripts are finished narrative sequences, an idea which had long persisted. However, each story is a separate and individual entity. The plots of the stories are more or less similar, the contents showing considerable variation. In other words, there is no basic Panji story, but a bulk of stories which are more or less related. This implies the absence of a single true and prototypical version; neither are there deviant versions. Robson (1971:11) takes it for granted that the Panji tales are indigenous Javanese , literature. In contrast to such imported epics as the Mahabharata and the Panji tales are of the island itself. From the fact that there is not a single reference to Islam, and the purely Hindu atmosphere pervading these Middle Javanese texts, he concludes that they must have had a tremendous appeal and been exported during the Majapahit period (1971:15). In those days the texts found their way to Bali, Sumatra, the Malay peninsula, Borneo, Cel ebes, and Lombok, and on the continent to Cambodia, Thailand, and Burma. The stories reflect the culture of the contemporary courts.

1

Other, less prominent themes are seen to recur. One of them is the never-ending intrigues in Panji’s harem among the wives (selir), to Candra’s unvarying distress. Another theme is Panji testing her loyalty. Whereas Panji keeps a collection of mistresses, Candra is expected to remain faithfully monogamous. 2 ‘While the kakawin and the Old Javanese language remained the traditional media for the stories based on the Indian epics and , the kidung and Middle Javanese were the exclusive medium for the Panji stories’ (Zoetmulder, 1974:427).

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Consequently, the popularity of the Panji tales was temporary. According to Robson (1971:15) they are no longer known outside East Java and Bali, where they occur as wayang stories, or lakons, on the one hand, and on the other hand as fairy tales (dongéng) to be told as bedtime stories. In these bedtime stories Panji is generally the mighty hunter. Candra Kirana is less conspicuous as a heroine here, Poerbatjaraka (1940:374–77) reports. She fulfils a Cinderella role, mainly. She is represented as the unattractive youngest daughter who is charged with the filthy household chores. As she slaves and toils, her sisters doll themselves up to meet prince Panji, who is seeking a bride. But in spite of Robson’s alleged Javanese origin of the Panji tales, for centuries the general tendency has been to trace a connecting line in the Javanese literary characters and themes. Seen in that light, it is hardly surprising that Candra Kirana is associated with Déwi Sri, with agriculture and with the earth/moon, whereas Panji is linked with Vishnu, with hunting, battle, and the sun. The fact that Candra Kirana means ‘moonray’ is not incidental (Ras, 1973:421–38). Panji the culture hero All of Rassers’s officially published documents dealt with Indonesia, in particular Java, bearing either directly or indirectly on Javanese wayang theatre. In his wayang studies he was not mainly concerned with the theatrical event, rather approaching wayang from the narrative sequence dealing with the Javanese culture hero, prince Panji. In his pre-war analysis of the Panji stories Rassers was inspired by the work entitled Primitive classification, by Durkheim and Mauss (1969). Following these two, Rassers extended his classificatory analysis to other fields, such as the world of plants and animals, the natural environment, etc, in which he may have been rather too speculative, at times. In a way which is by present-day standards superficial, yet highly inspiring, Rassers sought to connect all Javanese classifications where he could, on which base (and following Father Schmidt, 1910) he might demonstrate that the Panji tales are part of a prototypical and archaic Javanese ‘moon myth’. As a prototype of the essence of the stories the author points out the myths, known in Northern Celebes, of the gods named Kalangi and Manimporok. Aided by the explanation of the latter myth made by Schmidt in his Grundlinien, he demonstrates the existence of a moon myth in the Panji tales, too….(Krom, 1923:286) He ultimately intended to prove that wayang theatre was an original Javanese cultural product. He believed that wayang kulit had developed from a totemistic ritual. The wayang screen, he assumed, revealed the dramatic enactment of the Javanese cosmogonic myth, which tells of the origin of the divine ancestors and the line of descent of the Javanese people from two closely related, yet antagonistic

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parties. This conflict, he felt, is what is still shown to take place on the wayang screen between the parties on the right and on the left. However, even during Rassers’s lifetime it was demonstrated that wayang theatre is not proper to Javanese culture, neither the stories, nor the theatrical style, nor the origin. In 1931 Rassers accepted the possibility of Javanese shadow theatre having exogenous origins (Ras, 1976:52–53). Yet with Hazeu he persisted, as noted above, in the view that all wayang stories are constructed in a similar way and that their contents are essentially identical, portraying a struggle between good and evil powers, the former being victorious. Since Javanese drama, and especially wayang theatre, has various ties with Javanese rituals, there was no getting away from a study of the relation between ritual and theatre. Aided by van Gennep’s ideas; which were quite recent at the time, Rassers achieved a process analysis of the relation between the two manifestations of performance which, in Java, are closely connected: ritual and theatrical performance. Using van Gennep’s theory, he showed the intricate relation between the ritual and theatrical structure in the story lines, and the performance structure of the wayang stories. Involuntarily he became one of the first theatre anthropologists, before the term had even been invented. Culture heroes form the focus of a good deal of epic prose and poetry. In his postwar volume of collected writings entitled Panji the culture hero Rassers shows an interest in a number of Javanese myths of origin. Each of these myths usually starts by describing some previous original entity, which has brought forth two elements, represented as the divine ancestors of two phratries. Rassers believes this dichotomy is reflected in wayang, ranging from a general split-up of the screen between left and right to highly subtle, often symbolic dualisms in narrative and performance. These two elements then, mutually connected by their common origin, enter into a new alliance, that of marriage. However, in this case marriage involves incest, which is unclean and imperfect. Hence the necessity of preliminary purification, of transformation, which frequently involves a symbolic death and rebirth (a rite of passage), which opens the way to a perfect marriage. Rassers detects this element of ‘initiation’ in Javanese myths, in rituals, and in wayang lakons. In these Panji stories, which Rassers reconstructs into a prototypical sequence, there are two prominent elements: that of battle and that of the initiation of the hero or heroine. According to Propp, these two elements are peculiar to epic narratives in particular. To Propp (1975:102–03) the elements of battle, overcoming evil powers, as well as initiation and achieving a difficult task form the typological entity of this type of (epic) narrative. Panji and his son Tandraman are continually conquering or defending their realm. In doing so they, as well as Panji’s loved one and wife Candra, are subject to repeated initiations at critical stages in the course of their lives. In Panji’s case, moreover, life’s transitions are marked by changes in name. So the story line of each wayang performance contains the elements of battle and initiation. Time and again initiation is preceded and followed by a struggle. This underlines the overall structural uniformity in the construction of wayang story lines, which are equally evident in the wayang performance.

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The collection of notes left behind by Rassers after his death revealed his tendency, during the last years of his life, to widen the scope of the ‘ethno logical field of study’ to which he had restricted himself at the start of his academic career. He was keen to test his findings concerning Javanese theatre on Elizabethan drama, in particular Shakespeare’s The tempest. The narrative of The tempest Long long ago, on a fine and peaceful island, a monstrous child was born from the union of the devil and the witch Sycorax. The monster’s name was Caliban. His mother died after having exercised all her power to bewitch the island. The chief spirit of the island, Ariel, was wedged into a pine tree, where the slightest breeze made him howl with pain. After twelve years the spirit was released, by which time Sycorax had long been dead. Years later Master Prospero and his three-year-old daughter Miranda are washed up on the island by a storm. For several years Prospero, duke of Milan, had studied magic arts. He is by rights a ‘master’. After his first acquaintance with the flora and fauna of the island, he intends to break the spell which holds it, and literally to become its lord and master. So his first task is to free Ariel, in return for which Prospero demands Ariel’s unconditional obedience to any order of his master’s. His second act of mercy exists in training the monster Caliban, who is impressed by Prospero’s magic art, a power which even manages to overcome the old spell cast by his mother, Sycorax. But as the years go by, Caliban’s fascination with Prospero’s magic is outdone by his adoration of Miranda, whose charms increase as she grows up. When Caliban tries to violate Miranda one day, Prospero’s attitude changes. Caliban is turned into a domestic slave who is made to suffer inhuman pains at the slightest misgivings on the part of Prospero. When Prospero and Miranda have lived on the island for twelve years, a fleet of frigates comes sailing along on its way from North Africa back to Italy. His visionary powers tell Prospero that one of the ships contains his brother and his nephew, accompanied by noblemen, the very set who have chased him from the city of Milan twelve years back, making him put out to sea in a ramshackle boat with a little food, some clothing, and books that were dear to him. Prospero still remembers every detail of his eviction. He had handed over to his brother Antonio the daily affairs of state, in order to dedicate himself to ‘loftier’ matters. But Antonio had not been satisfied with being a mere regent. He desired to be lord of Milan himself. Antonio, aiming for absolute power of the city, one night made his brother and his niece disappear, aided by the nobleman Alonso. And now, after all those years, a fleet containing Prospero’s opponents, his brother Antonio and his attendants, is sailing past the island. Seconded by Ariel, Prospero’s magic has become so powerful that he is capable of raising a tempest which makes Antonio’s ship go off course and finally sink. Antonio, his son, and attendants are washed ashore. Ariel makes sure that the crew are safe but scattered all

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over the coast. Now follows a series of encounters partly staged by Prospero and Ariel, partly happening by accident. The first prearranged meeting is between Ferdinand, Antonio’s son and Prospero’s nephew, and Miranda. They fall in love there and then, just as father Prospero had had in mind. Then there is a meeting between Caliban the monster, the butler, and the jester. It is not exactly a prearranged encounter, but it is observed and controlled by Ariel. The latter plays an equally decisive role in the mutiny which arises in Antonio’s camp, and in which some of the crew mean to dispose of their lord. An essential factor in all of Ariel’s interventions is his invisibility. With the aid of Ariel, Prospero manages to control the shipwrecked individuals, who roam the island in small groups. He causes all the crew and passengers to suffer hardships, eventually bringing them all together. But not until he has demonstrated to them the power of his sorcery does he reveal his true identity. He has by then cast his magic book in the deeps of the sea; his magic wand broken and entrusted to the earth. For he wishes to return to Milan and reclaim his authority. And so all ends well. Harmonious relationships are restored, couples are united, and all embark for home, to Milan, leaving the island to Caliban and Ariel. Shakespeare and The tempest The tempest is said to have been Shakespeare’s last play. It is essentially different from most of his other plays, being neither a tragedy nor a comedy. Nor is it a romance or a history play. Instead, it combines all these elements. That is why Kermode (1977:xxiv) prefers to call it a pastoral play. Some even maintain the play was unfinished and that we are dealing with an incomplete text. Another thing which distinguishes this play from the others is that there seems to be no source. The majority of Shakespeare’s ‘plays are either based on annals or chronicles, as is the case with his history plays, or on existing tales and scenarios. No matter how many scholars have attempted to trace the origin, the authentic text from which The tempest may have been derived, no one this far has brought anything to light. In the third place, Master Will astounds his disciples by having written this play in faithful obedience to the rules. Reiter (1974:146) points out that it reflects the essential Elizabethan structure of five acts. This is less a classical than a medieval structure, containing the cyclic narrative of the world from creation to the day of judgement. In addition, Shakespeare is faithful to the classic Aristotelian unities of time, place, and action—in contrast to his other plays. The entire action takes three hours, a fact which is repeatedly indicated in the text. The subject of the play is magic and all takes place on an enchanted, tropical island. In the fourth place, The tempest is all about Art. Viewed in that light it would seem to be the apotheosis of the Bard’s entire work, an evaluation winding up his life’s achievement, with an ironical wink at the reader and the spectator. After all, this play is about the art of shaping illusions. Illusions are the stuff sorcery as well as theatre is made of. It is Master Prospero who for three hours directs The tempest,

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controlling it scene after scene, one act after the other. To do this he once more employs all the magic power he has acquired in the course of his life. For the last time he can do as he pleases, raising storms, invisible voices, invoking spirits and dancing nymphs, creating glorious banquets from thin air. It looks as if Shakespeare is telling us, for the last time: the art of the theatre is playing with illusions. For years and years Prospero lived in withdrawal, practising magic and illusions. He took no interest in managing the affairs of state, which is why he made a poor prince. He had exchanged his sword for the sorcerer’s wand, strategic action for magic formulas. What he strove for was not worldly power, but omnipotence. In that sense he was a megalomaniac. And it is ironical to see him practising his omnipotence in a ‘mini-world’, the island where he is stranded with Miranda. This is the laboratory where he may once more prove his spiritual omnipotence, before returning to Milan as a worldly sovereign. He then renounces his power voluntarily, by definitively entrusting his book to the waves. And without his books, Caliban says, ‘He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not one spirit to command’ (Act III, scene 2). Prospero’s art can be wielded for good and for evil purposes, which renders his position rather precarious. Egan (1975:97) reminds us that the Italian word prospero in fact means Faustus, And Prospero’s practice also reminds us of that of his predecessor, Sycorax. She used the same powers to maim and torture the creatures in her environment. The task Prospero has set himself, to create a morally just universe, makes him a ‘good’ sorcerer, at the same time obscuring his perception of reality. This explains how he came to be an alien in his own realm, His quest for profounder truth isolated him from the world, making him unworldly and shortsighted. He fails to foresee his brother’s wish to usurp his power, neither does he anticipate Caliban’s lust culminating in an attempt to rape Miranda. He is less credulous than stubborn, hanging on to his criteria of ‘what the world should be like’. Prospero fails to recognize the world for what it is, being determined to shape reality according to his own moral order. Most of the characters are deeply impressed by his magic. It appears that Prospero’s design works. To the audience observing all this, however, Prospero’s vanity becomes painfully clear. Without saying it in so many words, Prospero behaves rather like a ‘god on earth’ than like a human being. He claims the right to damn anyone who fails to answer to his moral code. Nothing is to obstruct his noble strategy. Discarding his book of magic at the termination of his stay on the island, he does not renounce his art, he rather exchanges his illusions for reality. Thus he becomes a man among other men. In the epilogue Shakespeare seems to speak through Prospero’s mouth. Both masters of illusion now remind us of the vanity of playing with illusions, unless they are rooted in the moral codes and the perceptions of the audience. Rassers’s views on The tempest Shakespeare’s last play has something elusive and unreal about it, Rassers felt. From beginning to end the atmosphere is one of unreality, an absence of ordinary day-to-

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day logic. ‘Inconsistencies, or what looks like.them, and paradoxical transitions are numerous here’, he wrote. But Rassers cannot imagine Shakespeare having deliberately intended this elusiveness. Apart from this overall unreality, the play presents a good deal of concrete problems. The reader, says Rassers, is continually faced with passages which appear highly unusual in the context, and which are difficult to account for. And yet we feel that they in particular are part of the essential features of the play, since they return time and again. One remarkable symptom of the unreal atmosphere of the play is the fact that most characters, especially the main characters such as Prospero, Ariel, and even more so Caliban, display so many, and such tremendous inner discrepancies. It is so hard to go by their conduct. Virtually all of them are one thing and quite the opposite at the same time. That is why scholars have often wondered what Shakespeare can possibly have had in mind with the creation of so many complicated figures, assembling them all in one action. This quotation from Rassers’s handwritten notes indicates briefly the dissatisfied overtones in close studies of The tempest, which are mainly attributed to the fact that this romantic play is also the only one (or at least one of the very few) of Shakespeare’s works the literary source, or sources, of which has as yet not been discovered. No matter what one may think of the significance and the content of Thetempest, Rassers is convinced that the action culminates in the eventual marriage between Miranda and Ferdinand. This is the core of the play. From the start the reader is aware that the two royal children, who are seized by spontaneous love for each other the moment they meet, without ever having heard of each other’s existence, are destined to be united. And it is this marriage which—quite suddenly and inexplicably —puts an end to all the family bicker-ing and all the suffering, restoring peace and order. Old things have passed; a new and better world arises. ‘Oh brave new world!’ Miranda cries out exultantly. And it strikes us that what precedes the marriage (that is: the actual content of viitually the entire play) is the sorrow and the hardships which either lover, each in his or her particular way, has had to suffer before the union could take place. To add to the solidity of his analytical construction, Rassers takes recourse to the framework of the story of the creation, deriving it as a universal literary theme from his former analysis of the Panji tales. He briefly sketches the principle of the double unilateral kinship systems, in which the patrilineal and the matrilineal phratries by exchange of marriage are considered equivalent and fundamentally different at the same time. This dichotomy does not merely pertain to the human members of the community, but affects the entire natural cosmos, the animals, plants, and inanimate things, even cultural matters and artefacts. Rassers found that often, though not always, things are labelled ‘male’ and ‘female’ and paired off. In this ordering, too, is reflected the division of social functions of the sexes in society. A woman’s life usually takes place inside, in the living area

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occupied by the social group, the domesticated area. A man’s position and field of activity are found outside this area, however. This ‘female’ element is particularly associated with the products of agriculture and market gardening, the soil, and with household artefacts. The ‘male’ element is found in products derived from outside the domestic area, wood from the forest, fish from the sea, merchandise from foreign lands, or meat from the hunt. Also in these associations the antagonistic is linked to the complementary. The ‘female’ element is associated with the ‘domesticated’ world, the ‘male’ ele-ment with the ‘wilderness’ beyond. In this chain of associations ‘texture’ (of clothing) is frequently opposed to the ‘weapon’, as Rassers had previously demonstrated in the Javanese context. Rassers’s line of thinking clarifies certain details from The tempest which used to be problematic, when we relate them to the initiation of Ferdinand, his companions, and Miranda. The goods bestowed on Miranda at her initiation, food, drink, and clothing, are ‘female’ goods, whereas the ‘weapons’, the swords with which Ferdinand’s company are equipped to face their trials, just like Gonzalo’s money, are ‘male’ goods. The boat carrying Prospero and Miranda across the seas is a mere wreck, a vessel without tackle, a decrepit household artefact, whereas the ship carrying Ferdinand and his company is a clearly ‘male’ artefact, a frigate. That explains why the ‘tempest’ does not destroy that one boat, which is no real boat at all. A ‘vessel’ should not sail the open sea; they are mutually exclusive concepts. Contrary to this, the ship containing Ferdinand’s party is part and parcel of the same conceptual world as the open sea, which is why it is utterly destroyed. Corresponding themes in the Panji tales and The tempest Judging by some of the corresponding themes and the musical way of working one might be led to think that Shakespeare was an Oriental author. In one of the Panji stories as recorded by Roorda (1863:2) there are two brothers, Panji’s father and uncle, the older of whom is the sovereign, the younger being grand vizier or manager of state affairs. As in The tempest, the older brother (Prospero’s counterpart) is occupied with loftier, more esoteric matters, his younger brother (Antonio’s equivalent) taking care of the practical affairs of state. This is common practice in South-East Asian kingdoms. Here the god-king is a man of extremes: he is either waging war or meditating (tapa). Physical power, beauty and agility and artistry are equivalent to spiritual harmony and peace. A similar division of tasks can be detected in The tempest, between Prospero and Antonio. However, where the Oriental rulers truly were god-kings, Prospero is so only temporarily, as long as he remains on the enchanted island. Shakespeare almost intentionally equivocates the divine power of the sovereign. As regards the approach to the theme, this play is in sharp contrast to Shakespeare’s history plays. There the English kings are real god-kings, with fire and sword uniting in themselves worldly as well as spiritual power. It is surprising, however, that Rassers, in comparing the wayang stories dealing with prince Panji with The tempest, fails to allude to the history plays. It is in those

RASSERS’S COMPARISON OF THE PANJI TALES TO THE TEMPEST 231

plays pre-eminently that English royalty and its succession of Richards and Henries seeks to find its legitimacy. As court chronicles (babad) were consulted in the case of the various stories for wayang performances, Shakespeare used the chronicles available to him. Weiss (1971:158, 177) recognizes in Shakespeare’s historical writings the linear and chronological arrangement of chronicles and annals in a historical sequence and a development to a single central figure, the king. It legitimizes the blood which may soil the king’s descent. Performing these plays makes the king look more human, his efforts to build a realm more understandable. He was not doing it all for his own sake, but for the sake of his people. \ As in the Javanese context, we recognize in these plays of Shakespeare a kind of theatrical reconstruction of England’s history. They are epical in nature: the kings are all heroes. As in the Javanese situation, the death of the king would bring social as well as cosmic disturbance. England is menaced by chaos when the death of Richard II, traditionally regarded as ‘the sun’, is conceived by the courtiers. It is remarkable that despite the general aversion, in the English renaissance, to such a medieval cosmic view, these medieval themes and notions are still rooted in, not only popular belief, but the world of the court as well. In Richard II Shakespeare puts the Middle Ages behind him, to herald the renaissance with Henry IV. According to Weiss (1971:260) this means a continuation of the English line of royal descent on stage. The play is not about the usurper king, but the legitimate sovereign. Beside these themes of power and succession of royalty, love is a predominant element in Shakespeare’s plays as well as in the wayang stories. This is the theme that Rassers focused on in his last handwritten notes. Panji and Candra, like Miranda and Ferdinand, are meant for each other, though they need to face a number of trials before finding their love. It is evident from the nature of the story that Panji and Candra are meant for each other, but being siblings this is impossible, because incestuous; besides, they have not been initiated, thus lacking the proper marrying status. It seems on the one hand that the incestuous relationship is overcome by initiation; on the other hand, it looks as if the incestuous relationship is inevitable, as they have not been initiated yet.3 Panji and Candra give up their celestial status, transform into lotuses, and eventually change into a new earthly status as cousins. In a genealogical sense, this would reflect the ideal marriage pattern according to Javanese court tradition. An intra-familial sex prohibition has been shifted into an extra-familial marriage rule (Fox, 1967:54–55). In the Panji stories Panji and his beloved sometimes die ‘a thousand deaths’. They repeatedly undergo rites of passage, each being subject to a period of separation, either being cast out, imprisoned, or kidnapped. This causes a series of transformations indicated by disguises, new names, or symbolic death. And every time they are eventually ‘reborn’. This implies that the duke of Milan has fathered a son as well as a daughter, who are meant for each other. Since that marriage would involve an incestuous relationship, both parties will need to be initiated. They undergo this by renouncing

232 KEES P.EPSKAMP

their normal everyday status. Afterwards Prospero gives his blessing to the couple. He causes a favourable wind to blow the initiated and newly-wed couple home together with the other passengers (a rite of aggregation), to pick up their normal daily lives. Rassers points out that Prospero himself indicates the inevitable tests and hardships which Ferdinand and Miranda will have to undergo before being able to marry. And they are not ordinary everyday troubles, but imposed trials which as such are temporary and will ultimately benefit the tested characters. Apart from the evident textual indications, Rassers finds evidence in the peculiarities of the narrative. He first investigates Miranda’s initiation. As befitting her background, she is removed from her environment by her own relatives in early childhood. According to the text she is not yet three and about to face considerable suffering. With her father she is taken several miles out to sea in a ship, in the middle of the predestined night. This is where the real trial starts. For she is not allowed to stay on the ship, but put into a quite unseaworthy little vessel, with some food and drink to weather the elements. Rassers recognizes a significance in the fact that Prospero is allowed to keep some books which, according to the text, mean more to him than his entire dukedom, while Miranda receives a chest of precious garments. They land on the desert island unharmed by the storm and in possession of these peculiar belongings. The rite of separation has been conducted. Now begins the true test for Miranda: the rite of marginality. For many years, apparently until marriageable age, she lives in poverty and great solitude. Her father is her only companion. All memories of the wealth of court life seem to have left her; she has died and been revived a different being. Prospero teaches her in accordance with her new status. Ferdinand also begins his initiation at sea. On its way home from Tunis to Naples the royal ship is attacked by a storm which is fiercer and more super-naturally dangerous than the one overwhelming Miranda. All the devils in hell are aroused to contribute to this initiation. Ferdinand’s suffering is unmitigated, leading to an immanent end. The ship is smashed to pieces, the money meant to pay for the merchandise is ripped out of Gonzalo’s purse, and all inmates are drowned. At least, that is how it seems. But all are washed ashore and reborn. For them, too, this ends the rite of separation, heralding the start of the rite of marginality on the island. 3

Rassers suggests that the theme of initiation, involving symbolic death and rebirth, was linked up to a pair of divine or noble children, who were too closely akin to be allowed to marry each other (on the grounds of an incest taboo). The writings of Poerbatjaraka (1940), however, seem to indicate that according to oral tradition Panji was not in love with one of his own station, but a girl of much lower birth. This does not affect the theme of symbolic death and rebirth. To be allowed to marry Panji, the prospective bride will need to achieve a rise in status. The beloved is reborn a princess. Nevertheless the remarkable fact remains that in the written versions of the Panji tales his loved one is of noble birth. The reading public was not much taken by the inequality of birth, so in the recorded versions the marriage bar was owing to an intimate kinship relation, instead of a status problem.

RASSERS’S COMPARISON OF THE PANJI TALES TO THE TEMPEST 233

Prince Ferdinand receives scorn and abuse from the hands of Prospero, being made to serve him and tend the fire. This women’s task had previously been fulfilled by Caliban the slave. It is for love of Miranda that the young hero shoulders the burden as if it were a feather. However, as I indicated before, Prospero too is subject to initiation, a rite of passage. ‘For the core of Prospero’s long story is exile on an island; at his return to “society” he adjures his magic learning and buries his books—a resolution in joy and a reconciliation to the society of former enemies at the time clearly involves renunciation and a sense of loss’ (Merchant, 1977:50). And so Prospero doffs his sorcerer’s mantle, breaks his magic wand, and casts his books into the waves. He rejoins the ranks of ordinary mortals a sadder and wiser man (van Amerongen, 1987). References Amerongen, M.van.1987. Shakespeares De Storm: ‘Mij dunkt, de voet wil ‘t hoofd besturen’. De Volkskrant,5 September 1987, 11. Durkheim, E., and Mauss, M.1969, Primitive classification. Translated. .. by R.Needham. Second edition.London: Cohen and West. [First published as ‘De quelques formes primitives de classification’ in Année Sociologique, 1901–02, (pub.) 1903.] Egan, R.1975. Drama within drama. Shakespeare’s sense of his art in King Lear, Thewinter’s tale, and The tempest.New York: Columbia University Press. Fox, R.1967. Kinship and marriage.Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Gennep, A.van.1960. The rites of passage. Translated by M.B.Vizedom and G.L.Caffee.London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. [First published as Les rites de passage. Paris: E.Nourry, 1909.] Josselin de Jong, P.E. de.1972. Marcel Mauss et les origines de I’antropologie structurale hollandaise. L’Homme,XIII (4), 62–84. Josselin de Jong, P.E. de.1974. Het structuralisme in de culturele antropologie. (InWeiler, A.G., andBeekelaar, G.A.M., ed. Structuralisme, voor en tegen.Bilthoven: Amboboeken, 44–72.) Josselin de Jong, P.E. de.1975. Structuralism in cultural anthropology. (In: Kloos, P., andClaessen, H.J.M., ed. Current anthropology in the Netherlands.Rotterdam: Nederlandse Antropologische en Sociologische Vereniging, 114–31.) Kermode, F., ed.1977. The tempest: the Arden edition of the works of WilliamShakespeare.London: Methuen and Co Ltd. Krom, N.J.1923. W.H. Rassers, De Pandji-roman. Antwerpen, De Vos-v. Kleef, 1922. Museum, Maandblad voor Philologie en Geschiedenis (Leiden), XXX (11–12), 285–88. Locher, G.W.1974. Willem Huibert Rassers. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,CXXX (1), 1–15. Merchant, W.M.1977. Comedy.London: Methuen and Co Ltd. Pigeaud, T.G.T.1929. Javaansche wichelarij en klassificatie. (In Feestbundel uitgegevendoor het Koninklijk Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappen bij gelegenheid van zijn 150 jarig bestaan, 1778–1928.Weltevreden: G. Kolff en Co., II, 273–90.) Poerbatjaraka, R.M.1940. Pandji-verhalen onderling vergeleken.Bandoeng: Nix. (Bibliotheca Javanica, 9.)

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Propp, V.1975. Morphology of the folktale.Austin, London: University of Texas Press. Ras, J.J.1973. The Panji romance and W.H. Rassers’ analysis of its theme. Bijdragen totde Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,CXXIX (4), 411–56. Ras, J.J.1976. The historical development of the Javanese shadow theatre. Review ofIndonesian and Malayan Affairs,X (2), 50–76. Rassers, W.H.1922. De Pandji-roman.Antwerpen: de Vos-van Kleef. Rassers, W.H.1959. Panji the culture hero: a structural study of religion in Java.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. (Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde. Translation Series, 3.) Reiter, S.1974. World theater: the structure and meaning of drama.New York: Dell Publishing Co., Inc. Robson, S.O.1971. Wa•ba•Wideya: a Javanese Panji romance.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. (Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde. Bibliotheca Indonesica, 6.) Roorda, T.1863. De lotgevallen van Raden Pandji, volgens de Javaanse wajangverhalen. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,XI, 1–65. Schmidt, W.1920. Grundlinien einer Vergleichung der Religionen und Mythologiender austronesischen Völker.Wien: Alfred Hölder. (Denkschriften der Kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften in Wien. Philosophische-historische Klasse, LIII (3).) Serrurier, L.1894. De Pandji-legende op het vasteland. (In Feestbundel van taal-,letter-, geschied-en aardrijkskundige bijdragen ter gelegenheid van zijn tachtigstengeboortedag aan Dr. P.J.Veth door eenige vrienden en oud-leerlingen aangeboden.Leiden: E.J.Brill, 291–94.) Tillyard, E.M.W.1976. The Elizabethan world picture.Harmondsworth: Penguin Books Ltd. [First published London: Chatto and Windus, 1943.] Weiss, T.1971. The breath of clowns and kings: Shakespeare’s early comedies and histories.London: Chatto and Windus. Zoetmulder, P.J.1974. Kalangwan: a survey of Old Javanese literature.The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. (Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde. Translation Series, 16.)

Index

abhinaya 176, 178 Adaninggar, Déwi 97, 101 See also Ménak cycle adharma 81, 84, 86 See also dharma Adi Suksema, Sang Hyang 83 adiluhung 96, 99, 114 Agung, Anak Agung Gde Putra 85 Agung, Sultan See Sultan Agung Aji ghurnita, lontar 83 Ajip Rosidi 148, 154 Akasa, Sang Hyang 83 alus 60, 63, 64, 66, 80, 86 See also kasar Ambu, Sunan 144 Amerongen, M.van 232 Amir Hamzah 96n, 97, 102 See also Ménak cycle Amoy 15, 16 Anandakusuma, Sri Reshi 80, 83 Anantaboga 82 Anderson, B.R.O’G. 140 angika 176 angklung (Bali) 84, 173; (Banyuwangi) 39, 39n; (Sunda) 147 Ariah 35 Arjuna 60, 86, 222 Arjuna Sahasrabau 74 Arjunawiwaha 82, 86, 174n Arps, B. xi, 35n, 41n, 43n Aryasa, I Wayan M. 83 Asenan 36 Asep Iskandar 54 Asri, Déwi 153, 158–59

ASTI (Akademi Seni Tari Indonesia) 99, 116 Atja 148, 150 Atjeng Tamadipura 146, 154 Atmosoedirdjo, Slamet Prajoedi 34n Ayodhya 178 babad 3, 71, 85, 101, 128, 144, 155, 230 Babad bedhahing Ngayogyakarta 71 Babad dalem 85 Babad nitik, serat 128 badhut 34 See also comic figures Baduy 146, 147, 153, 154 Bagong 75 See also comic figures Bagong Kussudiardjo 94, 95n, 102 Baier, R. 50 Bakungan 5, 35, 39, 43, 122, 137–38, 141 Balitung 174n, 176n Bandem, I Made 83, 84, 85, 165 Bandung 42n, 45, 148, 149, 154 Bantul 107 Banyumas 105–04 n Banyuwangi 2, 5, 32, 105, 122, 136–38, 140–41 See also Blambangan BAPPEDA 49 Barabudur See Borobudur Barbour, J.M. 200 barong 85 Bass, C. 105 Basuki 82 Batang 16

235

236 INDEX

batara/batari See individual names batél 167, 168–72 Batuan 165n Batur, Lake 81 Bauman, R., 2n Bebadan Among Beksa 98 Becker, J. 124n, 126n, 127, 129 Bedahulu 85 Bedawangnala 82 bedhaya 74,96, 97, 98, 122, 123, 127–35, 140–41 See also srimpi bedhayan 131 Béhague, G. 144 Bejo Purnomo 9n, 14 Bekasi 49, 55 beksan 73, 96, 99 beksan Madura 109n beluk 149 Bengawan Sala 73 Bernet Kempers, A.J. 216 bersih désa 35, 140–40n See also purification Besakih, Pura 81 Beurmann, A.E. 8, 197 bhava 176, 178–84 Bhandarkar, R.B.P.R. 192 Bharata 177, 178, 180, 182, 183 bhatara See individual names Bhimma Kumara 174 Bhomakawya 174n Bima 101 Bima Suci 174n biola See violin Blahbatuh 165, 168 Blambangan 32, 34, 81 See also Banyuwangi Blingkang 81 Blitar 9n, 13, 16, 20 Boer, E. de 200, 206n, 211n Bogor 213 bonang 202–13, 216n Borobudur 174, 185, 188 Bossaba 221, 222 See also Candrakirana Bracewell, R. 200 Brahma 83

Brakel-Papenhuijzen, C. 3, 57, 116, 128– 28, 131, 133 Brandts Buys, J.S. 34n Brandts Buys-van Zijp, A. 34n Brandon, J.R. 15, 188 Brantas 26 breakpong 54, 56 Brongtodiningrat 98 Bruin, H.M. de 57n Bruner, E.M. 89 Brunet, J. 203n Bubhuksah 174n budaixi See po-té-hi Budihardjo, Eko 84n Buginese 81 Burdah 39, 40n Cakil 61 Cakraningrat II 73 calung 206n Candra See Candrakirana Candiakirana 220–25, 230–32 See also Bossaba, Panji stories Carey, P.B.R. In, 3, 18n, 71 carita pantun 5, 144–48, 151–58 See also papantunan Casparis, J.G. de 174n catur wangsa 80 CékélSee Panji celuluk 165, 169 See also kajar cepala 166, 167,169 character types in dance/theatre 24, 57 Chinese princess, the See Adaninggar Choy, P. 97, 104n, 141n chronicles See babad Cianjur 5, 54, 149 See also tembang Sunda Cianjuran See tembang Sunda Cinderella 223 cin-hu See ol-hu Cirebon 18, 49n, 144, 150, 155 Ciwidey 146 Clara van Groenendael, V.M. 2, 9 clowns See comic figures cokék 49 cokékan 115

INDEX 237

Collins, W. 89 comic figures 24, 25, 29, 30, 61, 62n, 74, 102, 161, 170, 220 See also badhut, Bagong, Garéng, Jiwéng, penasar alit, Pétruk, Prasanta, Semar, Togog, Toplés, tukang mongmong comic sketches 49, 107 See also rampak kendang, réog Communist Party See PKI Crawford, M. 34n, 35n, 40n Crawfurd, J. 75 Daendels, H.W. 42n Daha 220–22 Dalem Bungkut 85 Dalem Pancaniti See Koesoemaningrat Damarwulan 32, 43, 73 See also kesenian Damarwulan, Ménak jingga dangdut 48, 53 Danu, Déwi 81 Darusuprapta 101 Daratha 176n, 177–81 Day, J.A. 73 deBoer, F.E. 165 dedegungan 149, 151 DeFatta, D.J. 210n degung See gamelan degung, scales (pélog degung) Derewé Resi, Batara 83 Deutsch, W.A. 206, 207, 211, 216 DeVale, S.C. 213–13, 215 déwi See individual names de Zoete, B. 165n, 171n dhagelan See comic sketches dhanyang 107, 111, 112, 113 dharma 77, 80, 85, 86 See also adharma dhrupad 190 dhukun 36 Didiek Teha 89n Dinusatomo, R.M. 108n dong-ko 22, 30 Dorp, van 32 Drewes, G.W.J. 150 Durga 81, 85 Durkheim, E. 218, 223

Duryudana 136 Dwi Wama, Sang Hyang 83 Egan, R. 227 éka dasa rudra 81, 82, 85 Ellis, A.J. 197–98, 201, 212 embat 214, 215 emic/etic debate 211–15 Enip Sukanda 148, 149 Enjum 146–48, 153–54, 157–58 Epskamp, C.P. 8, 218–33 equidistance 8, 197 See also scales Eringa, F.S. 50n, 146, 146,148, 157–57 etic See emic/etic debate etymology 15, 116 exorcism See purification Eynao 221 See also Panji Fasold, W. 202n Feinstein, A.H. 126n, 127, 129 Florida, N.K. 96 Födermayr, F. 206, 207, 211, 216 Foley, K. 96n, 148 folk etymology See etymology Forster, H. 117n Fourier,J.B. 200 Fox, R. 231 Frazer, J.G. 85 fundamental frequency 197 Fung Sen Pang 28 Gadjah Mada University 99, 117n Gagelang 220, 221 Gajah Mada 85 Galuh 144 galungan 81, 85 gambang 54, 132, 137 gambang kromong 49 Gambar, Candi 174n gambelan See gamelan gambuh dance drama 6, 164–66, 171 See also gamelan gambuh, wayang gambuh gambyong 108, 111, 115 gambyongan 108n

238 INDEX

gamelan amladprana 84 gamelan angklung See angklung (Bali) gamelan bebonangan 84 gamelan degung 51, 53, 54, 56, 150–51, 152, 153 See also scales (pélog degung) gamelan denggung 150 gamelan gambuh 84, 164–73 See also gambuh dance drama, wayang gambuh gamelan gong 84, 164 See also gong kebyar, gong topéng gamelan kodhok ngorék 125 gamelan munggang 125 gamelan saléndro 51, 53, 55 See also scales (saléndro) gamelan sekatén 125 Gan Dhwan Sing 12, 18 Gandakusuma 74 Gandawardaya 74 gandrung (Bali) 105; (Banyuwangi) 34, 36, 39, 105, 133n, 137–38 gangsa 203, 206 Garéng 75 See also comic figures Garfias, R. 195 174n Gathulkaca 101 gatra 7, 188–89 Gayatri 83 Geertz, C. 82, 85, 105 geguritan 161 Gelgel 85 gembréng 23 gendér (Java) 132, 202, 203, 206, 212, 215 gendér wayang (Bali) 84, 171–173, 206 gending gambuh See gamelan gambuh Gennep, A. van 218, 219, 224 Ghosh, M. 176n, 178–81, 183 Giles, R. 203 Giyanti Treaty 75 golék dance 96, 97 Golék Gambyong dance 108n golék Ménak dance drama 4, 89, 94 See also Ménak cycle, wayang golék Ménak GOLKAR 104

gong (ensemble type, Bali) See gamelan gong, gong kebyar, gong topéng gong ageng 203, 210, 215 gong gedhé See gong ageng gong kebyar 203–03, 215 See also kebyar style gong topéng 173 See also topéng goong buyung 48n grama See scales grantang 206n Gresik 18n Grey, J. 216n Grobogan 93 Groneman, I. 97 Groot, J.J.M. de 13, 26n Gudo 9n, 13, 19, 20, 25 Gugum Gumbira 48, 51, 54 Gunawan 9n, 25 Gunem 116 Guntur Madu foundation 100, 101 Gunung Agung, Mt. 80 Gunungkidul 107, 108n, 110, 113,114, 115 Guru, Batara 167 See also Siva Guru Minda 147 Guwa Pasir 174n Hadiwidjojo, K.G.P.H. 123, 130, 140 Haft, L. 15, 28n halus See alus Hamengku Buwana I 4, 71, 95, 125, 129, 136 Hamengku Buwana II 71, 74, 129, 136 Hamengku Buwana III 71 Hamengku Buwana IV 75 Hamengku Buwana V 95, 136 Hamengku Buwana VI 128, 130n Hamengku Buwana VIII 60, 61, 95, 96, 129 Hamengku Buwana IX 94–103, 125n, 129 Hamengku Buwana X 95, 102–02, 125n Hamengku Buwono See Hamengku Buwana Handung Kus Sudyarsana 92n Hanna, W.A. 77n

INDEX 239

Hanuman 178, 179, 180, 182 Harjana Hardjawijana 101 Harrell, M. 191n, 203, 213, 214 Hartingh, N. 75 Hazeu, G.A.J. 13, 15, 32, 42n, 43, 219, 224 Hefner, R. 104n, 106, 141n Hellwig, J. 3, 5, 34n, 45 Helmholtz, H.von 200 Hendrokusumo, K.R.T. 115 Hersri S. 17n Hesselink, L. 105n Hinzler, H.I.R. 77n, 161, 164n, 166n Hipkins, A.J. 197–98, 201, 212 Hoadley, M.C. 18 Hobsbawm, E. 92 Hoen Ting Tjoen 18n Holt, C. 104n, 105, 174n Hong Kong 15,48,98 Hood, M. 191n, 203, 213, 214, 216 Hornbostel, E.M.von 197n, 201, 203 horse-dance 9, 110, 112, 113, 118n Hostetler, J. 128, 129, 130, 136 Hugh-Jones, J. 47, 50 Hughes-Freeland, F. 4, 34n, 61n, 63n, 89, 141n Idema, W. 15, 28n Idi Rosadi 150 IJsseldijk, W.H.van 73 Ili, Mang 147 Ilmi 123, 137, 139 Indra 81, 221 Institut Seni Indonesia See Institute of Indonesian Arts Institute of Indonesian Arts (ISI) 93, 95n, 101, 102, 116, 118n Inu See Panji irama 7, 190 ISI See Institute of Indonesian Arts Ismaya See Semar Iswara 83 Jago temple 174 jaipongan xi, 3, 45, 105 Jairazbhoy, N.A. 192

Jakarta 45, 49, 50, 53, 55, 56, 98, 100, 101, 103, 147 Jambatan Merah 19, 20 jampé 146, 146 (ill.), 152, 155 jangér 32, 40 janggrung(an) 105, 108n jaranan See horse-dance Jasper, J. 34n 176n jathilan See horse-dance jati See modes Jatimulyo 113 Jawi temple 174 Jaya Kasunu 81 Jaya Kasunu, lontar 81 Jayakusuma See Semar Jayéngrana See Amir Hamzah jejemplangan 149–51, 153, 155 Jenggala Manik 65 Jeprik theatre troupe 107, 113–12 Jiwéng 102 See also comic figures jogéd 105 Jogéd Mataram 100, 102 Jombang 9n, 13 Josselin de Jong, P.E.de 218 Jugala 48, 49, 51, 54 kacapi 54, 56, 144–55 Kadarwati 99 See also Ménak cycle Kaikey 177, 178, 180 kaja-kelod axis 77, 80 kajar 165, 173, 210 See also celuluk kakawén 148, 155 See also lagon, mood songs kakawin 161, 222n Kala 220, 221 kala 7, 188, 188–90 Kalangi 223 Kalijaga, Sunan 65, 127 Kanékés 146, 147, 153 kangin-kauh axis 77, 80 Kangjeng Ratu Kidul Kencana Sari See Ratu Kidul Karawang 49

240 INDEX

Kartasura 71, 73 Kartini, Tini 148 kasar 60, 63, 64, 80, 86, 105, 152 See also alus, lemes kauh See kangin-kauh Kaurawa 82, 85 See also Pandawa kebyar style 164, 173 See also gong kebyar kecér 23 kecrék 48n Kedaton 174 Kedhu 71, 174n Kediri 9n, 13 Keeler, W. 113 kekayon 166, 167, 169, 170 Kélan 97 Kélaswara 97, 101, 102 See also Ménak cycle kelénang 165, 210 Keling 221 kelod See kaja-kelod Kelona Giwangkara, serat 74 See also Klana dance, Panji stories kemanak 131 kemong 165 kempul 34, 36, 165 kempyang 210 Kencana Sari See Ratu Kidul kendang 34, 36, 48n, 49, 51, 55, 126, 137 See also rampak kendang kendang gupekan 165 kendang penca 147 See also pencak silat, persilatan Kermode, F. 226 Kern, H. 177 Kersten, J. 80n kesenian Damarwulan 32n See also Damarwulan, jangér kethoprak 92n, 112, 115 ket(h)uk 34, 48n, 210 ketipung 126 See also kendang ketuk tilu 5, 34n, 48, 55, 105, 147 Ketuk tilu perkembangan 48, 49 Kiau Liong 28 kidung 77, 161, 165, 222n See also Malat

Klana dance 73, 96, 108n See also Kelona Giwangkara Klaten 16 kliningan 53, 55 Klokke, M. 9n kluncing 34 kodhok ngorék See gamelan kodhok ngorék Koentjaraningrat 96n, 104–03n, 108n Koesoemaningrat, R.A. 149 Koffka, K. 216 Koko Koswara, Mang 54, 55 Kombang, Mt. 130 KONRI 99 Koripan 220–22 Kridha Mardawa 94, 95n, 98n, 100, 128, 130 Kridho Bekso Wiromo 61n, 96, 98 Kridhomardowo See Kridha Mardawa Kridhwayangga, serat 62, 66, 67 Krom, F. 45 kroncong 48 174n 174n inscription 188–89 Kudus, Sunan 16 kuileixi marionette theatre 15 kulintang 27 Kulputih, Sang 81 174n Kunst, J. 35n, 40n, 47,191 n, 197n, 201, 206n, 210 Kunst-van Wely, C.J.A. 191 n Kusumadiningrat 66 labuhan ceremony 129 See also offerings lagon 131–34 See also kakawén, mood songs 176n, 177, 181 Lam Kiek Sian 29 Lambangsari dance group 116 langen mandrawanara 100 langendriya(n) 60, 108n Lara Jonggrang temple xi, 6, 174–84 Lara Kidul, Nyai See Ratu Kidul laras See scales Larasati 115

INDEX 241

Larasati group 116 Lasem 220–22 Lath, M. 190, 193n lawak See comic sketches Lawu, Mt. 107 Leach, E. 152 lédhék 5,104–16 See also pesindhén, ronggéng, tayub(an) Lekkerkerker, C. 34n LEKRA 48 lemes 152 See also alus, kasar Lengka 178, 180 Lentz, D. 197n Lie Lo Thia 29 Liebert, G. 181n Lindsay, J. 95, 131 lisung 147 Locher, G.W. 218 Lombard, D. 16n Lombok 81, 165n lontar See individual titles McAdams, S. 208 McPhee, C. 80, 105, 164n, 165, 171n, 191n, 206n, 210, 215 Madiun 73 Madukusuma, K.R.T. 125 Madura 34, 105 Mahabharata 49n, 60, 62, 64, 97, 99, 101, 222 See also wayang Mahabarata Mahabhasya 176 Mahadéwa 83 Mahadéwi 83 Majapahit 32, 77n, 113, 138, 222 Makasarese 81 Makco Thian Sang Sing Bu temple 26 Malang 9n, 174n Malat, kidung 82, 165 See also kidung mamaos 151 Manggada 220 Mangir, Ki Ageng 108n Mangkubumi See Hamengku Buwana I Mangkubumi IV 97, 108n Mangkunagaran 26, 116

Mangungan 113 Manimporok 223 Manteb Soedharsono 26 Manuel, P. 50 Mardowo Budoyo 94, 95n, 99 Mardujamum 97 See also Ménak cycle Martin-Schiller, B. 104n, 111 Mataram 73, 75, 100, 108n, 130, 149; (in Panji stories) 221 See also Jogéd Mataram matra 188, 188, 190n Mauss, M. 218, 223 Mayadanawa 81, 85 Meijer, J.J. 148 Melikan 111 Ménak cycle 96n, 97, 171 n See also Adaninggar, Amir Hamzah, golék Ménak, Kadarwati, Kélaswara, Mardujamum, Ménak Purwakandha, Rengganis, wayang cepak, wayang golék Ménak Ménak Jingga 32, 107 See also Damarwulan Ménak Purwakandha 99 See also Ménak cycle Merchant, W.M. 232 Mershon, K.E. 82, 83, 85 Mertodipuro, K.R.T. 97, 98 Midah, Mak 137 Mloyowidodo 126 modes jati 7, 192–94, 195; pathet 7, 188, 190-91, 193–95; raga 191, 195 See also scales Moens, J.L. 13, 16, 17, 20, 109n Monier-Williams, M. 179 monochord 200 mood songs 30 See also kakawén, lagon Muhammad 97 Mukidi Adisumarto 130, 132, 141 Mundhingsari 130 munggang See gamelan munggang Muntuk district 107–12, 115 Muryati 101

242 INDEX

Naerssen, F.H.van 174n Nano S. 51 7, 176–84, 188–95 New Order 30, 92, 105, 116, 117, 118 Ngesti Pandowo 114 Nglipar 111 ngrémo 108n Nick Lany 100 nini thowong 42n, 43 niskala See sekala-niskala Nooy, M. 9n North, R. 150 Nur W.A. 113–12 Nusa Penida 85 Nyai Lara Kidul See Ratu Kidul O’Connor, S.J. 104n Oetomo, Sri Adi 42n Oetoyo 12 offerings 37, 39, 80, 82, 107, 111, 113, 116, 124, 126, 126, 129, 130, 136, 141, 146 (ill), 152, 155, 167 See also labuhan, panca yajnya, yajnya Olehsari 35–43, 137, 139 ol-hu 23, 25, 30 ombak 203, 210, 213, 215 omprok 36–38 orkés Melayu 48 Ornstein, R.S. 164n Overbeck, H. 43n Pajajaran 130, 144, 148, 149, 150, 152, 155, 159 Pajang 108n pajuwan 105 pakem 57, 176 pakem beksa 62 Paku Alam I 71–75 Paku AlamVIII 103 Pakualaman 75, 100, 103 Paku Buwana II 75, 126 Paku Buwana III 68, 75 Paku Buwana IX 108n Palembang 105, 221 pan 23, 30 panakawan See comic figures panambih 149, 151, 154, 155

Panataran temple complex 174 panca yajnya 80 See also offerings Pancassila 92, 104, 114 Pandawa 82, 85, 101 Panembahan Sénapati See Sénapati Panji 8, 60, 62, 67, 74, 82, 219–25, 230–32 See also Candrakirana Panji stories 49n, 60, 62, 67, 73, 174n, 218– 33 See also Kelona Giwangkara Panular, P.A. 71–75 pantun (Malay) 144 See also sisindiran pantun (Sundanese) See carita pantun papantunan 149–51, 153, 155, 158 Parakan 207n Parangtritis 135 Paraurama 74, 182 Parthayajña 174n pathet See modes patrol 39, 40n pawang 138–39 See also tukang mongmong Pek Tiong Lu 9n, 15, 25n, 30n Pekalongan 16 pelandok 105 pélog See scales penasar alit 170 See also comic figures pencak silat 49, 54, 56, 101 See also kendang penca, persilatan pengisep 84, 203, 214 See also pengumbang; penyorog pengumbang 84, 203, 214 See also pengisep, penyorog pengundang seblang 138, 139 penyorog 203, 210, 214, 215 See also pengisep, pengumbang peranakan 16, 17–18 See also pribumi performance 2–2and passim persilatan 27, 28 See also pencak silat Pertiwi, Batari/Sang Hyang 83 pesind(h)én 52, 115 See also lédhék, ronggéng Pétruk 75

INDEX 243

See also comic figures piak-ku 23, 30 Picken, L.E.R. 185, 195 Pigeaud, T.G.T. 18, 96n, 104n, 105, 131, 171n, 218–20 Pike, K. 213n pitch 8, 197–216 See also scales, virtual pitch PKI 48, 106n Pléréd 71, 73 Pleyte, C.M. 146–48, 157 Poensen, C. 16, 17, 26n Poerbatjaraka 116, 174n, 176n, 221–24, 231n Ponjong 114, 115 po-té-hi 2, 9–31 7, 177 Pragalba 61 Prakempa, lontar 83, 84n Prambanan 6, 118n, 174, 176n See also Lara Jonggrang Praptowiratno 112, 115–14 Prasanta 220 See also comic figures Prawiradirja III, Radén Rongga 73 Preanger system 150 pribumi 18 See also peranakan Prijono 105, 117 Priyowasito 107–12, 116 Propp, V. 224 prostitution 50, 52, 105, 116 See also lédhék, ronggéng Puger, G.B.P.H. 100 pupuh 148, 149, 150, 151, 155 Purbararang 147 Purbasari 153 purification 16, 17, 73, 74, 127, 144–45, 155 See also bersih désa, ruat(an) pusaka 123–26, 138, 142 Pustakamardawa, B.Y.H. 132 Putra, I Gusti Agung 86 Qiamen See Amoy Quanzhou 15

Raffles, T.S. 50n raga See modes Rahn, J. 197n rajah 146–57 Rama 60, 82, 85, 174n, 176n, 177–63 6, 49n, 60, 82, 97, 100, 103, 174–84, 222 See also wayang Ramayana rampak kendang 53 See also comic sketches, kendang Ramstedt, M. 4, 77 Randall, R.B. 200, 204n rangda 85 rarancagan 149–51 Ras, J.J. 218, 223, 224 rasa 176, 184 Rassers, W.H. 8, 218–33 Ratih, Sang Hyang 83 Ratu Kidul 129–29, 133–35, 140–40 See also Retna Suwida Rawana 82, 85 rebab 23, 48n, 52, 54, 126, 132, 137, 149, 151, 153, 155, 165, 169, 171, 171n See also violin Reiter, S. 226 rejang 82n Rembang, I Nyoman 165 rendo 155 See also violin Rengganis 98 See also Ménak cycle réog 147 See also comic sketches REPELITA 92, 94 Retna Pambayun 108n Retna Suwida, Déwi 130 See also Ratu Kidul réyong 206 Ricklefs, M.C. 75, 92 rincik 165, 167, 168, 171n Rinda, I Ketut 165n, 168 Robson, S.O. 9n, 222–24 Roederer, J. 200 Rongga Prawiradirja III See Prawiradirja III ronggéng 48n, 50, 52, 55, 104, 105–04n, 147 See also lédhék, pesindhén Roorda, T. 229

244 INDEX

Rossing, T. 202, 206n Rovindaka 189 Rowell, L 189, 190n RRI 149 ruat(an) 146, 155 See also purification Ruizendaal, R. 9n, 14, 15n, 17, 20n, 24n, 25n, 27n, 28n, 29n, 30n rwa bhinéda 80, 83, 84 Sachs, C. 193 saih See scales Saikem 108, 111, 114, 115 sajén See offerings Sajin 146, 147–48, 153 salametan 50, 51, 53, 106, 115, 149 Saleh Danasasmita 148, 150 saléndro See scales Salmon, C. 15n Samid 146, 154 Sang Hyang (as honorific) See individual names sanghyang (performance genre) 141 san-sien 23, 30 Santoso 9n, 23, 28, 29 Saraswati 83 saron 36, 37, 39, 40, 131, 137, 202, 203, 206, 208, 212, 214, 215 Sarti 108 sasajén See offerings Sasmintamardawa, R.W. 99 Sastra Miruda, serat pakem 16 Sastrakartika 62, 63, 64n, 65, 67 Satyawan 174n scales grama 7, 192–95; pélog 7, 40, 83, 150–51, 153, 155, 171n, 185, 190–94; pélog degung 150; saih gambuh 171n; saih gendér wayang 171n; saléndro 150-51, 153, 155; sléndro 7, 40, 83, 171n, 173, 185, 190– 94, 197, 200–99, 208, 212, 213, 215; sorog 151, 153, 155 See also equidistance, gamelan degung, gamelan saléndro, modes, pitch Schmidt, W. 223

Schneider, A. In, 8, 197 Scholte, J. 34n, 35n, 137–37 Schouten, J.F. 206 Schumacher, R. 83 Seashore, C. 201 Sebatu 203n seblang xi, 2, 5, 32, 122, 136–41 Sedyawati, E. 6, 108n, 174–84 Seebass, T. In, 6, 161–73 Seebeck, A. 202 sekala-niskala 77, 83, 85 sekatén See gamelan sekatén Sélamangléng 174n Seltmann, F. 12 Semang, bedhaya 5, 122, 128–35, 140–41 See also bedhaya Semar 74 See also comic figures Semara, Sang Hyang 83 semar(a) pagulingan 84, 173 semara palinggihan 84 semara pandiryan 84 semara patangyan 84 Semarang 15, 17, 19, 114 Semi 137–37 Semin 115 Sénapati, Panembahan 108n, 130 serat See individual titles serat Ménak See Ménak cycle serimpi See srimpi Serrurier, L 13, 16, 221 shadow-play See wayang kulit Shakespeare, W. 8, 219, 225–33 Shepard, R. 214, 216n Si Kong 27, 28 Sian Hay Lo Mo 29 Sidoarjo 18n Siksa kanda ng karesian, Sanghyang 148, 150 Siliwangi 150 sio-loo 23, 30 sisindiran 144, 147, 149, 151 sisingaan 53 Siswa Among Beksa 94, 95n, 98, 101, 102, 108n Sta 176n, 177–82 Siva 83, 85, 177, 178, 182 See also Guru inscription 174

INDEX 245

Slamet, I.E. 92 slametan See salametan sléndro See scales slomprét 23n SMKI 94, 95n, 99 Soedarsono, R.M. 60, 63, 67, 74, 95, 101 Soekarno See Sukarno Soelarto, B. 123, 137, 139 Soemintaatmadja, Z. 150 Soerawidjaja, R.S. 34n Soerjodiningrat, B.P.A. 108n Soetorodharmo, R.M. 99 Soewandi, R.M. 68 Soewito Santoso 177 sorog See scales SPG 117 Spies, W. 165n, 171n Sragen 26, 104n, 115, 118 Srenggara, Radén Ayu 71 Sri, Déwi 83, 116, 127, 222, 223 Sri Harjanto Sahid 89n Sri Tañjung 174n srimpi 74, 96, 97, 98 See also bedhaya Sriwedari 114 Sruti 192, 193 Stockhausen, C.M.F. 150 Stoll, G. 215n Stoltz, H. 214 Stoppelaar, J.W.de 34n, 35n Strutt, J.W. 202 Stuart-Fox, D.J. 82, 82 Stumpf, C. 197n, 200, 201, 212–12 Stutterheim, W.F. 104n, 177 Su Wukong 28 Subadra 222 Subang 53n Subarma 146 Sudamala 174n Sudjadi 34n, 35n, 42n Sugrva 178, 180, 181, 182 Suharti, T. 128 Suharto 30n Suharto, B. 108n, 116, 141n Sukabumi 146 Sukarno 30, 117n Sukuh temple 174n suling 149, 151, 153, 155, 165, 171, 171n

Sultan Agung 129, 130, 133–35, 140, 141 Sumandio Hadi, Y. 98, 99, 103 Sumarsam 126–26 Sumbawa 81 Sumedang 146 Sunan See individual names Sunia Sepi, Sang Hyang 83 Surabaya 9n, 13, 15, 16, 19, 20, 138 Surakarta 3, 16, 62–68, 73, 75, 92n, 100, 103, 107, 108n, 114, 116, 118, 123, 126, 128–30, 136 suralaya 219 Surawana temple 174 Surinam 111 Surjadiningrat, R.M.W. See Surjodiningrat Surjodiningrat, R.M.W. 97, 129, 130, 140, 213 Suryadiningrat, Prince 96 Suryajaya, H. 103 Suryo Kencono foundation 94, 95n Suryobrongto, G.B.P.H. 60, 62, 98, 100, 136n Susilo, Hardja 214 Sut 35 Sutaarga, Moh. Amir 96n, 150 Sutherland, H. 150 Sutton, R.A. 5, 43n, 104n, 115n, 122–41 Suwanda 49 Suwarni 118 Taiwan 15 tala 7, 189–90 talédhék lanang 104n See also lédhek Tambakromo 114, 115, 117 tambur 22 Tan Tjin Kie 18n tanbr 200 tandak(an) 165, 167, 169–71 Tandraman 221, 224 See also Panji stories Tang Ang Ang 16 tarawangsa 144, 155 See also violin tari keurseus 49 Tarlekar 176, 176n, 178, 180–83 tarompét 48n, 49n

246 INDEX

See also trompét tayub(an) xi, 4, 34n, 68, 89, 104–16, 133n, 140, 141n See also lédhék Tégawangi 174 Tejakusuma, Prince 96 tembang Sunda Cianjuran 5, 54, 144, 149-57 tengahan metres 165 Tengger 104n, 106 Tennekes, J. 34n terbang 40n Terhardt, E. 211n, 212 Terong 113 Thai Pek Kim Seng 29 The tempest 8, 218–20, 225–33 théng-théng 23 Tig Jing 12 Tillyard, E.M.W. 219 Tirtaamidjaja, Nusjirwan 130, 140 Tjoa Sien Tik 19n Togog 170 See also comic figures Tohari, Ahmad 105–04n Tokyo 103 tone systems See scales topéng dance drama (Balinese) 82n, 85, 164; (Cirebon) 49n; (Javanese) 18n; (Sundanese) 49n See also gong topéng, wayang topéng Toplés 102 See also comic figures Torgerson, W. 215 Tratébang 167, 168, 170 Trendelenburg, F. 202n trihita karana 82, 82 trompét23 See also tarompét trompong 206, 211 Trunajaya 71 Tuban 9n, 13, 19, 20 tukang mongmong 36 See also comic figures, pawang Tulungagung 9n, 13, 15, 19, 20, 23, 25, 28n Tumpang 174 tuning systems See scales

Turner, V. 80, 82, 218 TVRI 116 twa-gwak 23, 30 twa-loo 23, 30 twee 23, 25, 30 Ujungberung 146, 146, 148, 153, 157, 158 Uking Sukri 146 Uma 83 Usana Bali, lontar 77n, 81, 85 Usana Jawa, lontar 85 Using 32 See also Banyuwangi Valin 182 Vetter, R. 124–24, 191n, 213 Vetter, V. 130n, 132 Vickers, A.H. 82 violin 34, 39, 41n, 54, 56, 137 See also rebab, tarawangsa, rendo virtual pitch 8, 211, 212 Vishnu See Wisnu Vogel, M. 200 Waal Malefijt, A. de 111 Walton, S. 126n, 127, 129 wangsalan 133–34 Warna, I Wayan 177 Warsadiningrat, R.T. 126n, 127, 129 wawacan 148 wayang Calonarang 171 See also wayang kulit wayang cepak 96n See also Ménak cycle, wayang golék wayang Cina 13, 16 See also po-té-hi wayang Cupak 171 See also wayang kulit wayang gambuh 6, 161–73 See also gamelan gambuh, gambuh dance drama, wayang kulit wayang gedhog 63 See also wayang kulit wayang golék (in general) 9; (Chinese) 12; (Javanese) 16, 96n;

INDEX 247

(Sundanese) 52, 55, 56, 96n, 147, 148, 152, 155 See also wayang cepak, wayang golék Cina, wayang golék Ménak wayang golék Cina 13 See also po-té-hi, wayang golék wayang golék Ménak 4, 96, 97 See also golék Ménak, Ménak cycle, wayang golék wayang kulit (in general) 9; (Balinese) xi, 6, 82n, 165, 166, 171–73; (Javanese) xi, 3, 12, 26, 57–70, 95, 97, 110, 113, 115, 126, 136, 223–26 See also wayang Catonarang, w.w.Cupak, w.gambuh, w.gedhog, w.lemah, w.Mahabharata, w.purwa, w.Ramayana, w.Sasak, w.thithi wayang lemah 86, 165n, 171 See also wayang kulit wayang literature 73 wayang Mahabharata 171 See also Mahabharata, wayang kulit wayang orang 49 See also wayang wong wayang parwa 85 See also wayang wong wayang po-té-hi 13 See also po-té-hi wayang purwa 60 wayang Ramayana 171 See also wayang kulit, Ramayana wayang Sasak 171, 173 See also wayang kulit wayang thithi 12–13, 18 See also wayang kulit wayang topéng (Javanese) 60; (Sundanese) 49 See also topéng dance drama wayang wong (Balinese) 85; (Javanese) 3, 4, 18n, 60, 71, 95, 96, 99, 102, 104, 109, 114, 115; (Sundanese) 49n See also wayang orang Weber, M. 82n Wédha pradangga, serat 127 Wédhataya, serat 65–68, 69–70 Weintraub, A.N. 144–57 Weiss, T. 230

Widdess, D.R. 7, 185–95 Widodo 100, 101 Wignya Sutarna 26 Williams, S. 151, 152 wirahma sari 49n Wirakusumah, Raden Sambas 49n Wirodiprodjo, K.R.T. 97, 98 Wisnu 83, 95, 222, 223 Wolbers, P.A. 2, 32, 137–39 Wong Agung Ménak See Amir Hamzah Wonosobo 115 Wood, A. 205 Worsley, P.J. 82 Wreksadiningrat, R.M.T. 92n Wukajana inscription 174n yajnya 4, 77 See also offerings Yogyakarta 3, 4, 12, 16, 17, 18, 60, 71, 89, 122, 125, 128–35, 142 Yogyataya dance group 66 Young, E.F. 85, 86 Yudaningrat, Prince 98 Zanten, W. van 5–6, 47, 144–59, 191n Zhangzhou 15 Zoete, B. de See de Zoete Zoetmulder, P.J. 80n, 222