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Refashioning Pop Music in Asia
With its examination of the cultural, political, economic, technological and institutional aspects of popular music throughout Asia, this book is the first comprehensive analysis of Asian popular music and its cultural industries. Concentrating on the development of popular culture in its local socio-political context, the volume highlights how local appropriations of the pop music genre play an active rather than reactive role in manipulating global cultural and capital flows. Unlike many studies on globalisation, which highlight functional disjunctures of ‘cultural imperialism’, Refashioning Pop Music in Asia stresses that it is the local context which imbues specific meanings for different audiences, in turn allowing a creative synthesis that makes pop music a unique channel through which cultural identity, political resistance, social expression and personal desire can be experienced. Popular musical expression in Asia – its meaning and its practice – cannot be reduced to the state, market, tradition or to a simple appropriation of Western forms. Rather, it is at the juncture of the local and global that an aesthetic refashioning of traditional and pop music genres emerge. Broad in geographical sweep and rich in contemporary examples, this work will appeal to those interested in Asian popular culture from a variety of perspectives, including students of political economy, anthropology, communication studies, media studies and ethnomusicology. Allen Chun is Research Fellow in the Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica, Taipei, Taiwan. Ned Rossiter is Lecturer in Communications and Media Studies at Monash University, Melbourne, Australia. Brian Shoesmith is an Associate Professor in Media Studies at Edith Cowan University, Australia and Head of the Centre for Asian Communication, Media and Cultural Studies.
ConsumAsiaN book series Edited by Brian Moeran and Lise Skov
The ConsumAsiaN book series examines the way in which things and ideas about things are consumed in Asia, the role of consumption in the formation of attitudes, experiences, lifestyles and social relations, and the way in which consumption relates to the broader cultures and societies of which it is a part. The series consists of both single-authored monographs and edited selections of essays, and is interdisciplinary in approach. While seeking to map current and recent consumer trends in various aspects of Asian cultures, the series pays special attention to the interactions and influences among the countries concerned, as well as to the region as a whole in a global context. The volumes in the series apply up-to-date theoretical arguments frequently developed in Europe and America to non-Western societies – both in order to analyse how consumption practices in Asia compare to those found elsewhere, and to develop new theories that match a specific Asian context. Women, Media and Consumption in Japan Edited by Lise Skov and Brian Moeran A Japanese Advertising Agency An anthropology of media and markets Brian Moeran Contemporary Japan and Popular Culture Edited by John Whittier Treat Packaged Japaneseness Weddings, business and brides Ofra Goldstein-Gidoni Australia and Asia Cultural transactions Edited by Maryanne Dever Staging Hong Kong Rozanna Lilley
Asian Department Stores Edited by Kerrie L. MacPherson Consuming Ethnicity and Nationalism Edited by Kosaku Yoshino The Commercialized Crafts of Thailand Hill tribes and lowland villages Erik Cohen Japanese Consumer Behaviour From worker bees to wary shoppers John L. McCreery Adult Manga Culture and power in contemporary Japanese society Sharon Kinsella Illustrating Asia Comics, humour magazines, and picture books Edited by John A. Lent Asian Media Productions Edited by Brian Moeran Asian Food The global and the local Edited by Katarzyna Cwiertka and Boudewijn Walraven Refashioning Pop Music in Asia Cosmopolitan flows, political tempos and aesthetic industries Edited by Allen Chun, Ned Rossiter and Brian Shoesmith
Refashioning Pop Music in Asia Cosmopolitan flows, political tempos and aesthetic industries
Edited by Allen Chun, Ned Rossiter and Brian Shoesmith
First published 2004 by RoutledgeCurzon 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by RoutledgeCurzon 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. RoutledgeCurzon is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group © 2004 Allen Chun, Ned Rossiter and Brian Shoesmith selection and editorial matter; individual chapters the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. The publisher makes no representation, express or implied, with regard to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and cannot accept any legal responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions that may be made. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Refashioning pop music in Asia: cosmopolitan flows, political tempos, and aesthetic industries/edited by Allen Chun, Ned Rossiter, and Brian Shoesmith. p. cm. – (ConsumAsiaN book series) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Popular music–Asia–History and criticism. 2. Popular music–Social aspects–Asia. 3. Popular music–Political aspects–Asia. I. Chun, Allen John Uck Lun, 1952– II. Rossiter, Ned. III. Shoesmith, Brian. IV. Series: ConsumAsiaN book series (Richmond, England) ML3500.R44 2004 781.63⬘095–dc22 2003020296 ISBN 0-203-64183-3 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-203-67868-0 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0-700-71401-4 (Print Edition)
Contents
Notes on contributors Preface
ix xii
BRIAN SHOESMITH
Acknowledgements Introduction: cultural imaginaries, musical communities, reflexive practices
xvi
1
ALLEN CHUN AND NED ROSSITER
PART I
Musical cultures and culture industries 1
Capitalism and cultural relativity: the Thai pop industry, capitalism and Western cultural values
15
17
MICHAEL HAYES
2
Popping the myth of Chinese rock
32
DAVID STOKES
3
World music, cultural heteroglossia and indigenous capital: overlapping frequencies in the emergence of cosmopolitanism in Taiwan
49
ALLEN CHUN
PART II
Local appropriations: from nation-building to happy pop and folk resistance 4
The imagined community of Maa Tujhe Salaam: the global and the local in the postcolonial RANGAN CHAKRAVARTY
61
63
viii
5
Contents
Global industry, national politics: popular music in ‘New Order’ Indonesia
75
KRISHNA SEN AND DAVID T. HILL
6
The case of the irritating song: Suman Chatterjee and modern Bengali music
89
SUDIPTO CHATTERJEE
PART III
Travelling theories, syncretic exoticisms, or diffusion by any other name?
109
7
111
Magical mystical tourism (debate dub version) JOHN HUTNYK
8
‘Love Never Dies’: romance and Christian symbolism in a Japanese rock video
127
CAROLYN S. STEVENS
9
Japanese popular music in Hong Kong: what does TK present?
144
MASASHI OGAWA
PART IV
Colonial desire, social memory and popular sensuality as performance genres
157
10 Raising the ante of desire: foreign female singers in a Japanese pop music world
159
CHRISTINE R. YANO
11 Pop music as postcolonial nostalgia in Taiwan
173
JEREMY E. TAYLOR
12 Popular music and interculturality: the dynamic presence of pop music in contemporary Balinese performance
183
ZACHAR LASKEWICZ
References Index
198 212
Contributors
Rangan Chakravarty has worked in corporate and development communication for nearly 25 years. Since completing a PhD in Media Studies at Sussex University, Rangan has worked as a media producer and a communications consultant, conducting communications workshops in a number of countries including Egypt, Yemen and the Netherlands. He is also an editorial consultant for the Bengali daily, Anandabazar Patrika. Sudipto Chatterjee is currently an Assistant Professor of Department of Theater, Dance, and Performance Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. He received his PhD in Performance Studies from New York University and has taught as an Assistant Professor of Drama at Tufts University. With parallel interests in theatre, film and music, Sudipto has been the Artistic Director of Epic Actors’ Workshop and Choir in New York. In 1997, he made Free To Sing?, a feature-length documentary on Suman Chatterjee, which has been screened at various international venues. Many of his articles have appeared in international anthologies and theatre journals. Sudipto is also the author of 14 plays and translations in Bengali and English, most of which have been performed in the USA and India. He is currently working on two books on Indian theatre. Allen Chun is Research Fellow in the Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica, Taipei, Taiwan. His current research interests include historical anthropology, postcolonial theory, Chinese societies and the cultural sociology of the state. Allen has published articles in Theory, Culture & Society, Dialectical Anthropology, Journal of Historical Sociology, History & Anthropology, Ethnic & Racial Studies, Culture & Policy, boundary 2, Current Anthropology, Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs, Toung Pao and Late Imperial China. He has recently published Unstructuring Chinese Society: The Fictions of Colonial Practice and the Changing Realities of ‘Land’ in the New Territories of Hong Kong (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Press, 2000). Michael Hayes teaches in the Human Rights and Social Development programme at Mahidol University, Thailand. He researches issue of media, human rights and development in South East Asia. David T. Hill is Professor of Southeast Asian Studies at Murdoch University, Perth, Western Australia, where he is also a Fellow of the Asia Research Centre.
x Contributors He has published in both English and Indonesian on the print media, literature and cultural politics in Indonesia, including The Press in New Order Indonesia (Nedlands, W.A.: University of Western Australia in association with Asia Research Centre on Social, Political and Economic Change, Murdoch University, 1994) and, most recently, as co-author, with Krishna Sen, of Media, Culture and Politics in Indonesia (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2000). John Hutnyk is Senior Lecturer in Anthropology and teaches in the Centre for Cultural Studies at Goldsmiths College. His books on music include Critique of Exotica: Music, Politics and the Culture Industry (London: Pluto Press, 2000) and DisOrienting Rhythms: the Politics of the New Asian Dance Music (co-edited with Sanjay and Ashwani Sharma) (London: Zed Books, 1996). He has edited special sections on ‘Music and Politics’ in the journals Postcolonial Studies (with Virinder Kalra, 1 (3), 1998) and Theory, Culture and Society (with Sanjay Sharma, 17 (3), 2000). His next book will be called Bad Marxism: Cultural Studies and Capitalism (London: Pluto Press, 2004). Zachar Laskewicz successfully defended his PhD in Theatre and Drama Studies at the University of Ghent in 2002. He has also studied ethnomusicology, experimental composition, multimedia and linguistics in Australia and Belgium. He has lectured at universities in Holland, Finland, Italy and Mexico, and currently lives in Taipei. Currently he is an Assistant Professor in theatre, drama and performance at the Chinese Culture University in Taipei; he also teaches at the graduate institute for theatre studies at the Taipei National University Arts and the Kaohsiung National University. In addition to his academic work, he performs and composes experimental music-theatre, highlights of which include directing one of his productions in Belgium and performing solo at the festival of musical action in Lithuania. Articles on his theoretical work have been published in journals and conference proceedings all around the world and in 2003 his first book, Music as Episteme, Text, Sign & Tool, was published by Saru Press. He continues to work in his capacity as composer, theatre director, lecturer and theoretician. Masashi Ogawa teaches in the Department of Japanese Studies, University of Hong Kong. His research interests include issues of identity, popular culture and tourism. He is currently conducting research on Japanese popular music in Hong Kong and Japanese individual long-term travellers. Ned Rossiter is Lecturer in Communications and Media Studies, School of Political and Social Inquiry, Monash University. He is co-editor of Politics of a Digital Present: An Inventory of Australian Net Culture, Criticism and Theory (Melbourne: Fibreculture Publications, 2001). Ned is also a co-facilitator of fibreculture, a network of critical internet research and culture in Australasia (www.fibreculture.org). Krishna Sen is Professor of Asian Media, Curtin University of Technology, in Perth, Australia. She has written extensively on media and on gender politics in Indonesia. Her most recent book, Media, Culture and Politics in Indonesia, is coauthored with David Hill.
Contributors
xi
Brian Shoesmith is an Associate Professor in Media Studies at Edith Cowan University and Head of the Centre for Asian Communication, Media and Cultural Studies. He has published articles in Quarterly Review of Film and Video Studies, Media Asia and Continuum on Asian media and film. He is currently finishing a book (with Hart Cohen) on satellite communication in Asia and is also writing a book on Indian film in the Cambridge National Cinemas series. Current research interests are regionalism and cable television in China and Indian popular film. He is a member of the Council of the Asian Mass Communication Information Centre in Singapore. Carolyn S. Stevens is a Senior Lecturer in Japanese Studies at the Melbourne Institute of Asian Studies, University of Melbourne. She has degrees in social and cultural anthropology from Harvard University and Columbia University. She has published articles in American Asian Review, Urban Anthropology and Studies of Cultural Systems and World Economic Development, and Japanese Studies. Since the publication of her book On the Margins of Japanese Society (Routledge, 1997), Stevens has been focusing her research inquiries on Japanese fan organisations. David Stokes teaches in the Department of Language and International Studies at RMIT University in Melbourne. In 2002 he completed his PhD thesis, ‘Localising Rock: Music, Media and Culture in Late Twentieth Century China’, in the Department of English with Cultural Studies at Melbourne University. He has published in Asian Studies Review and Antithesis. His main interests are reproduction, bawdy sea shanties and Abbotsford Invalid Stout. Jeremy E. Taylor obtained his PhD in history from the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, the Australian National University, in 2003. He is interested in the cultural history of Taiwan and other East Asian societies, and his work has been published in scholarly journals such as East Asian History and Social History. Christine R. Yano is Associate Professor of Anthropology at the University of Hawaii. Her book, Tears of Longing: Nostalgia and the Nation in Japanese Popular Song, was published in 2002 by Harvard University Asia Center (Harvard University Press). Her current research projects include a study of the Japanese postwar diva Misora Hibari, transnational flows of Japanese goods such as Sanrio’s Hello Kitty, and a Japanese American beauty pageant in Hawaii.
Preface Brian Shoesmith
In the late 1980s Pico Iyer (1988) commented on the ubiquity of popular music in Asia. He bases his view on his experiences in the Philippines and assumes that the rest of Asia similarly shares a deep and abiding affinity with popular music. Norman Lewis commented on this in the 1950s according to Iyer. So this is a long-standing phenomenon and the question arises why then has it taken so long for popular music in Asia to become a respectable object of academic study? Various responses can be constructed to answer such a simple question, which range from the commercial nature of the medium to its ephemeral status. None of these answers is adequate. Popular music in Asia has been ignored by academics because it does not fit the classic research agenda. Despite the enthusiasm underpinned by a carefully wrought critical apparatus it remains hard work for young academics to convince programme chairs and others who control the research budgets that the detailed study of contemporary Asian popular music is worthwhile. In a sense the status of pop music is like that of film in the 1960s and latterly television in academia; it is necessary for a younger generation of academics to come along with different enthusiasms and a different cultural baggage, without the deeply ingrained prejudices of their predecessors, for the medium to become the focus of rigorous critical discussion. This lack of status for popular music studies becomes even more puzzling when we think of our collective experiences of Asia since the widespread introduction of the new electronic cultural technologies. Popular music has become inescapable. It is no longer a purely urban phenomenon. It resonates through every market, every street, every high-rise building and every school ground. For some of us Asia is popular music. Four experiences over two decades – a wedding in Pune, following the Master Band around nightclubs in Surabaya, a party in Wuhan and karaoke singing in restaurants and canteens, also in Wuhan – illustrate the deep relationship between popular music and my understanding of Asia. In 1977 Y. B. Chavan’s niece married in the grounds of the Turf Club House, Pune, Maharashtra. Chavan was the most important Congress politician in the state at this time, having been premier of Maharashtra as well as a major figure at the national level where he was Minister of Defence in the first Indira Gandhi Congress government. Chavan had no children of his own, which made the marriage even more significant as a family and political event. Turf Club House is a legacy of the Raj. Originally built by Lord Willingdon, then
Preface
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governor of Bombay Presidency, as a rest house for British soldiers, it has become a weekend resort for the Bollywood glitterati. It is situated adjacent to Pune racecourse and comprises a two-storey building with an attached ballroom, which together enclose a large lawned area. The Chavan traditional Hindu wedding took place on a dais at the far end of the lawn facing the main building. In the far-left corner of the lawn was a traditional Hindu group playing the appropriate ragas on sitar, harmonium and tabla. Diagonally opposite the traditional Hindu group were the fifes, drums and bagpipes of Western Command (Pune remains an important military centre). Immediately opposite the traditional group, in the bottom left-hand corner, was a pop group brought up from Bombay, to entertain the young, one suspects. This group specialised in disco – the music style that dominated the Western pop charts at the time. All three groups played simultaneously, achieving a curious synthesis of sound and culture that embodies post-Independence India. Here was a finely balanced expression of the religious and the secular, only the secular came to dominate as the night wore on and the guests partied. The evening throbbed with the sound of disco to such an extent that even now when I hear disco music my mind is immediately taken back to that evening. A form of pop music has become the marker not just of an evening but a total experience. Music in India permeates every aspect of everyday life from the Bombay bustee (slum) to remote rural villages. At the core of this efflorescence of sound is the Hindi fillum music that is endlessly relayed via radio, television, cassette players and travelling minstrels. The cultural technologies of sound have created a vast audience for music that does not seem to abate. There is an unparalleled dynamic interrelationship between the sound, the technology and the audience in India at the national and local levels. Increasingly these music forms are becoming globalised by the bands formed by the Indian diaspora in England and North America. There are also dynamic local music scenes elsewhere in Asia that synthesise the local and the global through music. Indonesia has the cover band phenomenon. In part this has grown up to service the tourist market, especially in Bali where every hotel provides at least one or two bands in their respective lounges each evening. Cover bands also have their local followings. The Master Band, a very popular Surabaya cover group, will play up to three locations in an evening and fans follow them around. The group specialises in Gypsy King and Liza Minnelli covers that it intersperses with its own work and wellknown Indonesian romantic ballads. These latter works are very popular, but it is the cover work that is most requested by an almost exclusively Indonesian middleclass audience. When the Master Band plays and you close your eyes, you would swear Liza Minelli was in the room. The singer has the intonation, phrasing and timing to perfection, including the lisp in New York, New York. The male singer reproduces the different vocalists of the Gypsy Kings to perfection and the band (lead guitar, bass guitar, keyboards and drums) tweaks the sound perfectly. In the right circumstances listening to the Master Band can be an exhilarating experience because they play the audience as successfully as they play the music. This is a different music scene to that found in India. It draws more heavily on Western models and is more attuned to
xiv Preface music fashion, although it eschews heavy metal and punk. Early Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel songs are probably the standards of most cover bands. While it remains based on an intense form of mimicry, the cover band scene is also unequivocally Indonesian modern. Outside of Bali and the five-star urban hotels, the audience is Indonesian. It is youngish, middle-class, educated and wishing to be modern. This desire manifests itself in a lifestyle that includes a preference for Western dress, McDonalds and Dunkin’ Donuts as well as music. The music associated with these developments commonly takes either of two paths: following Iwan Fals, an Indonesian rock musician who constructs his own music influenced by Western rock (the complexities of which are discussed in Chapter 5), or following the Master Band who are as derivative as a kretek cigarette. Mainland China also has a burgeoning pop music scene that currently lacks the intensity of India and the range of Indonesia. Cui Jian and The Black Panthers embody a particular moment that is national rather than regional. The intent of these two groups when they emerged in the 1980s appeared much more oppositional to the gerontocracy that rules China than the Canto-pop of southern China. The Chinese pop music scene cannot be reduced to a simple north/south opposition but at this point it is clear that there are nodes where things are happening, such as Guangzhou, Shanghai and Beijing. Developments in these three key cultural centres filter through to the provinces and in turn influence the musical taste and habits among the young in the respective provinces. At the conclusion of a semester-long master’s course for journalists at Wuhan University it was decided to have a party and banquet. After eating we danced for a while to rock and roll but then settled down to the real purpose of the evening: singing. The range and diversity of songs was amazing. We moved from revolutionary songs sung with gravity to revolutionary songs sung to a beat. There were group songs and individual songs. Songs in English, Mandarin, Wuhan dialect and other dialects were sung. Taiwanese songs and Canto-pop, as well as Cui Jian, were also covered. The whole gamut of Chinese auditory culture was traversed in a short period of time. There was an expectation that Westerners would sing along and provide individual turns quite unselfconsciously, like the students. The apparent love of singing I found amongst my students is mirrored in the popularity of karaoke. Virtually every restaurant in the major cities advertises its karaoke bar and many have special rooms set aside where diners may withdraw to sing. In others the main eating hall doubles as a karaoke lounge and there is frequently competition among the diners to capture the microphone and sing. In my experience karaoke was ubiquitous in China in the mid-1990s and yet little has been written about this significant cultural turn. Karaoke rooms are also found in the canteens and restaurants attached to the industrial work communities that characterise Chinese industrial production. The work communities governed every aspect of Chinese life including entertainment until very recently. However, the karaoke rooms of the canteen seem to have become the preserve of management. Most Chinese workers have two-hour lunch breaks, and management in the work units I visited took the opportunity to indulge their taste for beer and song at lunchtime in these rooms. Like the students,
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managers also traverse the range of popular modern Chinese music in their lunchtime sojourns. ‘The East is Red’ sung to a Canto-pop beat seemed to be very popular. Management tended to commandeer the karaoke facilities for entertaining secretaries. Pop music in China, then, is different to that of India and Indonesia in form and content, but it fulfils a similar function. Pop music not only entertains but bonds. At the same time differences are obvious. In China music provides the means whereby class may be distinguished, as the managers appropriate the karaoke rooms and the secretaries. These anecdotes illustrate the way in which pop music in its different forms penetrates virtually all aspects of contemporary life in modern Asia. What they also demonstrate is how little we really know about the place of pop music in Asian cultures. There is no detailed study of cover bands in Indonesia or karaoke in China and these are the here-and-now, the observable and measurable. What then of the history? For example, the Anglo-Indian jazz bands of Calcutta, Bombay and other urban centres of the Raj, who played for the British rulers, also form an important influence on the dominant fillum music of today. And what of their counterparts in Southeast Asia and the Dutch East Indies who also began as cover bands meeting the needs of the rulers but then went on to form the bridge between the past and the present? In this vein there is also a study to be made of the Chinese jazz bands of Shanghai, evoked by Zhang Yimou in Shanghai Triad. (Since writing this preface, Andrew Field’s (2001) important work on the role of popular music in pre-World War II Shanghai has appeared.) Hopefully by examining the cultural, economic, technological and institutional basis of contemporary pop music in Asia this volume will form the basis for some archaeological work that will make the importance of this cultural form even more transparent.
Acknowledgements
This collection of essays has its origins in a series of symposia organised by the Centre for Asian Communication, Media and Cultural Studies at Edith Cowan University, Perth, Western Australia. We held the symposia over a period of four years and always sought to be at the edges rather than at the centre of current debates in Asian studies. Our first effort, in 1995, focused on the internet in Asia. We could see that the introduction of the net would have profound consequences for Asia, but it was not a view then shared by many of our colleagues. Subsequent symposia focused on the Hong Kong action cinema, representing the body in Asia and medical traditions in Asia. ‘Cultural Values and Cultural Capital of Pop Music in Asia’ was our third and most successful symposium held in 1997. The collection of essays assembled here examines the cultural, political, economic and technological aspects of popular music across Asia, from India to Japan. Unlike much of the recent literature on globalisation which highlights disjunctures and deterministic aspects of ‘cultural imperialism’, each of the essays stresses the local situatedness which gives music a strategic and synthetic outlet for assuming specific meanings for different audiences, demonstrating that local appropriations of the pop music genre and content play an active, rather than reactive, role in manipulating global cultural and capital flows. Our position is that popular musical expression in Asia – its meaning and its practice – cannot be reduced either to the state or to the market, to tradition or to simple appropriation of Western forms. Rather, the culture of pop music is better understood first as multilayered fields of tension embedded in different socio-political settings, and second as a function of different institutional regimes and practices. In adopting this position we hope the collection resonates beyond the boundaries of its own field – which is precisely what we hoped the symposia would achieve. In order to bring a collection of this magnitude to fruition we have, of course, incurred huge debts to friends and colleagues who have supported our work over the years. In particular we would like to thank all of the participants in the symposia who always shared their ideas willingly. These include Yao Souchou, Mike Hayes, Rob Webb (SBS), Sandra Kaji-O’Grady, Tan See Kam, Mirana May Szeto, Ken Wark, Nicholas Thomas and Nathan Sivin. Other individuals who provided the logistical support also have our thanks: Robin Johnstone, Ken Staples, Debbie Sadique, Sharon Snader and Alin Huma for his web and programme design. The
Acknowledgements
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authors of this volume have displayed great patience in seeing it through to completion, and we thank them for that. At the institutional level we must thank our respective universities, Edith Cowan University (Perth), Monash University (Melbourne) and Academica Sinica (Taiwan): in particular, Professor Ed Jaggard, Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Professor Steve Hunter, Dean of International and Community Affairs at ECU. Sarah Miller, Director of the Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA), always made her staff, spaces and resources available, as did Peter Grant, Director of Perth’s Artrage Festival. Both groups provided support at crucial times and ensured the success of the symposia. Thanks! We also must thank X-Press Magazine and Japanese punk-rock outfit, Mach Pelican, for a blast of a night. We were delighted when ConsumAsiaN book series editor for Curzon Press, Brian Moeran, expressed early interest in the possibility of the conference papers developing into a collection of essays. We thank him especially for his patience and enduring support in seeing this book through to its final stages. Our thanks also go to Lise Skov, co-editor of ConsumAsiaN, for her support. ConsumAsiaN administrative support from Marie Lenstrup and Rachel Saunders was most appreciated. As so often happens these days in the world of academic publishing, a smaller press has been taken over by a larger one. In this case, Routledge brought the ConsumAsiaN series into its Asian Studies series, establishing RoutledgeCurzon in the process. It has been a great pleasure to work with Stephanie Rogers, editor of the Asian Studies publications, who has guided us with enthusiasm and professional support during this transition to see the completion of the book. Thanks also to Zoe Botterill at Routledge for her editorial assistance. Finally, we thank the Centre for Asian Communication, Media and Cultural Studies for its unswerving support and access to its limited resources. As we write, the Centre is being disbanded, not because of funding cuts or other managerial excesses but because it has probably run its course. In retrospect it did some pretty interesting things on a very small budget. Not only did it organise and run the symposia but it also published three occasional papers and three volumes in the Reporting Asia Series, funded a number of scholars to Perth to participate in the symposia and to give public lectures and seminars and provided some material support for a number of young scholars in Asian media and cultural studies. In many respects this volume is a testament to that activity. The authors and publishers would like to thank the following for granting permission to reproduce material in this work. Time Spirit Co. Ltd and the Alfee, Project III Co. Ltd for permission to reproduce song lyrics from ‘Love Never Dies’, the picture of the ‘Maria’ guitar and the baroque guitar as featured in the ‘Love Never Dies’ video and the picture of the Alfee (Plates 1, 2 and 3). Boomerang Management for permission to include a translation of song lyrics taken from Blues Males. Kabir Suman for permission to reproduce song lyrics from Song of Flies, Dead Faces, Selling Out.
xviii Acknowledgements Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders for their permission to reprint material in this book. The publishers would be grateful to hear from any copyright holder who is not here acknowledged and will undertake to rectify any errors or omissions in future editions of this book. Allen Chun, Ned Rossiter and Brian Shoesmith
Introduction: cultural imaginaries, musical communities, reflexive practices Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter
Since the mid-nineteenth century a country’s music has become a political ideology by stressing national characteristics, appearing as a representative of the nation, and everywhere confirming the national principle . . . Yet music, more than any other artistic medium, expresses that national principle’s antinomies as well. (Adorno cited in Gilroy 1993: 72) In the modern era, western music culture is fragmented. (Born 1987: 51) Music is more than an object of study: it is a way of perceiving the world. (Attali 1985: 4)
There is little doubt that with the advent of new information and communication technologies there has been an intensification of global cultural and financial flows. New communication technologies such as the internet and satellite, in conjunction with residual cultural technologies such as radio and performance venues, create the potential for cultural forms such as pop music to undergo deterritorialisation.1 MTV and Channel [V], for example, are media of virtual culture, seemingly divorced from any context and endlessly consumed by apparently compliant youth audiences. Paradoxically, these technologies also create the possibility of pop music culture reterritorialising itself in and as new communities transformed by market logistics as they pertain to informational economies characterised by flexible accumulation, production and consumption. One of the key techniques for regulating and ordering the flow of information and structuring the ‘New Economy’ consists of intellectual property regimes (May 2002). Unlike material property, intellectual property functions to inscribe a regime of scarcity upon that which is undiminished when it is circulated and exchanged. This is particularly the case when information has been encoded in digital form. The restrictive nature of intellectual property regimes has inspired decentralised socio-technical phenomena such as the ‘Napsterisation’ of MP3 music files. Such socio-technical practices can be seen as one instance of the mutable field of digital piracy challenging the hegemony of the recording industry and its regulated distribution system (Lovink 2002; Meikle 2002). As a cultural form that brings together sonic and visual dimensions, popular
2 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter music is clearly well suited to the modes of abstraction enabled by a range of communications media such as radio, television, satellite, CDs and DVDs, minidisc players, online file-swapping, and so forth. Indeed, everyday media technologies have been, and continue to be, a key condition of possibility for the emergence of pop music as a popular cultural form. While this is not a book about the ways in which new media technologies condition the production, distribution and reception of popular music, the tension between the local and the global that often characterises debates on the information society and new media technologies is one that carries over to this study of popular music in Asia. Within such a context, it is no wonder that questions arise with regard to the status of national sovereignty and its capacity to define and control the formation of national cultures and industrial practices of commodity production, circulation and consumption. To what extent, for instance, do regimes of taste operate to fragment national cultures? And how easily do pop music genres translate not only from the West to Asia (and vice versa), but also at transnational and translocal levels across the Asian region? Even when popular music is produced in flexible, transnational modes, it still remains situated within local and national industries, material cultures and labour practices. Despite the especially mobile nature of popular music it nonetheless continues to be a localised phenomenon, embedded in socio-political practices, cultural systems and institutional realities. The situatedness of popular music and its distribution as a commodity form according to technical standards, international legal and industry agreements, and symbolic regimes give rise to the extra-territorialisation of state borders that comes into tension with the politics of location that attend the various forms of musical expression. Taken as a whole, this book compares techniques of cultural production, sociopolitical formations, and transnational and subnational differences as they relate to the production, performance, consumption and exchange of pop music within China, Hong Kong, India, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Taiwan and Thailand. While these countries hold vast differences, they offer the book its comparative frame of analysis, which, it should be noted, in no way assumes to comprehensively map the myriad styles, audience formations and tastes, industry practices, and symbolic meanings that define the complexity of pop music in Asia. In a more modest and pragmatic vein, the essays in this book seek to address two issues: first, to look at popular music formations in an Asian context, and in so doing contribute an alternative to the domination of Anglo-American music cultures in the field of popular and rock music studies (see, for example, Bennett et al. 1993; Frith 1992, 1996; Grossberg 1992, 1997; Kaplan 1987); second, to examine the ways in which a focus on popular music formations can foreground operations of the state, commodity culture and its industries, and socio-political practices in such a way that prevailing assumptions of global cultures and economies come under review, if not scrutiny. One of the central tasks of this collection of essays is to demonstrate how forms of cultural capital engendered by production, circulation and transformations of pop music in Asia are differentiated across what Arjun Appadurai (1996) terms ‘ethnoscapes’, ‘mediascapes’, ‘technoscapes’, ‘financescapes’ and ‘ideoscapes’. Uniform
Introduction
3
sets of cultural values cannot be attributed to pop music in terms of class distinctions. Nor can the relation between pop music and cultural values be understood solely by way of comparisons across nation-states. Instead, attention must be given to the ways in which cultural values are differentiated by the mode of communication in conjunction with the geopolitical and cultural sites from which expression emerges. The processes of articulation intrinsic to cultural differentiation ensures that pop music forms and genres themselves are transformed within cultural contexts, and through social practices. Such operations bring to bear the complex ways in which ‘Asia’ is constituted as a geopolitical and cultural imaginary. In his essay ‘Globalizing the Regional, Regionalizing the Global’, Leo Ching unequivocally states that the role of mass culture is a central condition for the discursive and ideological formation of Asia as it shifts from an aggregate of national geopolitical configurations to a supranational regional imaginary. Moreover, Ching argues, the ideological formation of Asia as a regionalist imaginary ‘in the last instance signals the impossibility of the thing (the Asia of Asianism) itself’ (2000: 235). Put another way, the imaginary construction of Asia remains antagonistically locked in what the West may consider a Kantian paradigm rooted in the modern Enlightenment. Such a paradigm or episteme confers upon ‘Asia’ the status of a transcendental entity whose materiality or plurality of differences or non-discursivity constantly evades Western sensibility, hence the ‘impossibility’ of comprehending the ‘thingin-itself’. Ching imputes there is a ‘real’ Asia to be found beyond myths of identity and the material practices that sustain the imaginary terrains of nations and regions. Slavoj Zizek terms this ‘the remainder of some real, nondiscursive kernel of enjoyment which must be present for the Nation qua discursive entity-effect to achieve its ontological consistency’ (cited in Ching 1998: 82). This introduction is not the place to undertake the long-winded rigour necessary to engage with the philosophical legacies of such an argument; instead, we will cut to the following assertions: an imaginary construction signals that there can be no essence, but multiple imaginary terrains that contest, support or ignore one another. Each imaginary formation is articulated with a series of material preconditions. A genealogy of any imaginary formation would involve examining the constellation of material forms and practices and symbolic dimensions that distinguish one imaginary formation from another. So the imaginary does not forgo the possibility of the real, but actively inculcates the real or non-discursive entity as a necessary condition of its own formation. Such a process is evident in the genre of love songs, which through their romantic, imaginary constructions are harking back to rituals of true love, commitment, loyalty, spiritual harmony, and so forth. While Asia remains irreducible to essences, including that of a transcendent imaginary, the task of examining the interrelationships between Asia’s cultural forms, the conditions of their emergence, the social uses that attribute meaning to their distribution as symbolic forms, and the politics of consumption is not inconceivable. If there is a fundamental lesson to be gained from Marxist philosopher Louis Althusser (1971), it is this: ideology consists of lived relations or social practices organised in part by a logic of sensibility found in symbolic realms. The imaginary, as such, is constituted by material practices located within institutional
4 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter settings. The work of cultural industries, which circulate images of pop music stars and performers, evinces the relationship between the imaginary and materiality. The latter is not to be confused with ‘the Real’, whose surplus resists integration into the symbolic order (see Zizek 1989). Despite the significant conceptual distinctions between ‘the Real’ and ‘the material’, the supposition by Ching that the imaginary of Asia is the a priori of its incomprehensibility in that it occludes its conditions of emergence is most limited when it comes to analysing the ways in which cultural imaginaries are always intimately bound with material circumstances. Ching’s play on Althusser’s infamous economic determinist line ‘in the last instance . . .’ suggests a point of finitude whereby a distinction of mutual exclusion or incommensurability exists between the realm of the imaginary and that of the Real; we would maintain, however, that the imaginary is intricately linked with and plays an active role in both constructing and being constructed by the Real. In other words, while the imaginary may appear to be violated by the presence of the Real, for our purposes this does not mean the Real resides irrevocably in a space of alterity, impossible to locate within either the imaginary or the symbolic order (see Grosz 1989; Lacan 1994). For Zizek’s Marxian reading of Lacanian psychoanalytic theory, ‘the Real’ is inscribed within spectral dimensions. As Zizek argues, the ‘resistant kernel’ of ‘the Real’ is always present ‘within the symbolic process itself’ (Zizek 2000: 311), often in the form of some antagonism that is played out in the cultural domain. In this respect there is a materiality that attends the interplay between the Real, the imaginary and the symbolic. While the authors in this book do not ground their analyses within the conceptual schema of Zizek or Lacan, they nevertheless explore many instances of social, cultural and political antagonisms and tensions that emerge from the very resistance of cultural meanings, sensibilities and aesthetic regimes that articulate pop music to the so-called totalising logic of transnational capital. Even attempts at the level of the nation to stabilise and contain musical cultures for the purpose of advancing the ‘national principle’, as noted by Adorno, are met with underlying antagonisms of gender, class, ethnicity and culture that challenge political ideologies. Often such contests are going to be right off the political radar, persisting as ‘differences that make a difference’, to draw on a phrase coined by anthropologist Gregory Bateson (1972). The economic survival of musical industries depends on tuning into these differences that register the mutable ground of musical taste, fashion and genre. Yet the battle over commodifying emergent tastes and performative modes constitutes a problematic of competing interests, which in turn can bring about tensions between governments, corporations, musicians and audiences. While the abstraction of imaginary terrains from social conditions is part of an economic process in which the mobility and deterritorialisation of signifiers of culture may be attributed to what Manuel Castells and others note as a ‘transition’ in the mode of production from ‘mass production to flexible accumulation, or from “Fordism” to “post-Fordism”’ (Castells 1996: 154; see also Harvey 1989; Lash and Urry 1994; Papastergiadis 2000; Tomlinson 1999), ultimately, we think, there remains the ineradicable fact of socio-political contexts in which cultural imaginaries are made intelligible. Such contexts do not necessarily lead to a valorisation of the
Introduction
5
local; rather, they are more properly understood in terms of what Roland Robertson calls processes of ‘glocalisation’ (1992). Ungainly as this word may be, it does usefully signal the idea of a heterogeneous third space: one that is constituted by material and immaterial forces and one that mediates the competing interests between the local and the global. It is at the juncture of the local and global that an aesthetic refashioning of traditional and pop music genres emerges, cultivating a local appeal and articulating cultural values that pertain, in a number of cases, to virtues of love and life. Ching goes on to write that: as soon as the commodity-image-sound of mass culture becomes the fundamental form in which the putative unity of Asia is imagined and regulated, the internal contradictions of Asianism are suppressed for the sake of commensurability and compatibility with the global distribution of cultural power. (2000: 235) In assuming capitalism to hold a totalising logic, Ching forsakes the ‘internal contradictions’ present in the dialectical relation between the commodity object and its conditions of possibility. Indeed, the spectre of such contradictions is at once a phenomenological given, and it is precisely this conjuncture that we seek to address in this book. In terms of providing a foundation for this wide-ranging collection of essays, all of which share popular music in Asia as an object of study, it is useful to signal right from the start the seeming impossibility of such an undertaking. How, one might ask, can popular music be taken to be representative of an Asia that is a heterogeneous cultural, social, political and economic entity? As Ching argues, the material features that distinguish its peoples and places seemingly disappear under the arbitrary sign of a transnationally or globally distributed commodity form which occludes culture and society, or the world of matter, sense and sensation and their techniques of organisation. While no single theoretical position or methodological approach unifies the essays in this collection – to do so would be to participate in the very construction of an imaginary of regional unity that Ching seeks to deconstruct – the various national and ethnic musics analysed here are shown to hold a distinctiveness special to the social needs and conditions, institutional practices, political interests and economic networks that do indeed contribute to Asia as a discursive, geopolitical entity. Nevertheless, this is not an Asia whose cultural forms and practices are victim to the imaginary of global capital encapsulated, for instance, in what Immanuel Wallerstein terms the ‘modern world-system’ (1987; 1990). In Wallerstein’s words, world-systems analysis consists of ‘a “single set of rules” or a single “set of constraints” within which these various structures [the economic, the political and the social or sociocultural] operate’ (1987: 313). To analyse cultural forms and social practices in such terms would disavow the differentiated socio-political temporalities and spaces in which traditional, modern, and postmodern musical forms emerge and syncretise. Reebee Garofalo succinctly outlines the implications of such a model for the analysis of musical cultures as follows:
6 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter the transnational flow of music is often envisaged as a vertical flow from more powerful nations to less powerful ones, or as a centre–periphery model with music moving from more dominant cultures to marginal ones, from developed countries – particularly the United States – to the rest of the world, with accompanying images of overpowering, displacing, and/or destroying local cultures. (1993: 17) Such unidimensional positions as Wallerstein’s are ones this book seeks to actively mitigate on a case-by-case basis. Certainly the effects of economic hegemony impact upon people’s daily lives and shape practices within the cultural industries, but not in any universally integrated and systematically coherent sense. The Marxist principle of ‘uneven development’, for instance, can be usefully drawn upon to describe the differentiated global modernities experienced across the industrially developing world and the processes by which newly industrialised countries (NICs), since the 1970s financial crises in Europe and North America, have become ‘partially integrated into the global circuits of production as well as exchange’ (N. Smith 1997: 174). More recently, one commonly reads in print and electronic media of various Asian nation-states engaged in their own culturally idiosyncratic ‘styles’ of capitalism – ‘Asian Tigers’ and ‘Dragons’, ‘Confucian capitalism’, ‘crony capitalism’ and so forth are demonstration enough of a rhetoric that registers the historically transforming and geopolitical specificity of national and regional capitalist economies that have apparently ‘deviated’ in their restructuring from supposedly more secure, rational and less corrupt systems of capital organisation and management in the West (see Ching 2000: 239; Dirlik 1995). Cultural inflections and political and economic distinctions such as these within Asia enable us to claim that the materiality in which pop music is always embedded gives rise to cosmopolitan flows, political temporalities, and aesthetic industries that are not translatable as arbitrary signifiers of a unified regionalism or universal globality. Frequently the battle of hegemony over cultural identity remains one played out amongst actors situated in multiple institutional spheres and social settings constitutive of an ‘abstract community’ of the nation-state or geopolitical form (James 1996; see also Chun 1996; Sharp 1985; A. D. Smith 1995). In this respect the ‘internal contradictions’ of cultural imaginaries are not so much ‘suppressed’, as claimed by Ching, but rather play a substantive role in identity formation and the habitus of individuals and communities. One way of overcoming the supposed homogenisation of culture in the age of globality is to attend to the historically and culturally specific ways in which the otherwise ungrounded signifiers of capital flows are always and necessarily socially embedded. For unless cultural forms are recognised in terms of their situatedness – be it in theoretical frameworks, and in terms of institutional realities and academic interests, as much as the locations of the social practices attending the field of pop music – then it would be impossible to identify commodity forms as a sign of violence in the first instance. That is to say, in order for a signifier to be made intelligible it has to hold a symbolic potential which, in turn, is only possible according to specific material conditions (physical, social, economic, institutional, political,
Introduction
7
geographical) that register the commodity form with social resonance. For the student of culture this entails a reflexive mode of analysis whereby academic interests, institutional positions, media of communication and theoretical frameworks are addressed as agents contributing to the discursive formation and social organisation of particular objects of study and their disjunctural networks of constitution, property ownership, regulation, symbolic affiliation, exploitation, racism, sexism and consumption (Beck 1992; Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992; Giddens 1990; Lash and Urry 1994; Negri and Hardt 2000; Sharma et al. 1996). While Anglo-American pop music industries hold a dominant purchase on representations of music cultures and economies in the West, it is crucial, we believe, to keep in mind that there is no necessarily unifying impulse in these global times. Appadurai’s notion of ‘disjunctural global cultural economies’ (1996), for instance, further brings into question the idea of a ‘world-system’ based on a core– periphery model in which all actors are integrated. Koichi Iwabuchi’s recent book, Recentering Globalization (2002), is another important antidote to such totalising views. Iwabuchi foregrounds the strategies by which Western popular cultural forms are incorporated into local Japanese contexts and examines how Japanese pop music, along with other popular cultural forms, have been distributed on an intra-Asian scale conditioned by shared cultural resonances and further cultural mixing at local levels. Such a process, argues Iwabuchi, precipitates (asymmetrical) connections between people in Japan and those in modernized (or rapidly modernizing) ‘Asia’, not through reified notions of ‘traditional, authentic culture’ or ‘Asian values’, but through popular cultural forms which embody people’s skillful negotiation with the symbolic power of West-dominated global capitalism. (2002: 18) In other words, the seeming dominance of Anglo-American pop music in terms of representation and market economies begins to appear considerably less so in relative terms. Keith Negus reproduces a dominant assumption in his observation that: The global production and consumption of popular music in the 1990s is defined by the North Atlantic Anglo-American cultural movements of sounds and images, and European, USA and Japanese dominance of finance capital and hardware on which to record and reproduce these sounds and images. (cited in Mitchell 1996: 263) It is the contention of this book that such a perspective greatly underestimates the positionality of actors within cultural geographies and the variability of modes of expression that conform more often to local, national, transnational, and interregional frameworks than they do to a hegemonic world-system. Moreover, such a view as Negus’s of the culture of popular music and its industrial structure is remiss for its privileging of the North and subsuming the complexity of Asian musical cultures into the totalising figure of ‘Japan’. The tendency of popular music studies
8 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter to focus on Anglo-American phenomena is symptomatic of the complex relations between the cultural identities of researchers, academic publishing industries and readerships, university curricula and the emergence of cultural studies as a legitimate field of study, and the peculiarities of music industries within the national and regional settings in which researchers are located. This book itself is evidence of these conditions, albeit ones distinguished by geopolitical and cultural coordinates that span Australasian and Asian regional imaginaries. In view of the existing literature on popular music and culture, the papers included herein are remarkable not so much for their expertise on musicological issues per se than for their sensitivity to the cultural, social and political contexts that have foregrounded the emergence and development of popular music in Asia. The evolution and growth of modern popular music, especially in ‘non-Western’ countries, is, perhaps, at first glance prone to simplistic reductionism of all kinds. The diffusion of Western music and its influence upon local forms can be viewed easily as a unidimensional phenomenon or imposition of ‘global’ upon local. To say the least, this raises obvious questions of form and content. Yet regardless of whether one views such ‘travelling music’ as mindless mimicry, inventions of tradition or creative hybridity, these ongoing cross-cultural flows and aesthetic negotiations must not just be seen as pure instances of aesthetic borrowing and creation, as though isolated from their acceptability by specific niches of people or vested interests and their institutionalisation either as state intervention or rampant commercialisation. Far from being a socially autonomous phenomenon, music always seems, on the contrary, to be embedded in something else. Concert megashows and the advent of MTV videos can demonstrate easily enough that music is only one aspect of a total ‘performance’, but the magnitude of its reception and its potentiality for development are always the product first of its meaning for specific groups and interests and the ways in which underlying musical cultures become strategic foci for representation, desire and identity in a multivocal if not politically contested social arena. The papers by Hayes, Stokes and Chun show that pop music must be seen not for what it appears to be on the surface, but rather the embodiment in the first instance of corporate and other interests. The situation being described here is not unlike the movie culture of Hollywood. One is on the surface of things led to believe that film stars (as if by their own creation) ‘personify’ movies, when these personalities are moulded on the contrary by the vested interests of studios. These movie stars were not even independent artists, but instead contractually belonged to studios and were part of the corporate structure that produced them. Hayes’ paper thus overturns the emancipatory image that is ingrained in cultural studies’ analyses of music by showing how the Thai pop music industry is a complex web of institutional and cultural practices that promotes pop music in a particular light. Stokes’ paper, on the other hand, shows how difficult it is to separate the role of media in the cultural construction of music. More than just a sub-culture, the mass-mediated commodification of rock music in China was to a large extent dependent on the role of print media. Criticising reductionist analyses of Chinese popular music that have tended to dualise the relationship between the state and youth culture to the extent of characterising pop-rock music as a form of
Introduction
9
subversive resistance, Stokes extends Thornton’s (1995) study of ‘club cultures’ by arguing for a more institutionally embedded view of music and musical cultures. In a similar vein, Chun’s paper shows how the development of a cosmopolitan popular culture in Taiwan has been an ambivalent enterprise that can have different meanings for different vested interests. In this era of ‘disorganised capitalism’ (Lash and Urry 1987), which has in a musical arena given rise to the cosmopolitan tastes of ‘international hit radio’ and increasingly hybridised forms of music, the struggle to determine the course of ‘cosmopolitan culture’ (see Brennan 1997; Cheah and Robbins 1998; Harvey 2000; James 1999/2000; Neilson 1999), at least in Taiwan, seems to be inseparable from varying perceptions of those ‘local’ interests as well as control over power and capital. Globalisation appears frequently in most if not all of the following papers. The diversity by which Western pop-rock genres have been appropriated in local venues in effect brings into question the oversimplistic emphasis on functional disjunctures by scholars of transnationalism and the knee-jerk reactions attributed to nonWestern countries by core–periphery models of a modern world-system by shifting attention instead to the diverse cultural perceptions of music and its institutional mobilisation in different societal settings. None of the latter can be predicted by a single theory of globalisation and in essence gives priority to understanding the cultural and socio-political ground of that ‘local’ context. The diverse consequences of globalisation in an Asian context has obvious ramifications for understanding Asian pop music and pop music cultures. Thus pop music takes on many faces in different Asian venues, but these differences cannot be compared cross-culturally at face value. For example, Stokes argues persuasively that Chinese rock music is not inherently subversive, contrary to a priori assumptions, but this does not detract from the dualistic tendencies found in Indonesian pop and rock cultures, as described by Hill and Sen, as well as the politically expressive uses to which Bengali folk music are put, which is the case of Suman Chatterjee’s ‘irritating song’, described by Sudipto Chatterjee. Even hybridity can take many forms, as illustrated elegantly in the papers by Hutnyk, Stevens and Ogawa. Ultimately, globalisation must be seen really as a ‘local’ phenomenon, that is to say, in local terms. Distinctions of self and others are an inherent part of nationalistic music of the kind described by Chakravarty, even if they create unusual notions of desire and nostalgia that necessitate or imagine internalised others, as in the cases of Japan and Taiwan described by Yano and Taylor, respectively. The role of music in creating and maintaining identity is construed somewhat differently in the Balinese context described by Laskewicz, which must be seen in relation to Bali’s long history of cultural interchange. Hayes and Chun, in their respective papers, seem to be make the strongest argument for viewing pop music cultures within a framework of institutional practice that can be a fulcrum for manipulation by hegemonic regimes and culture industries. Especially in Chun’s case, conflict at the level of perceptions and strategies has had direct impact on influencing indigenous meanings of ‘cosmopolitan’ culture. In short, globalisation can be seen as an a priori point of departure less for its effect on producing Western popular music everywhere (as a product of cultural
10 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter imperialism) or global culture (the new cultural imperialism in ‘transnational’ form) than for the way the local cultural and socio-political ground plays a major role in appropriating, shaping and institutionalising external influences. It is important to see how what may be taken initially as internal–external dualisms becomes transformed, redefined and/or synthesised in a local context by diverse forces. The process can be both conscious and unconscious, politically explicit as well as psychologically subliminal, institutionally normalising or deliberately subversive. Moreover, in the context of such globalising influences, one can see various kinds of transnational flows, not just from West to East. The examples of Hayes, Ogawa, Yano, Taylor, and to a lesser extent Hill and Sen, show evidence of strong interAsian influences as well. Meanwhile, the case studies of Ogawa and Hutnyk in particular show that ‘Eastern’ influences can have a peculiar bearing on Western pop-rock music as well. All of the above papers demonstrate the importance of going beyond the materiality of the transnational flows per se to investigate the overt symbolic processes that shape these tendencies toward mimicry, exoticism and syncretism as well as to probe the underlying sociological processes that make music serve as a vehicle for evoking desire and resistance. The papers by Chakravarty, Sen and Hill, and Chatterjee adopt different approaches to the politics of music that elucidate the various ways in which local popular music appropriates and synthesises then institutionalises the global to promote intended socio-political ends. Chakravarty’s study of ‘Vande Mataram’ can perhaps be seen as a classic example of a state-sponsored culture industry that has attempted to mobilise a vast media industry to instil nationalist fervour and patriotic sentiment in the form of national music. The construction of this grand musical narrative was in the first instance a top-down hegemonic project that through commodification became a brand narrative. In content it utilised both anticolonial and primordial essentialist metaphors; in form it was an elite, high-cultural project that aimed to define or invent a tradition to displace genres previously occupied by various folk cultures and premodern musical traditions. This venture into high modernity contrasts with other Asian experiences. Hill and Sen’s analysis of the Indonesian case shows, on the other hand, that the advent of Western popular music is unavoidably political. Sukarno’s act of banning the Beatles in the early 1960s may have set the precedent for viewing rock and roll as politically subversive. The divergent paths taken by dangdut (upbeat pop music) and underground hard rock (with its sexual and otherwise alternative lyrics) illustrate the importance of their socio-political undertones. As Hill and Sen point out, it is difficult to ascertain whether the latter’s anti-authority goals and its explicit disorderliness have engendered the verbal abuse of its lyrics or vice versa. On the other hand, dangdut ’s upbeat, feelgood style has made it amenable to mass popularisation as a new national music that has even been exploited by the ruling Golkar regime as a tool for its own promotion. Sudipto Chatterjee’s analysis of Suman Chatterjee’s modern Bengali song is an example of the way one artist in particular has been able to build on the appeal of the modern popular musical genre by incorporating styles from all over the world in the mould of the Latin American nueva cancion, infuse into the music a sense of poetic beauty and economy, then
Introduction
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mobilise songs as a vehicle for social protest and critical political awareness, rather in the tradition of Bob Dylan or Pete Seeger. The popular appeal of his music, as well as a sense of socio-political consciousness built into its lyrics, has proved to be a subtle and powerful tool for public-intellectual expression that has at the same time created tension with the existing political order. Perhaps like Chakrabarty’s Indian case, Chatterjee has been able to capitalise on an existing industry of popular music to tap into a mass culture market, while promoting it as a platform for political expression in a subtle and syncretic way that seems impossible in an Indonesian setting predicated by a different kind of socio-political ground. The institutional setting differs markedly in different venues, whether it is a function of the interventionist role of the state or capitalist interests in the making of a culture industry. This is probably a more accurate methodological point of departure for the study of modern Asian popular music, as it defines the basic parameters for the social and political uses to which the content and form of music are strategically invoked and the meaning which it conveys for people. This local setting explains music’s ongoing diversity, despite its ‘global’ origin. Stevens’ paper shows the complexity by which Christian symbolism has pervaded the lyrics and songs of one prominent pop music group in Japan, the Alfee. The meaning and effectiveness of such symbolism transcends the sort of East–West, traditional–modern dichotomies that are typically used to characterise the nature and appeal of Japanese pop musicians. Often referred to as the Japanese Rolling Stones, the Alfee without doubt occupies a particular niche in the Japanese musical scene vis-à-vis other groups, but the use of Christian metaphors appears to be a systematic feature of its performance and message to evoke romance and nostalgia. But instead of being a mirror of the contemporary real, the deliberate use of Western symbols evokes a fantasy of modernity; cross-cultural dressing in this regard then enables modern escapism to travel through time and space. The fantastic modern invoked through the romantic nostalgia of the Alfee contrasts on the other hand with Hutnyk’s description of British rock band Kula Shaker and its Orientalist appropriation of South Asian music and cultural forms. The use (in this case, abuse) of Asian music and culture by Kula Shaker was apparently not just the result of an attempt to embellish the pop-rock form through an adoption of Asian alterity but a blatantly Eurocentric objectification of Asian music or, as Hutnyk put it, a ‘souveniring of sound and culture’ that was made possible only on the basis of a ‘history of colonial power and theft transmuted into nostalgia for an idealised exotic India’. Instead of proselytising the essentialist values of a timeless India, which is what its music seems to be on the surface, Kula Shaker’s rediscovery of the Asian sound is, in Hutnyk’s view, ‘the operation of a business-as-usual colonial project. It is still about wanting to rule the world’, as though ‘covertly rehearsing a grand epic nostalgia for the days of the Raj’. As if music is not just music, Ogawa’s study of Japanese popular music in Hong Kong shows that the adoption and growing appeal of Japanese music probably had complex roots in the development of Hong Kong’s popular music as a whole. By providing a change from local Canto-pop, while at the same time sharing a compatible if not similar sense of melody, Japanese pop music began to have mass appeal. In fact, the diffusion of a single song ruju from Hong Kong to Taiwan, China,
12 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, Burma and Turkey (and its local variations) is a typical case of travelling culture, reified also by the promotion of Japanese commercial culture. The diversity of cross-cultural mixing and musical syncretism found in all these instances varies in each case and cannot be predicted by a single theory of globalisation or hybridity. To the contrary, it is evidence rather of the specificity of the local perceptual, socio-political ground that situates, if not conditions, the development of modern pop music and all its supporting cultural manifestations. Instead of being pure representational forms, they attest more importantly to the modernist fantasies, colonial projects and feelgood industries that they inscribe, which supplement the more explicit commercial and political uses to which they can be put. Even in terms of representation, there are myriad transformations that can alternatively evoke desire, nostalgia and rituality in ways that impinge on conscious notions of identity and bring about clashes between existing genres. The role of foreign female singers in Japanese pop music, as epitomised by enka, a genre of Japanese sentimentalist music that has roots in the early twentieth century, is a peculiar case in point analysed by Yano. On the one hand, the pan-Asian popularity of enka attests to the broad appeal of an identifiably Japanese genre. On the other hand, the prominent role played by foreign singers of enka in Japan, sometimes even flaunting their foreignness, is a strange reaffirmation of the Japaneseness of the enka that may strike an unusual contrast with the Orientalising tendencies reported by others in different contexts. As Yano puts it, enka is not internationalised, so much as these foreign females domesticated. These singers become a spectacle of Asian otherness, showcasing the lengths to which Asian foreigners may enact Japanese cultural forms before Japanese eyes . . . The presence of foreign singers in the Japanese enka world may be interpreted as a metaphor for controlling the Asian ‘others’. Enka’s reaffirmation of the self through the transformation of the other contrasts interestingly with Taylor’s study of Taiwanese pop songs and nakaxi women. Being in part an adaptation of enka into Taiwanese, the evolution of Taiwanese bar songs known as nakaxi forms an interesting contrast with the development of Mandarin Chinese songs that later becomes associated with the popular culture of ‘Greater China’ that is disseminated largely from Taiwan and Hong Kong to mainland China. Taylor’s characterisation of nakaxi as ‘postcolonial’ evokes an association by the Taiwanese with their Japanese legacy; their nostalgia is also a throwback to sentiments of the past. The transformations of enka described by Yano and Taylor in the context of Japan and Taiwan show how the social positionality of music can have diverse ramifications upon the kind of cultural identity invoked therein. But if the same music can be transposed elsewhere and given different form and social meaning, as was noted by Taylor in his discussion of Taiwanese bar culture, then it makes sense of Laskewicz’s study of the peculiar Balinese appropriation of Western pop music in the context of traditional genres of performance. Given the long history of Bali’s
Introduction
13
cultural interchange with the West, globalisation can hardly be viewed as a recent phenomenon either. As in all the other examples reported elsewhere, the development of pop music culture in Bali is not just a confrontation between different kinds of music but rather a synthesis created by social meanings placed on music as well as the result of institutional clashes that aim to promote music in ways that galvanise different vested interests. According to Laskewicz, the adoption of modern pop music in a Balinese context cannot be readily understood without viewing music within its traditional framework of performance. Notions of performance not only permeate art and aesthetics but the entire flow of social life. Thus music is part of a larger, more encompassing lifestyle in a way that the advent of MTV and media technology has elucidated the multiple dimensions of music as an art form and cultural practice. In other words, performance is the genre within which music serves a significant, albeit dependent function. The development of pop music in Asia has important ramifications for the cultural studies literature on music, as well as for a deeper understanding of pop culture in contemporary Asia. As Hill and Sen, Hutnyk, Ogawa and Chun have already hinted in different ways, the term ‘world music’ is a misnomer that either hides a hegemonic project or is just symptomatic of a new Eurocentric vision of the global order. Seen from the ‘periphery’ (instead of the ‘core’), the local context is without doubt a creative ground for synthesis and resistance but must be seen in its own terms rather than as a function of (or reaction to) any single globalising influence or force. In other words, the development of every local pop music has always been the result of global influences, conscious or unconscious, prior to the advent of ‘world music’ in the West, which is on the other hand an essentialist, if not exotically Orientalist or crass commercialisation of local, traditional music. Exploratory and cursory as the essays in this book may be, they should be seen as an initial attempt to view pop music and pop culture not simply as pure aesthetic creations, narrowly speaking, but as products of complex institutional and social interactions that must be understood in local cultural terms. Even in the West, despite the way scholars have tended to view pop music myopically as products of marginal or alternative sub-cultures, the emergence and relevance of such phenomena must be viewed instead as embedded in a larger socio-political whole (rather than isolated from it). Their specificity of development in each instance is really the function of these local (albeit holistic unto themselves) contexts. Their marginality is the consequence of dominant institutional forces, just as their prominence in mass culture is a magnification of market and other influences. Globalisation in an Asian context must thus be seen less as a result of common diffusionist origins than as a product of an a priori local, institutional context of meaning and power. Flows may be both global and regional, conscious and unconscious. Social value and cultural capital also intersect at many levels. It is difficult to assess the Asian experience of pop music except to say that its diversity of representation reflects in part its complexity of socio-institutional setting. Not directly comparable at surface level, these experiences nonetheless can contribute to the study of pop music and pop culture transnationally and internationally. They also reflect indirectly on deeper processes of culture and state
14 Allen Chun and Ned Rossiter that epitomise the drastic changes taking place throughout Asian societies in ways that can complement other ongoing studies of Asian economy and polity.
Notes Thanks to Jody Berland, Simon Cooper, Mike Hayes and two anonymous reviewers of this manuscript for their comments and criticisms. The usual disclaimers apply. 1 A fascinating account of the use of the internet in the Chinese rave scene can be read in von Seggern and STAFFER3 (2002).
Part I
Musical cultures and culture industries
1
Capitalism and cultural relativity The Thai pop industry, capitalism and Western cultural values Michael Hayes
In 1997 one of Thailand’s more popular soap operas was Saam Num Saam Mum (‘three boys, three points of view’), televised weekly on Sunday night to a large Thai audience. In one particular episode, aired on 7 September 1997, there was a scene where one of the main female characters, Nat, cooked a Thai meal for her husband and her husband’s two younger brothers. During this cooking sequence a government announcement flashed across the bottom of the screen: ‘Thai people should help Thai people: eat Thai food, buy Thai goods, holiday in Thailand and be thrifty’.1 The onset of the Asian financial crisis, starting with the fall of the baht on 2 July 1997, leading to the closing of 50 finance companies by the government and a slump in the economic growth rate, forced Thailand’s once booming economy into recession. Never before having faced a recession quite on this scale, the government, media and people of Thailand were quite justifiably nervous. The ‘buy Thai’ promotion campaign by the government intending to stimulate the local economy was the first programme in relation to the financial crisis. It was also the first of a wave of crisis-related promotion campaigns which relied heavily on nationalistic pride.2 With this government announcement, Thai food is written and acted simultaneously on screen, the actions of the Thai soap opera demonstrating what the government directive desires – Thais to support their country by eating local food. Irrespective of this caption appearing at this precise moment of the programme, in numerous ways television dramas tend to be closely associated with nationalistic aims.3 Hardly unique to Thailand, soap operas in many countries articulate middle-class, familial values and reproduce nationalist discourses that agree with government policy. However, what distinguishes this section of Saam Num Saam Mum, and one issue I wish to examine here, is the proximity between nationalism as entertainment and nationalism as a governmental discourse. In the episode Nat is learning how to cook Thai food so she can feed the three brothers. Pee, the youngest brother, is learning how to dance because he wants to take a girl to his high school graduation ball. At the beginning of the show Nat cooks a terrible meal in which certain dishes which should be thick are watery, and other items are overcooked. At the same time Pee loses his dance partner because he stands on her toes too often. In response, Nat gets cooking lessons and also teaches Pee how to dance. She eventually accompanies him to the ball since he has no partner, and all is resolved. The concerns of the episode are quite clearly about
18 Michael Hayes pedagogy: what it means to be a good teacher, how to be a good teacher or student, and why learning and respect for knowledge is good for both oneself and others. Indeed, the moral of this episode can be contextualised with the government’s promotion of self-education and teaching others as acts that benefit the nation. Listening to people who know, and learning from them, are valuable qualities – as Nat learns to cook or Pee to dance, it is not difficult to transpose these values to the audience reading the government’s message.4 This may appear a tangential approach to introducing a discussion of Thai pop, for neither government propaganda nor television drama are overtly associated with pop music in Western countries. Yet, in relation to Thai pop, I consider it is these discourses and media that need to be analysed. I open with Saam Num Saam Mum since I wish to explore the connection between national identity, the government, the media and popular music. Primarily I seek this line of argument because I want to discuss some of the ramifications of the tendency in much Western cultural studies to see popular music as transgressive.5 Repeatedly there is an assumption that pop music, before commercialisation and popularisation, was a revolutionary and dissident form of cultural expression. Thus there is an implication that this form of music is inherently a radical tool which has either been sold out or has been appropriated by corporate forces. The episode of Saam Num Saam Mum outlines some of the distinct ideas of cultural values which I use to contextualise Thai pop, and the Thai pop industry, in its governmental, cultural and commercial spheres. That is, my interest is in how the capital of culture is administered in Thailand on macro levels (government and media corporations) and reproduced on micro levels (songs, artists and appreciation by fans). My second concern deals with exchange systems in this economy: how should we conceive the exchanges between Western and non-Western pop, music industries and cultural criticism? I do not want to argue that Thailand’s music is exclusive and independent; neither do I wish to read it as a version, a copy, or repetition of Western music. Rather, through its interaction with Western culture, its interaction with other Asian music industries, and its unique political and media context, Thai pop produces a quite distinct form of popular music, audiences, industries and authorities. Finally, cultural value in pop music is significantly determined by the commercial context. While Western pop likes to downplay the importance of the industry and the commercial value, Thai music is overtly situated in the configurations of private industry: singers are known by the company they belong to and they rarely, if ever, switch companies. The show Saam Num Saam Mum is closely connected, indeed is a crucial part of, the Thai pop industry. It is about three brothers, Tosapol (Tos), Ekapol (Ek), and Peerapol (Pee); respectively a banker, an advertising executive and a high school student. Their parents were killed in a car accident and so they live together in their family home, supporting each other in a number of ways. However, the actors playing the three brothers are individually all very successful Thai pop singers: Ek is played by Songsit Roongnophakunsri (Kob), Tos by Saksit Tangtong (Tang), and Pee by Patipan Pattaweekan (Mos). Combined, these singers have sold approximately 30 million records, with Mos probably the most well known, his records
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selling over five million copies per album. But the show features other personalities: Ek’s wife Nat is played by ex- Miss Thailand World, Mathinee Kingpayom (Ked). Further, the show regularly features other well-known comedians and other singers. Most of the feature actors from the show have already gained fame elsewhere or in another entertainment field, and there is a basic reason for this cross-hatching of careers, which I will soon detail. To understand something of, first, the links between nationalism and pop culture, I wish briefly to describe some historical precedents. After this I detail the Thai entertainment industry, the industry’s structure and the audience it is marketed to. The cultural and institutional dissimilarity from the Western entertainment industry will explain something of the impossibility of using aspects of Western cultural studies to read Thai pop. However, by noting some of Lawrence Grossberg’s arguments (1992), I want to detail the universalising strategies of some aspects of cultural studies, and the desire to mask the commercial underpinning of popular music.
Thai nationalism In the wave of nationalist changes in Thailand during the 1930s after the fall of the absolute monarchy, the government initiated the National Cultural Maintenance Act, a government act which defined certain cultural practices which the Thai people should do, and others which were prohibited. Among these changes was the legislation that Western clothes were proper for Thai people, including hats and gloves for women. The changes were seen as excessive by some; for example, a minor recommendation was the decree that men should kiss their wives goodbye before they went to work (Reynolds 1991: 7). These cultural acts, called Ratthaniyom – for which the standard translation is ‘state conventions’, but which Thai social critic Sulak Sivaraksa playfully translates as ‘following the car (blindly)’ (1991: 50)6 – are historical artefacts of Thailand’s incorporation, formalisation and categorisation of the West’s culture in Thailand. The Ratthaniyom are examples of the level at which the Thai government has historically intervened and controlled cultural formations. While the first Ratthaniyom dealt with issues of national security (Stowe 1991: 123–4), and changed the nation’s name from Siam to Thailand, later conventions focused on cultural issues. This is not to argue that Thailand is any more or less nationalistic than, say, Australia or the USA, but that when considering cultural values we must see a tendency in the West to favour implicit and seemingly autonomous practices of nationalism independent of government initiatives, as if patriotism wells up suddenly in romantic concepts such as the imagination (Anderson 1993). For there is a caution in the West about displaying the explicit ordering of cultural values by government institutions, even though these occur regularly (and we only need to think of flag-raising ceremonies or the Australian ‘Year of Federation’ promotion). Not that the explicitness is any better or worse; however, the explicit level of nationalism in some Thai pop is not a register of state control but an acknowledgement of the source of cultural values that the West would rather erase – the governmental manipulation of nationalist myths. Another important point is that cultural mandates, in Thailand and elsewhere, are largely a thing of the past and we
20 Michael Hayes are now dealing with their residue in terms of legislation, practices and dominant myths on cultural activities. The Ratthaniyom are categorisations which both promote and limit the influx of Western culture into Thailand. There is a willingness, I feel, by Western academics to read state intervention negatively for a couple of reasons. First, the valorisation of the rise of a civil society more willing to resist government powers, and a legacy of viewing non-Western and particularly South East Asian countries as authoritarian regimes, means that non-Western state power is more frequently articulated as dangerous power. Second, there is often a curious reproduction of colonialism specifically through the West’s criticism of its own intervention. The Ratthaniyom are usually read as a signal that Thailand wanted to become Western, and that the West will prevail, both proof of the ‘inevitable march of colonialism’. These ideas emerge mainly in modernisation development theory which Michael R. Rhum described as the ‘great enthusiasm of the Third World elite’ to import the ‘technical’ and ‘cultural’ modernity of the West (Rhum 1996: 329). There is an implicit assumption that Western clothes, language and work practices are ‘modern’ and the related Thai practices are traditional – a very loaded cultural assumption. As a view which valorises the West as strong and unstoppable, this reading can similarly be made of Thai pop’s relation to Western pop – that Thai pop is merely a copy and reflection of the significant Western entertainment industry and is a signal of Thailand’s cultural mimicry of the West (and by Western pop I mean almost exclusively American and British music). However, there are numerous problems with this view of Western dependency: it reduces Thai nationalism to actions opposing the West, thus reducing Thai nationalism to a position of opposition to, and hence dependency on, Western nationalism. It would be simple to read Thai pop in this manner. There is an overt acknowledgement, even within the Thai music industry, of the use made of Western music – such as copying melodies or concept groups such as the Spice Girls and boy bands.7 I disagree that this signals the domineering power of Western culture, for cultural appropriation works all through Western and non-Western cultures (we only need to think of the Monkees as the ‘American Beatles’ – this hardly means the United States was acknowledging their cultural defeat by the British). Rather, the relationship between Western pop and Thai pop fits into a much larger relationship with Thai traditional and folk music, other Asian pop music such as Canto- and J-pop, and the international pop music industry. For it seems there is a growing trend, not just in Thailand but in the region, that positions J-pop with an increasing, and perhaps greater, influence on the pop music industry than the West. A flick through any pop music or teenage magazine in Thailand will show that poster pin-ups now tend to be Thai or Japanese performers, whereas previously they were Westerners. The second problem is that even in the Ratthaniyom, Field Marshal Phibun Songkhran, the co-author of many of the Ratthaniyom, did not see Western culture as a threat that could overpower Thai culture – which perhaps is the all too common view held by the West. He surely would not need to inaugurate the compulsory wearing of Western clothes if the West threatened to take over. Indeed, one aspect of the changes in clothes to an ‘international’ style was to help Thai people to
Capitalism and cultural relativity
21
differentiate themselves from the occupying Japanese forces.8 Phibun wished tactically to include aspects of the West into Thai culture, both to ‘impress on the world that they were civilised people’ (Stowe 1991: 187), and I suspect to make cultural interaction easier by ‘Westernising’ aspects of it. The edicts also functioned to normalise Bangkok culture as Thai national culture; minority groups in areas outside Bangkok, such as the Isaan in the north-east or Muslim groups in the south, were now legally required to participate in Bangkok culture. Also the edicts were a play for power with the mercantile Chinese middle class. It was Chinese clothes, mainly, that were banned and replaced by Western clothes (Reynolds 1991). Thai nationalism formally incorporated its Chinese mercantile section of society. While this vilification of the Chinese has mostly disappeared,9 the cultural edicts are examples of policies of assimilation which homogenise the society by situating the administrative centre and national culture both in the capital city. With the Ratthaniyom, Phibun and his supporters could construct a homogeneous Thai identity that closely supported the three foundations of culture: the monarchy, religion and the nation. I now want to turn to the operation of the Thai pop industry to demonstrate that the centralisation of culture continues to be reproduced in the production of pop music.
Grammy Records There is little published work on Thai pop outside of the industry magazines, and almost nothing published in English. Virtually all of the research for this section was conducted by interviews with people in the industry: record company executives, music critics, fans and musicians.10 Thailand does not have official music charts, and the details and figures I provide are arbitrary. In order to understand how Thai pop operates at this stage I want to detail the operations of Grammy Records, the largest Thai pop label. Grammy was the first, and remains the biggest, Thai music company. It has diversified into many other areas of entertainment, which I will outline shortly. Started in 1983, one of the founders was Rewat Bhutthinun (‘Der’) from the band The Impossibles (whom I will return to soon). Grammy was fortunate by picking as one of its first promoted acts the actor Thongchai ‘Bird’ McIntyre, who subsequently turned into Thailand’s most famous contemporary musician. ‘Bird’ was well known in Thailand because of his role in a 1980s’ weekly television show Khu Kam (Fated Couple), which was set during World War II, in which he played a Japanese soldier who falls in love with a Thai woman.11 I want to describe how Grammy works by using a case study, the career of Tata Young, a recent very successful singer. Tata’s career started in 1994 when Grammy realised they were losing the ‘preteen’ market, aged around 12–16, to rival company RS Promotions, and they wanted to recruit a young star who would appeal to this age group.12 Tata won a contest on one of Grammy’s ‘star search’ programmes at the age of 14. She was employed by Grammy as a singer and consequently went on to become their most prominent pop singer.13 Grammy actively recruit through ‘star search’ programmes on television and young talent competitions in shopping centres; they also employ
22 Michael Hayes spotters to recruit young people. Because the career of a Thai pop singer is often short (one or two years and perhaps two albums), Grammy need to constantly find performers to fill this turnover.14 Once recruited, Tata’s first job is to go through the Grammy training school where she is taught all aspects of becoming a Thai pop star. During Tata’s Grammy training she is taught to act and sing by Grammy staff. Grammy writers and public relations people decide on a musical style for her and develop her show-time personality. Her wardrobe, hairstyle, make-up and so on are also selected by Grammy consultants. Grammy writers write her music, which is then performed and recorded in Grammy studios with Grammy musicians. The records or CDs are pressed and distributed (again by Grammy) to Grammy shops, while being played on one of Grammy’s five radio stations which have access to approximately 65 per cent of the Thai population.15 Advertising is managed by Grammy advertising, starting with radio promotions or her own radio show. If her music is popular she will make various appearances on one of Grammy’s 25 television shows. At first she will appear as a guest on variety, talk or quiz shows. If this is considered successful she will make a cameo appearance on a comedy show. Increasing popularity means she will become a character on a particular show. The penultimate stage is having a role in a drama series such as Saam Num Saam Mum where she can prove herself as a ‘serious’ actor. Grammy do not own the television stations (like radio, a media which, by law, they cannot own), but lease this time from the television companies, and this is the only part of the industry which Grammy do not own.16 Grammy do gain revenue from subleasing commercial time and this also provides opportunities for the cross-promotion of other Grammy products. All this is done alongside concert performances (organised by Grammy concert promotions and in Grammy concert halls), and these are often broadcast as a Grammy television show. The ultimate level, at this point, is starring in a Grammy movie, which Tata recently did in Red Bike Story (1997). The movie was written, directed and produced by Grammy employees, distributed by Grammy, and features a Grammy soundtrack. Tata appeared alongside the other big Grammy teen pop singer, Mos, from Saam Num Saam Mum, who has appeared in a number of movies. After the movie has been released, the soundtrack (by Grammy stars) is released, and finally the video is released and sold or rented in Grammy videos stores. Furthermore, any critical work on or analysis of the movie could be published with Grammy’s publishers, Ton-or Grammy. The publishing wing has two core interests: magazines devoted to Thai pop stars and television personalities, and educational textbooks and scholarly works on areas such as Thai history, geography, literature and society. As far as I know, at no point does Grammy contract out, or rely upon, another company for any aspect of its production. While pop music may not be the single largest earner for Grammy, most of the entertainment is driven by the music industry, and the stars must succeed in music before they are seriously considered in other media roles such as television and radio. Grammy does not hold a monopoly on Thai pop, but controls a significant proportion of the market. Furthermore, the competitors are styled like Grammy –
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23
as much of the market competition with Grammy is from companies started by Grammy-trained professionals. Hence a majority of the pop music industry operates along the lines of Grammy. The market share (which is very anecdotal as Thailand does not have music charts and record sale numbers can be manipulated by the companies) suggests that Thai pop constitutes about 80 per cent of the market, and Grammy has around half of this share; thus around 40 per cent of all music sales originate from Grammy. RS promotions, with around 20 per cent of all music sales, produces music predominantly for the teenage and student market, but also has a film studio rivalling Grammy. The work of a performer in Thai pop is different in subtle ways from that of Western pop musicians. In Western pop music there is a lot of debate about the ‘manufactured’ bands like the Spice Girls, and Bardot in Australia.17 This debate is not a central concern in the Thai pop music industry. Some music critics claim this is because pop identities are referred to by companies such as Grammy as ‘performers’ or ‘presenters’ and not ‘singers’ or ‘artists’ (nak sadaeng rather than nak rong), meaning that these people are presenting work done by Grammy to the public and not performing their own work. However, there have been changes to the concept of performer with the emergence of ‘independent’ musicians and labels in the 1990s. As yet, these labels have only around 10 per cent of market share and are quite a new market force. Independent bands are considered to be those who write and perform their own songs, and are not representative of a particular label. The beginning of independent pop music in Thailand is most often attributed to the band Modern Dog from Bakery Records. Bakery was founded in 1993 by the four producers of the first Modern Dog album. Reluctant to pass the record to one of the major companies because it could be changed significantly, the producers decided instead to start their own company – Bakery music and Taxi distribution. The first record sold 600,000 copies by word of mouth, a phenomenal success. Bakery have grown to have around 20 acts signed to the label. As an independent label Bakery did attract notoriety when Thai rap singer Joey Boy had songs banned by the Department of Culture. One was a song based on a true incident of a father raping his daughter, and another involved the colloquial phrase ‘go fly a kite’ (pai chak wao), which means to masturbate. The banning, according to Bakery, had little effect on the record sales for better or worse. Like most independents, Bakery records are played on Time Media stations, owned by Grammy, but Bakery claim these companies are fair in their selection of music. Obviously, however, the independents must maintain good relations with the larger labels or risk losing their only avenues of exposure to the public.18 Central to Thai pop music is the extensive industry network which joins the fields of music, performance, television and print media advertising. In outlining the overt commercialism of Thai pop I do not want to suggest that Western music escapes this – rather this relationship is disguised to a great extent in the West. And this avoidance of commercialism is evident in cultural critiques of music. I now want to look at how some quite fundamental work in cultural studies avoids this very issue.
24 Michael Hayes
Rock criticism I must locate my discussion of Thai pop in the sources of knowledge from which this chapter emerges. It is the concepts, discourses and politics from cultural studies (which importantly must be considered as a form of cultural capital) that determine a value and an understanding of Thai music. My critical engagement, or that of any Western academic, with Thai pop will be marked by the way we see and speak about rock/pop in the West. Furthermore, if there are careers and concepts at stake in the formulation of rock criticism, then necessarily this academic economy must in a variety of ways inform the reading and reproduction of knowledge about music. There is an industry of talking about music which pays for this chapter which perhaps is closer to the structure of Grammy than we think; this is an industry that informs the cultural values I bring to reading Thai music, and provides the production, reception and audience for this chapter. I write predominantly here of cultural studies criticism and the associated fields of popular music and pop culture within the discipline of cultural studies. As a foreigner writing on Thai pop, I realise my view will be limited, because I do not recognise many of the subtleties of cultural practice and cultural history in the music. While quite clearly this questions the chapter’s accuracy, I consider there is value in the task of positioning Western writing on popular music in its specific and limited history. I want this chapter to operate against what I see as an emerging orthodoxy in writing on popular music in contemporary cultural studies. As most disciplines within the social sciences and humanities are confronting their sometimes problematic association with colonialism, or gender and ethnicity inequalities, there is frequently an erasure of these points in some parts of rock music criticism. Of particular concern is a universalising tendency to read the ‘culture’ of cultural studies as universal – as if the Western university practice can provide the tools to read all culture. Jon Stratton and Ien Ang have stated that ‘American-dominated representation of “cultural studies” . . . [which presents] itself so self-confidently as cultural studies per se is just one illustration of how hegemony derives its effectivity from a self-presentation as universal, one that does not acknowledge its own particularity’ (1996: 364). In a couple of ways the cultural and national specificities of music is sometimes ignored: either by proposing that music is a revolutionary force (Ramet 1994; Whitely 1992), or that its authentic form is devoid of its commercial context. I am not saying that this work is never done. Rather, there appears to be a nostalgic desire to make pop and rock music a gesture of liberation. I want to take the position that perhaps rock is, and always has been, a conservative practice (but one that can have radical subjects within it), and has always been associated with capitalism. I turn to Lawrence Grossberg’s We Gotta Get out of this Place (1992) to discuss these erasures. We Gotta Get out of this Place is an examination of popular culture and rock music. Situated in US society with the advent of the new conservatism sweeping America, Grossberg’s text details ‘the rock formation’ (1992: 131–5) through mobilising cultural studies as the ‘tool of intervention’ (1992: 20). Music is critically engaged, as Grossberg himself announces, via a ‘postmodern sensibility’ (1992:
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209). And, as perhaps is becoming typical in postmodern analysis, the interrogation of the formation of rock is itself rather sweeping and all-encompassing; it is defined by the ‘different organisations . . . other planes of effects . . . complex phenomenon . . . and a number of different relations . . . [fluid] boundaries . . . boundaries already defined . . . an abstract site’ (1992: 74–7). Even though Grossberg announces that cultural analysis is ‘the specificity of an articulated context’ (1992: 61), as the previous quote exemplifies, there is a determined avoidance of grounding the analysis in social relations of power. And this produces a dangerous precedent around the practice of studying culture. For cultural studies’ accounts of music is both allowed to ‘easily embrace generalisations’ (1992: 1), as Grossberg himself admits, and to be ‘tools of intervention’. As the limits of Grossberg’s study is never mentioned, the tools are global and appear applicable to all texts; other cultures are made comprehensible by the specific discourse of American cultural studies. ‘Cultural practices’, states Grossberg, ‘are the sites of many different activities and effects [and are] practised in many different ways’ (1992: 63). It is far easier to articulate rock as a practice of difference and as the product of different things, particularly as everybody will have different approaches, different ideas, and amass different amounts of money from their activity in rock. However, stating that a critical study of rock is based on a mapping of differences wishes away many crucial issues of politics and daily life which should be of fundamental importance to a cultural critic. Mapping differences only shows the territory of possession for rock, not what it excludes, bans, marginalises or dismisses. There is a level of generalisation which marks these ideas, and simultaneously an optimistic view of cultural practice as allowing the freedom of proliferation. This is a reading of difference as variety, not difference as that which also might include the coercive and censoring powers of the hegemony. Curiously, this desire for difference does not permeate the text which is homogeneously American (with a modest half page on Australia and Canada; there is no substantial reference to non-Anglo countries). In operation is a certain version of ‘difference’ that is wholly limited to specific Anglo-centric discourses, but articulated almost as a global overview. Popular music writing in this scenario either becomes the hopeless cause of cataloguing the many differences or a constant attempt to disguise those forces or operations within rock which seek to limit its use and power to particular groups. Far from asserting that ‘difference’ is an unsustainable critical concept, I suggest that difference does not occur without relationships of power, discourses of authority and so on. Some differences are permitted, even made commodifiable, as an act of transgression which simultaneously maintains homogeneity. Joseph Pugliese makes this point in his critical rejoinder to the concept of transgression: ‘[there is a] potentially conservative nature of transgression . . . [It] is that which simultaneously conserves and maintains the parameters of that which it exceeds’ (1996: 22). But exhibiting ‘difference’ does not mean that popular music is transgressive, for difference can be policed to a much greater degree if it is regulated. Similarly, difference in the rock formation is discussed as a product of a global, multiracial, postmodern formation, yet the textuality of the rock and pop music Grossberg discusses is far more specific, far less different, and far more regulated than this.
26 Michael Hayes Perhaps we see in Grossberg’s reading an optimistic take on Foucault’s re-analysis of power as not repressive but productive. However, this does ignore discipline as a crucial adjunct to productive modes of power, a point made clear in works such as Discipline and Punish and The History of Sexuality. Grossberg’s text is saturated by the reading of proliferation: the willingness to approach a problem with the maxim of ‘seek differences’ or ‘open the text up to differences’ situates the rock formation as little more than an object which can possibly speak for everyone, do everything, and mean anything. And in this emphasis we see the by far weaker political engagement with rock because it does not associate differences with relationships of power, and refuses to admit that with the tendency to categorise, classify or conceptualise differences the work of the cultural analyst simultaneously co-opts difference into a formal conceptual system. The analyst always masters and makes the difference comprehensible. To praise differences while placing the ‘different’ in specific orderly categories is contradictory to the proliferation of differences themselves. Ignoring the crucial commercial aspect of music wishes away the very frail notion of difference in this cultural production. The choice of what music is produced, and how it is marketed, is significantly influenced by a market economy linked to both private and government institutions. For Thai pop, like music in the USA, is dominated by a handful of large companies, and is related to the military. The Thai military controls a number of television and radio media sources, and influences the pop music market to some degree because of this.19 In a text which deals fundamentally with the rock industry, it is a significant aporia for Grossberg to avoid addressing the industry as an industry, to elucidate the ‘corporate economy’ which for him is the death knell of music. For this reason my investigation of Thai pop focuses primarily on the industry and not the musicians. Grossberg states that the liberal approval of rock in the 1950s ‘constrained the political possibilities of the rock formation’ (1992: 144), as if rock was opposed to the politics and economy of 1950s USA, only to be hijacked by these opinions and hence reluctantly brought back to the fold. For true rock, in the words of many critics, is not commercial, and is best that moment just before the ‘unknown’ is commercialised. In this way Grossberg places rock on the fringe – ‘rock’s challenges’, he states, ‘are always by those on the outside’ (1992: 147). Capitalism is the disciplinary order of rock, as if commercialisation means the end of rock as a dissonant genre. Yet when can rock function without an economic value? Attempting to provide such a time or space leads to an assumed ideal and a nostalgia for a period of a time before the ‘sell-out’: that time when rock was ‘real’ and not commercialised. The ‘true’ radicalism of rock is before it sells too many records. Again, this particular reading cannot be transported to Thailand, for the social structure, the politics of ‘youth culture’ and the function of the entertainment industry are quite different from the USA or Australia. Perhaps some rock is never a critique of capitalism but of mass culture, a distinction not made in Grossberg’s reading. For a criticism of mass culture can still be both highly commercial and in agreement with the capitalist system. However, it is important to ask what this great desire for the authentic before the ‘sell-out’ is wishing away. There is a nostalgic yearning for an authenticity, a concept invoked by Grossberg, and found in music’s ‘ability to articulate private but
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common desires’ (1992: 207). For in its repeated articulation there is an implication that only through nostalgia can we repossess or reproduce the ‘truth’ of rock. Grossberg is intent on consolidating rock’s position as the authentic voice of opposition; for in music the voices and the places they marked became the signs of authenticity within the everyday life of rock culture, but they were the voices of the people who had no everyday life, who existed outside the privileged spaces of the repetitious and mundane world of the rock formation. (1992: 150) Grossberg says that because rock emerged as a way of mapping the specific structures of youth’s affective alienation on the geographies of everyday life . . . Rock was a response to a certain kind of loneliness and uncertainty: it was about the ways in which youth itself offers new possibilities of identification and belonging. (1992: 150) I must cynically add that it is only the white, baby-boomer generation (who are the audience of the rock Grossberg studies) who could conceive of themselves as ‘lonely and uncertain’ while they were positioned as the privileged section in one of the world’s most wealthy societies. Here is a rather fraudulent marginalisation of society’s most dominant group in an effort to erase both the problematic history of rock, and the conservatism of much criticism about it, through contending an innate, original politics of resistance.
The emergence of Thai pop Readings such as Grossberg’s highlight the numerous points of incongruity between Western and non-Western cultural studies. The connections between youth culture, opposition politics, commercialisation and music is the product of quite different forces in Thailand. I wish now briefly to signal some of these distinctions primarily to display the limits and the cultural specificity of Western cultural studies. Music has been associated with revolutionary movements in both the West and Thailand. The well-known student rebellions in Thailand in the 1970s against the military dictatorship were generally connected with versions of folk, called ‘songs for life’ or pleng chewit which may be comparable to the music of Bob Dylan in the context of the protests against the Vietnam War.20 This music has quite strong links to luk thung, Thai folk music and its contemporary urban version, luk krung.21 A critical distinction in these categories of music is that they are not clearly targeted by the establishment. Pop music is not seen as a dangerous influence to children, for in Thailand there is a distinct lack of parental, religious or other official opposition to or censoring of pop music. There have been few songs banned ( Joey Boy and Ad Carobao during the Suchinda era); the association between delinquency and music, central to American popular culture, is rarely made in Thailand.22 As in the West,
28 Michael Hayes there are terms for ‘delinquents’ in Thailand,23 but where the terms ‘punk’ or ‘hippie’ are associated with music, the terms in Thailand primarily mean ‘bad’ or ‘disrespectful’. The government does sometimes express concern at the behaviour of teenagers, with the use of drugs, gang violence, sex before marriage, and traffic fatalities as the main issues. So what happens to Grossberg’s scheme if music has no ‘other side’ to escape to, if it is not part of the counter-culture which is the ‘only effective radical opposition within . . . societies’ (Whitely 1992: 2)? In this final section I wish to briefly outline the emergence of Thai pop and its relationship to politics to suggest Thai pop’s proximity to capitalism, and also hint at the numerous similarities with Western music. Most Western writing on Asian music is oriented towards covering marginal rock and punk music, and strangely this bias does not appear in the Western media’s coverage of Western nations. That major Western publications are far more likely to write on radical music in, say, China than in their own country says something about the general Western cultural belief that music resists oppression; to suppose that youth pop culture, derived from the West, is naturally rebellious also implies that these Asian nations despotically attempt to censor any ‘free expression’ from the rebellious young who are given their voice of freedom through Western (musical) forms. While Thai pop has been around for 20 to 30 years, there are two key transitional periods worth noting because of the way they situate the music in a political and economic context. First, in the early 1970s, the interest in pop music increased dramatically with the popularity of a Thai band called the Impossibles. Considered by some as the ‘Beatles’ of Thailand, The Impossibles were one of the first successful bands to integrate Thai and American music. Previously music was dominated by local folk and country-style music (luk thung and luk khrung), though there was some interest in Western music such as Elvis Presley, who famously visited the country and met the King of Thailand. In the early 1970s the Impossibles were playing at a time of massive turmoil in Thai society: the Vietnam War and military dictatorship made this a volatile period. There were numerous bloody student protests and a growing interest in communism. Thai society was divided with groups protesting against the army dictatorship, as well as anti-American, anti-Japanese and antiCommunist protestors. Among the groups, which Benedict Anderson notes took ‘diametrically opposite forms’ (Anderson 1977: 115), were the strong student movement and the conservative, military-backed groups such as the Red Gaurs, the Village Scouts, and Nawaphon (Anderson 1977; Bartak 1994: 26–9). This period also saw a massive increase in the middle class (which Anderson considers increased around 1000 per cent in the early 1970s), giving Thai pop an audience-as-consumers. However, there were increasing power struggles between this new powerful urban class, the military, and the conservative rural groups. And these struggles can be mapped, very generally, against the emerging music categories: the Impossibles playing to a broad middle-class audience, and the ‘songs for life’ playing to the student opposition. It must be noted that the growth of pop music in the West similarly mirrors economic expansion. As previously noted, one of the musicians of the Impossibles, Rewat Bhutthinun (Der), has an important position in Thai pop history for he is also the founder of
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Grammy Records. He graduated in economics from Thammasat University, the home of student radicalism, in the early 1970s and would have been brought up on a diet of protests and violence. The Impossibles were popular among American GIs on recreation leave in Bangkok. Der, the singer, would cover English and American music hits, singing in English for the American audience. The Impossibles also translated these songs and sang them in Thai for a Thai audience. The popularity of Thai pop thus emerged as a point of translation, where American music which was popular among the American soldiers was translated into Thai, and in which a Thai band performed Western pop music. While the Impossibles and the music of the 1970s were an important precursor, Thai pop boomed in 1983 when the Grammy company was established. The changes were truly dramatic. From having an almost negligible impact on the market, within a couple of years about 80 per cent of all music sales were Thai pop. The market expanded also, with best-selling albums selling five million and upwards. An audience which had never before bought Thai pop were now buying it in huge proportions. A small indigenous music industry quite quickly became a multi-billion dollar industry. The question I wish to conclude on is, how could an audience adapt so quickly and take up this form so readily? How was such a large audience educated to appreciate the music in such a short period of time? Of the people interviewed in the Thai pop industry, most respond to this question by saying that society was ‘ready’ for pop music. But the specific preparations needed are not obvious: preparations such as how to listen, understand and talk about music; how to organise the associated media and the regimes of taste. Furthermore, because Thai pop has concentrated on a teen market, how could this consumer group be formed easily and exploited so successfully as a consumer group for the first time? The most common answer is one that situates the explosion of pop in the phenomenal changes occurring in Thai society in the 1970s and 1980s with huge economic and infrastructure growth. This period saw Bangkok’s population triple, levels of industrial activity increase enormously, and wealth quickly develop in the country. The boom of a capitalist economy is conducive to the emergence of popular music, as this music can praise materialism and or reassert basic patriarchal and social divisions which may get blurred in the turmoil of economic development. Now the process of Westernisation started by Phibun was no longer sourced in things like clothes but found in entertainment. Pasuk Phongpaichit and Chris Baker note that values supporting and explaining the economic transformation are found in music and television: ‘As change became fast and bewildering, so the songs came to reflect the excitement and the tension . . . It said: we are the new city generation. We are a new sort of individual. The old rules do not apply’ (1996: 118). The new consumer group of middle-class children is vital to the entertainment industry, as one record company executive stated: the main consumers of Thai pop are people who have to ask their parents for the money to buy the record. The significant increase in the middle classes, increased urbanisation and industrialisation quite suddenly changed the structure of Thai society. Yet another response to the question of why Thai pop came about, and this was repeated by a couple of people, was the analogy that young people once waved their
30 Michael Hayes fists against the military or police in protest, but with pop the young were now waving their fists peacefully at pop concerts. Here is a belief that the emergence of pop was a social phenomenon which worked to redirect youth activities from politics to entertainment. Pop became a discipline in opposition to political agitation by providing another avenue of expression for teenagers. Thus music, far from a ‘voice of resistance’, was a hegemonic force which served to stabilise the status quo. Thus attempts to suggest that popular music is transgressive because it avoids politics ignores the possibility that perhaps this avoidance is a form of discipline or disempowerment. What is praised in Western cultural studies as an escape is rather a disenfranchisement. Regardless of the cultural value placed upon pop music, its fundamental allegiance to corporate structures – and this is true both in the West and in Thailand – must lead to a reconsideration of the transgressive ability of this form.
Notes This chapter would not have been possible without the extensive research and translation assistance from the following people: Paweena Klinpaka, Rangsita Traimontri, Nalin Nilwong and Somboon Chaiwood. The chapter has also benefited from advice and input from Peter Jackson. I would also like to thank my colleagues and students in Thailand for their generous advice and discussion on pop music. 1 The campaign is titled ‘Kin khorng Thai, chai khorng Thai, thieo meuong Thai, ruam jai prayat ’. 2 For work on the rise of nationalism in the media see Pasuk and Baker’s Thailand’s Crisis (2000), and in particular the chapter ‘Selling the Nation, Saving the Elephant’, in which they map the rise of nationalism as a response to the crisis. 3 A popular subject of Thai soap operas in 2000 and 2001 was the rise of the Chinese mercantile class in the early twentieth century, which can perhaps be related to the rise of the current Prime Minister, Thaksin Shintawatra, a wealthy businessman of Chinese origin. Comments on the connections between popular media and political change frequently occur in The Nation’s ‘Chang Noi’ column. See http://www.changnoi.8k.com 4 While I do not address gender, it is important to note the relationship between gender, motherhood, home and nation prominent in this conjunction between the government and entertainment industry, as it is the woman who must cook and manage the home. For connections between nationalism and gender, in particular women, see Penny van Esterik (2000: 96–108). 5 I do not enter the debate on differences between ‘rock’ and ‘pop’. While the generic conventions cannot be ignored, these conventions do not transpose easily onto Thai music. The principal regularity of this genre of music, I consider, is the market audience of approximately 15–25 year olds, and this music I call pop. 6 Here Sulak is changing Rat (state) to Rot (car). 7 The Polygram label set up a group called the Angies who were obviously based on the Spice Girls, with five female singers, each with a nickname and appropriate personality. The group, however, was not successful and quickly disappeared (Craig 1997). Similarly there was a Kathoey (transgender) group who lip-synched Spice Girls songs called Thai Spice. 8 I would like to acknowledge Peter Jackson for providing this information. 9 Borrowing from Nazi propaganda, the Chinese were named as the ‘Jews of the east’ by Vichit Vadhakarn, a prominent Thai writer in the 1930s and co-author of the Ratthaniyom. For a current account of Chinese–Thai relations see Burustratanaphand (1995). 10 The interviews are listed at the end of this chapter. However, a number of people wished not to be cited.
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11 This was a story already made famous as a novel, and has more recently be made into a film with the English title Sunset on the Chao Phraya. 12 Interview, Ian McClean. 13 Some cynics state that Tata was recruited before the contest and was subsequently allowed to win, a possible scenario which cannot be verified. Winning a star search would lead the audience to believe Tata had ‘natural’ talent. 14 Some of this recruiting includes auditioning at international schools – private high schools with instruction in English. The recruiters want what has been termed an ‘international look’, or Luk Kreung which means someone of both Thai and Western heritage (Pasuk and Baker 1996: 117). 15 The stations include Radio Green Wave, Radio No Problem, Radio Vote Satellite, and Hot Wave. Grammy are about to introduce two new stations and increase their radio coverage to 90 per cent of the population (around 55 million people). 16 Thai television and radio are owned mainly by three state-run organisations: the Army, the PRD (Public Relations Department) and the MCOT (Mass Communication Organisation of Thailand). The stations are then leased to private companies. The army owns two out of five television stations and 211 radio stations, which is around 44 per cent of the radio stations (Siriyuvasak 1994; Thitinan 1997). 17 A reality television show in Australia called Popstars followed the creation of a pop group, later called Bardot, from the auditions through to their first concert. 18 The major labels have also responded to the popularity of the ‘independent’ movement by producing their own ‘independent’ acts. The band Loso (the name meaning Low Society, which is a play on Thai interest in Hiso or High Society) is a Grammy band produced on a semi-independent label (but still owned by Grammy), and publicised by word of mouth only. The first pressing of 100,000 sold only 60,000 in the first three months, so Grammy decided on some low-level advertising through their other media channels. Over the next three months, with limited advertising, the band sold 1.2 million records. Though maintaining an ‘independent’ image, commercialism was an obvious ingredient to its success. 19 Not only does the military own radio and television stations which play pop music, the army stadium is often used to stage Thai pop concerts. 20 Though accounts of the revolutionary student movements between 1973 and 1976 mention radical films and plays in their discussions, less importance is placed on music (Bartak 1994; Morrel and Samudavanija 1981; Flood 1975). However, this does not mean music was not a central part of the cultural activities associated with these movements. 21 Luk Thung is a rural folk style of music played on traditional instruments. Luk Krung is the Westernised version of this folk music, often using both Western and traditional instruments. For a discussion on the connections between folk and pop music see Ubonrat Siriyuvasak (1998). 22 Recently this has begun to change. However, it is not the influences of music which are blamed, but the massive influx of amphetamines into Thailand, primarily from the Burmese border. The government estimated that about 600 million amphetamines pills (ya ba) would enter Thailand in 2001. There is no link between music and drugs, unlike in many Western countries. 23 The terms are dek leo, dek chua or dek hat, meaning hard case. Filmography Euthana Mukdasanit and Nipon Piewnen (1997) Red Bike Story, Thailand, Grammy Records. Interviews Sukie Clatt, Managing Director, Bakery Records, 8 September 1997. Andrew Hiransomboon, Music Critic, Bangkok Post, 7 September 1997. Ian McClean, Director, Investor Relations Department, Grammy Records, 5 September 1997.
2
Popping the myth of Chinese rock David Stokes
Studies of rock music are frequently dominated by preconceived notions regarding the subversive nature of rock. In areas such as cultural studies these notions are tied in with more general theoretical frameworks which portray youth and/or popular culture as essentially subversive. This situation becomes further complicated with regard to the analysis of Chinese rock music, as it seems to be something of an unwritten law in the Western academic field of Chinese studies that Chinese culture only warrants investigation if it is legitimated by its antiquity or if it challenges the legitimacy of the current regime. An analysis of English-language texts on Chinese rock, both academic and journalistic, reveals the extent to which Western views of Chinese rock music are firmly grounded in Western discourses concerning the resistance value of rock. In this chapter I will discuss some of the reasons why this reproduction of Western rock mythology is so prevalent in discussions of Chinese rock, and suggest the analysis of rock’s role in processes of social distinction as one way of avoiding this reductive tendency to view rock music in terms of its resistance value. This is not an attempt to depoliticise cultural issues, but rather to open up the scope of analysis to a broader understanding of the multifaceted construction of social groups and their cultural affiliations. Central to my analysis and argument is the assumption that the mass media play an essential role in cultural construction and the distribution of cultural knowledge, for it is only through eliding these essential roles of the media that many cultural, and sub-cultural, studies have sustained arguments for the resistance value of their objects of study. The aim of this chapter is thus twofold: first, to argue against the common portrayal of Chinese rock music as necessarily subversive,1 and, second, to discuss how recognition of the role of the media in cultural construction, and an analysis of Chinese rock music in terms of processes of social distinction, can contribute to a more productive, and less reductive, framework for the analysis of Chinese rock music.
The view from the West: the popular as subversive Much of the study of popular culture is based on theoretical social frameworks built around sets of binary oppositions: the bourgeoisie against the proletariat, the reactionary mainstream against the progressive popular, and hegemony met with
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resistance. A common problem with the utilisation of such frameworks is that the popular tends to become equated with progressiveness. Youth subcultures are interpreted in terms of their symbolic resistance to hegemony, soap operas and romance novels become sites of subversive readings, and acts of consumption become acts of resistance. A number of commentators have brought similar approaches to the analysis of Chinese rock music, a prominent example being Andrew Jones’s application of highly specific and problematic theories of Birmingham School-style subcultural theory to the analysis of Chinese rock in Like A Knife: Ideology and Genre in Contemporary Chinese Popular Music ( Jones 1992). Despite a growing academic interest in Chinese rock music, Like A Knife is still the only full-length English language work on Chinese rock.2 As such, and also because Jones’s reductive approach can be considered emblematic of many Chinese studies accounts of popular culture, the main theoretical and methodological flaws of the text warrant discussion.3 One of Jones’s main strategies is to present the Beijing rock scene as a subculture, along the lines of subcultural theorists such as Dick Hebdige, Stuart Hall and Michael Brake ( Jones 1992a: 115–21). He draws particularly heavily from the work of Hebdige, suggesting that the appearance, language and behaviour of Chinese rock musicians and fans should be understood as ‘symbolic challenges to a symbolic order’ (Hebdige, quoted in Jones 1992a: 117). This suggestion is used to support one of the main claims of the book: that the central concern of Chinese rock musicians and fans is the self-conscious reclamation of a subjective voice, and that rock music provides ‘authentic self-expression and emotional release in the face of political and/ or cultural oppression’ ( Jones 1992a: 91). Jones’s transposition of British subcultural theory to the Chinese situation leads to a number of problems,4 the most serious of which is the replication of problems already existing in Hebdige’s work,5 which is part of a tradition that seeks to find resistance to hegemony in the cultural practices of working-class subcultures. In such literature there is a tendency to present an oversimplified view of the role of popular culture, and thus too readily find ‘resistance’ in working-class, or in supposedly ‘non-mainstream’, cultural practices. Models which consider the popular to be inherently oppositional not only blind us to other uses of cultural texts, they also disregard the fact that even when a cultural practice may be considered ‘resistant’, it is not necessarily resistant to ‘hegemony’, or resistant in any overtly political sense. Jones’s use of British subcultural theory to present a vision of Chinese rock as subversive fits in neatly with common Chinese studies understandings of the relationship between popular culture and the ‘official’ culture of the CCP-led state. Presenting the popular as resistant or subversive is a popular trope in Chinese studies, and particularly in presentations of Chinese rock music. Linda Jaivin, for example, describes Chinese rock as ‘a secret language defying comprehension by the adult establishment and a shared code for self-expression that implicitly rejects the values of official culture’ ( Jaivin 1991: 41). In a similar fashion Gregory Lee, in a reading of Chinese rock lyrics and video clips, declares that ‘[w]hat is certain . . . is that the noise of late twentieth-century popular lyrics, in particular rock songs, can disturb the State’ (Lee 1995: 105). And Tim Brace concludes his article on popular music in Beijing with the statement that:
34 David Stokes Having adopted the Party’s mandate for modernisation, the people now reject its lack of progress toward this goal; having been asked to be (and taught to be) angry about life’s conditions (so that they would get involved in the revolution), they now direct this anger at the Party itself. Rock’n’Roll music, and especially that of Cui Jian, best expresses and gives objective presence to this anger – and the anger empowers the music in its opposition. (Brace 1991: 61) As a full-length text, Like a Knife can be differentiated from other English-language works on Chinese rock in that Jones at least attempts to present and develop his ideas within a broader theorised framework. However, Jones’s basic line is much the same as that of other proponents of the ‘rock as rebellion’ view of Chinese popular music: his use of cultural theory does not take his analysis beyond the limitations of Chinese studies, but instead consolidates a fairly typical ‘Chinese studies’ position on the role of contemporary popular cultural forms.6 Jones replicates another common weakness of many Birmingham School subcultural studies in underemphasising the role of the media in cultural, or subcultural, construction.7 In many subcultural studies, arguments for the subversive nature of particular subcultures could only be maintained by eliding the involvement of media and commerce in their construction and maintenance. For example, Hebdige (1979) envisages subcultures, such as the punk movement in England, as ‘genuine’ cultural formations which are later ‘incorporated’ by media and commerce, ignoring the fact that media coverage of the punk movement was essential to its formation. Similarly, studies of rock music in China tend to ignore the essential role of the media and commerce in the construction of notions such as ‘rock’ and ‘pop’, and in the distribution of cultural knowledge.8 Another factor facilitating Jones’s construction of Chinese rock as inherently subversive is his unproblematic deployment of terms such as ‘individual’, ‘rebellion’ and ‘authenticity’. Jones makes much of the way such terms are used by Chinese rock musicians in discussing their music, and redeploys them himself in arguing that rock music is ideologically different from other forms of popular music, and hence creates opportunities for emancipatory uses. However, Jones does not interrogate the biases he brings to his understanding of them. As one reviewer of the book asks – in reference to Jones finding particular significance in Cui Jian’s wearing of People’s Liberation Army (PLA) clothing – ‘Why should one regard a PLA jacket worn by a rock singer as more “authentic” than the spangled dresses and neat suits worn by pop singers?’ (Lang 1995: 364). Jones’s understanding of these terms in fact owes more to the rhetoric of ‘rock ideology’ than to any clearly explicated and/or theoretically sustainable understandings.
Rock ideology One of the main reasons why Western commentators on China so readily pick up on the idea of rock as authentic rebellion, and make a sharp distinction between rock
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and other popular music forms, is because they are heavily influenced by what can loosely be referred to as rock ideology. This term refers to a body of ideas and beliefs about rock music held and propagated by fans, musicians and critics. While rock ideology cannot be considered a unified or temporally stable concept, it is possible to make some general statements about what it incorporates. Simon Frith and Howard Horne, for example, trace ‘rock ideology’ to British art school roots, claiming that, according to the ethos of the 1960s: ‘Rock then, unlike pop, was to be serious, progressive, truthful, and individual’ (Frith and Horne 1987: 90). Peter Wicke similarly identifies the key features of 1960s rock ideology as creativity, non-commercialism and communication (Wicke 1990: 98). Frith views rock’s claim to aesthetic autonomy as resting on a combination of folk and art arguments: ‘as folk music rock is heard to represent the community of youth, as art music rock is heard as the sound of individual, creative sensibility’ (Frith 1987: 136). At the core of rock ideology is the all-important notion of authenticity, which is defined in terms of these two arguments. A key accompaniment to these values, and in part drawing from the rhetoric of individualism, is the notion of rock as rebellion, a notion which contains varying degrees of political connotation. Also central to notions of rock ideology is a particular construct of ‘pop’ as the other of rock.9 Thus in contrast to rock, pop is often negatively defined – either explicitly or implicitly – as (popular) music which is not authentic, creative or rebellious.10 Despite internal contradictions in the discourse of rock ideology – for example, the contradictions between the notions of individual creativity and of representing the community, and between rock’s claims to be non-commercial and its status as part of the music industry – its basic tenets have persistently informed ideas and beliefs about the nature of rock music. While the discourse of rock ideology was at its strongest and arguably most coherent during the ‘classic rock’ period of the late 1960s and early 1970s, it has, in various guises, remained the driving rhetoric not only behind understandings of ‘mainstream’ rock, but also behind understandings of the punk, alternative, and indie scenes of the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s. Far from being the sole preserve of one particular rock genre, rock ideology is used by musicians, commentators and fans in power struggles between genres. For example, although punk broke away from the classicist notions of virtuosity prevalent in hard and progressive rock in the early and mid-1970s, supporters of punk used similar ideological arguments about authenticity, non-commercialism and non-conformity to differentiate punk from ‘mainstream’ rock as supporters of rock have traditionally used to differentiate rock from ‘pop’. Although ‘rock ideology’ draws mainly on popular conceptions of rock, its allure has also pervaded academic texts and discourses. It was partly the influence of rock ideology that led Hebdige to believe that the parade of colourful subcultural characters he presented in Subculture: The Meaning of Style (Hebdige 1979) were truly rebels with a cause. Indeed, most of the Birmingham School subcultural studies were focused on masculinist, rock-based subcultures, with ‘pop’ music largely ignored.11 Many commentators on rock outside subcultural studies also struggle to find the balance between academic objectiveness and their ever-niggling conviction that
36 David Stokes there is something special about rock. Even Larry Grossberg, despite professing the death of rock,12 finds the fact that rock rarely challenges political and economic institutions an ‘obvious but painful truth’ (Grossberg 1994: 51, my italics). Despite such reluctance, however, commentators on Western rock such as Grossberg and Frith are intent on deconstructing the mythologies and constructs surrounding rock music. In contrast, most commentators on Chinese rock seem determined to transpose exactly those structures to China, and rediscover a rock’n’roll restored of its mythological powers. Commentators who are presumably under no delusions about the capacity of rock to change their own societies, have no such clear mind when it comes to viewing rock in China. Andrew Jones, for example, sees rock as an authentic voice for Chinese youth, and Linda Jaivin, in an article called ‘Beijing Bastards: The New Revolution’, claims that the members of a newly formed rock band are ‘at the vanguard of a whole new cultural revolution’ ( Jaivin 1995: 103). Unlike Grossberg, who recognises, albeit painfully, that the ‘rock’n’roll dream’ is an unrealisable desire, many commentators on Chinese rock simply project that desire onto the other, onto China.
Rock’n’roll is alive and well and living in Beijing Why do English-language texts on Chinese rock reproduce Western rock mythology, depicting Chinese rock in terms of rebellion and authenticity? Iain Chambers argues that now that local roots, histories and traditions in the West have apparently been dispersed and destroyed, we search for ‘authenticity’ elsewhere. We ‘seek to return to the beginnings, no longer our own, but that of an “Other” who is now requested to carry the burden of representing our desire’ (Chambers 1994: 72). I see the search for ‘authentic’ rock in China as an updated version of this search in the ‘other’ for what we now lack. Not only do we scour other cultures for the ‘authentic’, if quaint, folk music, handicrafts, and religious beliefs we have lost in the West, we can now find ‘authentic’ rock-as-rebellion, long after its supposed ‘death’ in the West.13 It is even possible, in this age of ‘bubble-gum punk’ such as Green Day and the ‘inauthenticity’ of the reformed Sex Pistols, to find ‘authentic’ punk music in China. As the American writer of a fanzine on the Beijing punk scene puts it: I see punk on the [Chinese] mainland becoming just as played out as it has elsewhere, but in the time that we share now in the next couple of years, we have the control to share the original feelings directly from the sources that created them here on the mainland. (The Great Rock and Roll Swindle, unpaginated) In Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural Studies, Rey Chow refers to a ‘special sibling’ of the Orientalist, whom she calls the Maoist (Chow 1993: 10). For Chow, the Maoist is typically a cultural critic who, disillusioned by capitalism and the betrayal of the Marxist promise in the West, found hope in the Chinese Communist Revolution. In contrast to the Orientalist who blames the ‘third world’ native for the loss of the ancient non-Western civilisation, the Maoist
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‘applauds the same natives for personifying and fulfilling her ideals’ (Chow 1993: 12). The Maoist thus stands as ‘a supreme example of the way desire works: What she wants is always located in the other, resulting in an identification with and valorisation of that which she is not/does not have’ (Chow 1993: 10). Perhaps what we are dealing with now is the hedonistic offspring of the Maoist: with the death of rock and the failure of the ‘rock’n’roll dream’ in the West, they locate what they lack in the other: rock’n’roll is alive and well, and living in Beijing.
Getting serious about popular music: critical pop magazines As discussed above, Western commentators have paid scant attention to the role of the media in creating understandings of rock music in China, with studies of Chinese rock continuing to focus on live performances and the rock ‘subculture’ in Beijing. However, rock music in China cannot be viewed only as a cultural form produced and consumed by a subcultural elite, for it is also a mass-mediated commodity. Far more people have access to rock music via the mass media than through attendance at underground rock shows in Beijing, or even through large-scale concert tours. A national audience for Chinese rock music – and popular perceptions of what rock is – can only be constructed via the mass media. It is thus important to consider how notions of rock music are being created through the mass media. While the coverage of rock on television and radio is still rather limited,14 rock music has had an ever-increasing visibility in the Chinese print media since the late 1980s. Discussion of rock and rock artists, both Chinese and Western, can be found across a wide range of print media, from academic journals and specialist books to newspapers and magazines. One of the most interesting – and influential – developments in the Chinese ‘music media’ since China began its market-based economic reforms in the late 1970s has been the development of a variety of popular music magazines. Such magazines play an important role in constructing popular understandings of popular music forms, and it is to a discussion of this that I now turn. Chinese popular music magazines have their origins in ‘song books’ – booklets containing the lyrics and sheet music of songs – which were a common medium for song transmission in the pre-cassette era. Some of the main popular music magazines in China began as monthly ‘song magazines’ in the mid- and late 1980s, containing very little, if anything, in the way of photographs, news items, interviews and other such information.15 Audio & Video World (Yinxiang shijie) claims to be China’s first ‘informative’ (zhishixing) popular music magazine,16 and began publication in 1987 with the aim of catering to the need for a popular music publication containing more than just song lyrics and musical notation (Zhang Lei, interview 1998). There were few other such ‘informative’ popular music magazines until the 1990s, when a large number of popular music magazines began to appear.17 There is now a huge variety of popular music magazines available throughout urban China, including both nationally and locally distributed publications. Chinese popular music magazines can be roughly divided into pop magazines and ‘critical pop magazines’. The former refers to publications similar to Western ‘teenybopper’ magazines: magazines featuring pin-ups of pop stars, short articles focused
38 David Stokes on the star rather than the music, gossip columns and pop charts. Such magazines sometimes have information on rock, but generally focus on more mainstream pop, both Chinese and foreign. There is a huge range of such magazines in China, aimed predominantly at teenagers. Popular titles include Current Scene (Dangdai getan), Fan’s World (Gemi dashijie), Pop Songs (Tongsu gequ), and Pop (Qing yinyue). Critical pop magazines can be differentiated from pop magazines in that they aim to bring a critical edge to the discussion of artists and music forms, and also to ‘educate’ readers on issues regarding popular music, and in particular rock. Magazines of this kind generally have longer articles, less focus on ‘gossip’, and an older readership.18 Examples of such magazines are Audio & Video World (Yinxiang Shijie), Music Heaven (Yinyue tiantang), the ‘new’ Popular Music (Tongsu Gequ)19 and Modern Sky (Modeng Tiankong).20 Although the use of the terms ‘pop magazine’ and ‘critical pop magazine’ in this context is my own innovation, the distinction is not entirely my own invention. Such a distinction is also made by both editorial staff and readers of critical pop magazines. Zhang Lei, an editor of Audio & Video World, argues that Audio & Video World is a ‘quality’ magazine with ‘critical’ content, and cannot be compared with ‘cheap’ magazines like Current Scene. In discussing its target audience, Zhang Lei specifically distinguishes Audio & Video World from pop magazines: Those students who are ‘star chasers’ [zhuixingzu] probably go and read magazines like Current Scene [Dangdai getan]. That type of magazine is aimed at the tastes of that sort of young pop fan, and has a lot of Hong Kong and Taiwanese content, lots of stuff on pop idols. They’re also pretty cheap, and have more gossip. In comparison, we have more depth. We have quite a lot of critical content. (Zhang Lei, interview 1998) Zhang sees Music Heaven as being a similar type of magazine to Audio & Video World, and, in fact, as its main market competitor (Zhang Lei, interview 1998). Similarly, Zhang Qin – the chief editor of Music Heaven – makes a clear distinction between the readers of Music Heaven who, he argues, want ‘content’, and those readers of magazines such as Current Scene who, he suggests, are more interested in image and fashion. He views magazines such as Audio & Video World, Pop Songs (Tongsu gequ) and Modern Sky (Modeng tiankong) as being similar to Music Heaven in having ‘content’ and covering ‘progressive’ music (Zhang Qin, interview 2000). Many readers of critical pop magazines read them, at least in part, for their critical and ‘educational’ functions. In an analysis of a reader survey in Audio & Video World, it was claimed that readers considered it to be a publication which combines ‘authoritativeness, guidance, informativeness, entertainment value, and collectability’ (Audio & Video World 1/95: 28).21 This claim is supported by many of the comments published in the sections of Audio & Video World set aside for readers’ comments. One reader wrote in to express his hope that the magazine would ‘continue having high quality articles with original musical views, introducing musicians who have musical and cultural significance, and not just long articles on pretty guys and girls which
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don’t even touch on music, like XXX magazine (magazine title deleted by editor)’ (9/96: 45). Another reader mentioned Audio & Video World ’s ‘perfect blend of professionalism, comprehensiveness, knowledge and entertainment, which is so much better than other “gossipy” magazines’ (11/98: 74). A third reader also compared Audio & Video World favourably to other pop magazines, claiming that ‘the difference between Audio & Video World and certain entertainment magazines which focus on gossip about artists, lies in its objective and straight-speaking critique of albums, artists and hi-fi equipment’ (3/99: 82). Readers also often comment specifically on the ‘guidance’ role of Audio & and Video World, with one saying that the ‘critical nature’ of the record review column ‘As We Hear It’ (Suiting suijiang) provides guidance for readers (2/95: 28), and another stating that ‘as I am in the early stages of my music appreciation, I still require guidance and materials’ (3/99: 82). In interviews conducted among Chinese tertiary students in 1998 I found that those students who had particularly earnest approaches to music, and especially those who emphasised that they were fans of rock music, were most likely to be readers of ‘critical pop magazines’. Similar comments can commonly be found in other critical pop magazines, particularly in Music Heaven, whose stated aim is to ‘mainly focus on Western music as the source [of popular music]. We want to deeply analyse its essence, so that it’s no longer a mystery, and so we can open up a channel for cultural and artistic communication’ (Wang Chunyan 1996: 1). Hence a distinguishing feature of ‘critical music magazines’ is that they quite explicitly aim to guide and educate their readers, and, indeed, many of their readers are looking for just such ‘guidance’. These publications thus play a particularly important role in the construction of popular music forms, and the contrasting constructions of rock and pop in Audio & Video World are the focus of the next section of this chapter.22
Learning the difference between rock and pop23 One of the common features of critical pop magazines is that they present a construction of rock music as being of particular cultural value and social significance. This particular construction of rock is by no means unique to magazines of this kind, being present in Chinese academic journals since the 1980s,24 and also being found in newspapers, general interest magazines and specialist books on rock and popular music. However, it is in critical pop magazines that this particular construction of rock is presented most consistently and coherently. While it is a trait of critical pop magazines that they feature articles on rock music, they do not necessarily solely, or even predominantly, feature articles on rock. Audio & Video World, for instance, has a great deal of material on Hong Kong and Taiwanese pop singers, and also at times has articles on Western artists who would generally be considered pop rather than rock. A distinguishing feature of such magazines, however, is that different music styles are approached in different ways. Music which is considered to be ‘of value’ is discussed in terms of its musical and artistic content, social relevance, and more broadly in terms of the artists’ artistic development. On the other hand, music which is not considered of particular
40 David Stokes creative value is not discussed in great detail, with attention focused, instead, on issues such as the artists’ popularity or personal life. Very broadly speaking these two different approaches can be termed the ‘rock approach’ and the ‘pop approach’: the former being used predominantly for rock music25 and the latter for a variety of popular music forms, sometimes homogeneously referred to as ‘pop music’ (liuxing yinyue).26 Pertinent examples of the ‘pop approach’ and the ‘rock approach’ can be found in a January 1995 article on the pop singer Yang Yuying (Yanzi 1994) and a March 1995 article on Beijing rock singer Zang Tianshuo (Wang Xin 1995). The article on Yang Yuying clearly takes the pop approach, discussing the problems of fame, Yang’s views on her fans, and the importance of packaging oneself. Musical discussion is limited to a few comments on the ‘sweet’ singing style she has developed. In contrast, the article on Zang takes the rock approach, with emphasis on his musical background rather than his popularity. As such, it discusses the music he has composed for television and cinema (a venture which is described as having ‘rock precedents’ in artists such as Pink Floyd and Eric Clapton), his talent for writing and performing songs in widely differing styles, the various rock bands he has been involved in, and the high demands he sets for himself in his work. The contrasting terms in which the two are described are reinforced by quotes given from each of them. Yang is quoted as saying, in response to ‘certain knowledgeable people’ who dislike her ‘sweet songs’, ‘I don’t know how other people think, but it is a fact that a lot of “sweet song stars” are very popular. I think that the reason sweet songs are so popular is that their sweetness gives life a bit of sugar, so people don’t have to think too much’ (Yanzi 1995: 5). Zang, on the contrary, is quoted in an appropriately ‘serious’ tone, as saying that rock music ‘should express all the good things and all the bad things in your experience, should express those things that you and the common people are most concerned about, and tell them what they should do. Our future is made through actions, not words’, adding that he hopes his music ‘can be of help to all Chinese people’ (Wang Xin 1995: 16). The ‘rock approach’ and the ‘pop approach’ are also noticeable in record reviews. Artists considered to be of a ‘serious’ nature are reviewed in more detail and more critically than less ‘serious’ artists. This difference was made even more obvious with the introduction in 1994 of ‘Record Street’ (Changpianjie), a column providing even more in-depth (half or whole page) reviews of particularly ‘worthy’ releases, virtually all of which are rock, or similarly ‘serious’, albums. The notion that rock music and its performers are to be taken more seriously than pop was made even more explicit in 1999 when a section of the magazine focusing on Western artists, previously under the English title ‘Pop and Rock’, was divided into two sections which were renamed, again in English, ‘Rock Musician’ and ‘Pop Star ’ (my italics). The tendency to present rock as more worthy of serious consideration and discussion is also reflected in the topics chosen for Audio & Video World ’s ‘educational’ articles. By this I am referring to two types of article: first to articles presented in one or two instalments which introduce various sub-genres of Western popular music, and second to longer-running articles spread over 12 or more issues, usually introducing important rock artists. The majority of the former introduce
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styles of music which would usually be categorised as genres of ‘rock’ in the West,27 and discussion is almost always presented in terms of the ‘rock approach’. The latter are most commonly about major rock figures, and have included serialised pieces on John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, and REM. Similar types of systematic, educational articles include a series of articles published from June 1992 to October 1994 called ‘Rock Conversations’ (Duihua yaogun), and an ongoing series, begun in 1999, called ‘Stories of Rock History’ (yaogun shihua), both presenting a history and discussion of rock genres and major artists. One of the functions of such educational articles is to create a history of rock for the magazine’s readers. This ‘creation’ of rock history is also carried out – or perhaps reinforced and normalised – through a section called ‘Yesterday Once More’ which presents old black and white photos of ‘classic’ rock musicians, mainly from the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s,28 and also through the regular quizzes which focus on ‘rock knowledge’. While regular interviews and articles feature Western ‘pop’ artists such as Madonna, Wet Wet Wet and The Spice Girls, they are seemingly not considered worthy of being presented in a systematic, ‘educational’ way, or of being reworked into Audio & Video World’s re-creation of rock history. Hence the impression is given that certain ‘serious’ artists and genres – usually ‘rock’ artists and genres – are of particular cultural, artistic or musical significance. While other critical pop magazines differ from Audio & Video World in format and content, they all similarly attach particular cultural value to rock. This is done by granting rock music a privileged position in the hierarchy of popular music, implicitly defining it as of greater value than pop music. The relationship constructed between rock and pop music is somewhat similar to ‘traditional’ Western rock/pop distinctions of the late 1960s and early 1970s. Some of the traits attributed to rock music in this process – creativity, musical virtuosity, and artistic and cultural value – are similar to traits attributed to ‘high’ cultural forms in both the West and in China, and these traits supposedly make rock worthy of serious, considered listening. While pop is not explicitly presented as an inferior form, the ascription of such traits almost exclusively to rock implicitly presents pop as being of lower cultural value. The next section will discuss ways in which such distinctions of cultural value are reflected in the views of Chinese tertiary students.
Popular music and social distinction The cultural distinctions implicitly made in critical pop magazines – namely that rock is of particular social and cultural significance compared to pop music – were replicated in many of the responses to a survey I conducted into the music tastes and listening habits of university students in Beijing in 1996. In response to a question asking for definitions of the terms rock and pop,29 a number of respondents referred to rock’s greater capacity for artistic statement and self-expression vis-à-vis other popular music forms. For instance, some defined rock music as: ‘Music with definite connotative meaning, touching on a wide range of things’, and ‘music with good musicians as its core, which can fully express the character of musically creative people’. A number of people who indicated elsewhere in the survey that they were
42 David Stokes not rock fans gave definitions of rock which seemed to indicate that they had also internalised the discourse of rock as higher in terms of cultural value, with responses such as: ‘[Rock is] music that your average person can’t appreciate. It is a form which destroys the fetters on your mind’; and ‘rock is a type of music I really don’t understand, but really want to understand’.30 Such responses were offset by a smaller number of respondents who seemingly saw all popular music as ‘low culture’ in the worst sense of the word, and rock music as its lowest form, with one respondent describing rock as being ‘[t]he hoarse and exhausted catharsis of a group of disappointed people, with no options left, who are starting something new in order to be different’. Only one respondent expressed the attitude – often considered ‘typical’ of rock fans in the West – that rock was of great significance and pop music unimportant and superficial. This respondent described pop music as ‘[a] money-making tool for people who are deceiving both others and themselves. Garbage which only knows repetition and formalism’. In contrast he described rock as ‘[t]he only method for attaining the most primeval desire and aesthetic feeling. Beneath its noisy exterior it has the magic to make people’s souls feel at peace’.31 While the majority of respondents claimed to enjoy pop music, it was never described in terms of creativity, musical skill or as a tool of expression. Rather, it was frequently referred to as easily understood, spreading quickly in popularity, and limited in terms of its time span. Typical comments about pop music were: ‘music for the people’; ‘music that the people like and can spread easily’; ‘music that is generally enjoyed by everybody within a definite time span’; and ‘a momentary joy’. One response which encapsulated all three of these common points was that pop music ‘can spread among the broad masses. No matter whether the listeners’ personal quality is high or low they can all accept and sing it. It has time constraints’. Although not necessarily negative per se,32 such comments do indicate that pop music is not constructed in the terms of cultural and artistic value that are commonly used in reference to rock. The responses to my surveys thus indicate that while there is no consensus on rock’s position within the cultural hierarchy of popular music, a significant number of respondents do reproduce the notion that rock is of higher cultural value than pop music. 33 In discussing contemporary British dance culture, Sarah Thornton claims that dichotomies like mainstream/subculture and commercial/alternative do not relate to the way dance crowds are objectively organised as much as to the means by which many youth cultures imagine their social world, measure their social worth and claim their ‘subcultural capital’. Clubbers thus define themselves against a constructed notion of the mainstream (Thornton 1995: 96). Similarly, many Chinese rock fans, as well as many who are not fans, define Chinese rock music against a constructed notion of pop music. Discourses surrounding rock and pop music in China are thus best considered to be ‘ideologies’ positioning the speaker in terms of their tastes.34 Hence I am not proposing that we understand rock music itself by comparing it to pop music, but that we can understand more about media constructions of, and popular discourses about, rock by looking at how it is constructed against other forms of popular music. The rock/pop distinction should not be seen as a ‘real’
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relationship, but as a process whereby they are constructed against each other. This process is evident not only in the print media but also in popular perceptions of popular music, and is multidirectional – for example, some respondents specifically referred to pop music as ‘not rock’. Understanding how such processes function is essential to understanding the processes of distinction which take place within popular music. These distinctions are those of cultural hierarchy within popular culture. Distinctions such as those traditionally made between high and low culture – that is, expressions of cultural value – are also being continually made within popular culture. The positions and terms of such distinctions are constantly formed and re-formed through continual processes of struggle and negotiation. It appears that as with the ‘traditional’ rock/pop and mainstream/alternative distinctions common in the West, there are sections of the popular music audience in China who want something different, who want to define themselves in different (although related, if not mirrored) ways. This process is ongoing, with the terrain always changing. For example, punk rock emerged in China during the 1990s, supposedly defining itself against mainstream Chinese rock, which supposedly defines itself against pop music, which supposedly defines itself against ‘government-approved songs’. The situation is far more complex than this, however, with each ‘genre’ further breaking down into various sub-genres, each with their various media discourses and supporters. There are numerous influences on such developments, including social, musical, commercial and presumably political ones. The acts of social distinction involved in such matters of taste should not, however, be assumed to contain any direct political significance. Indeed, it is more important to understand the processes of struggle within popular culture than it is to see popular culture per se struggling against high culture, or hegemony, or some other suitably monolithic, repressive ‘other’.35 As Sarah Thornton reminds us: ‘[t]astes are fought over precisely because people define themselves and others through what they like and dislike . . . Youth, therefore, often embrace “unpopular cultures” because they distinguish them in ways that the widely liked cannot’ (Thornton 1995: 164). Rock music – and its various sub-genres – is still a fairly new cultural form in China, and to many ears still particularly ‘unpopular’; hence in some ways it could be considered an ideal vehicle for social distinction. Perhaps choosing to be a fan of rock is more likely to be a ‘considered’ act of social distinction in China, as it is not the seemingly ‘natural’ choice it is for most fans in the West. This, however, does not mean that there is any inherent subversiveness in choosing to be a rock fan.36
Conclusion The mass mediation of Chinese rock opens it up to a multitude of uses. The use of rock in processes of social distinction is one of these, but to focus on this particular use alone would be just as reductive as taking the ‘rock as rebellion’ approach to the analysis of Chinese popular music. More in-depth research and analysis would surely reveal a plenitude of different understandings and uses of rock, particularly if the study was taken beyond the confines of the urban tertiary campus. Such steps are
44 David Stokes obviously beyond the scope of this particular chapter, however, and the main aims here have been to argue against the common portrayal of rock as necessarily subversive, and to indicate the importance of understanding rock in terms of its construction in the mass media. My media analysis and surveys have shown that, rather than being defined against mainstream culture, or hegemony, or some such extra-musical ‘other’, rock is continually being defined against, and in the context of, other forms of Chinese popular music. To overlook this is to decontextualise rock, and it is exactly this sort of decontexualisation that has enabled commentators such as Andrew Jones and Linda Jaivin to provide a view of Chinese rock as necessarily subversive. By removing Chinese rock from its contexts we open it up to our preconceived understandings of it. The Western eye focuses on what it thinks it can comprehend, and in the field of Chinese popular music this is rock. This is perhaps why Western commentators have neglected such important areas of Chinese popular culture as Chinese pop and karaoke, for we have no ‘model’ by which to understand them, and hence they are beyond our comprehension. It is ironic that while discussion of Chinese rock is couched in terms of subversion and dissonance, it is the stylised mimesis of karaoke and the dulcet tones of Chinese pop which subvert the Western gaze and are dissonant to the Western ear. The major obstacle to our attempts to comprehend Chinese popular music and contemporary popular culture is that we still have not come to terms with a Chinese modernity. Chinese studies provide an academic tradition which offers ways of ‘knowing’ ‘traditional’ China, but with contemporary Chinese culture we only feel comfortable – or competent – with those aspects which we feel we can understand on our own Western terms. Aspects of Chinese culture which are both ‘Chinese’ and ‘modern’ remain alien to us, as we have no models or traditions of thought by which to understand them. Until we can comprehend the notion of a non-Western modernity (or postmodernity) our attempts to analyse Chinese rock music, and indeed any field of Chinese popular culture, are condemned to continue to be reproductions of Western ideas of modernity; to be continuations of the master narrative Dipesh Chakrabarty calls ‘the history of Europe’ (Chakrabarty 1992: 1). Andrew Jones’s construction of Chinese rock in Like A Knife is just such a reproduction of European history. Encouraged by Western ‘rock ideology’ and the common desire to locate lost ‘authenticities’ in the other, Jones utilises problematic theoretical models of British subcultural theory and overlooks the importance of the media in cultural construction, thus unavoidably providing a vision of Chinese rock as subversive. Such a line fits in so neatly with common Chinese studies understandings of the relationship between popular culture and the CCP state and its ‘official’ culture, that it has been uncritically adopted by most of the commentators who have followed on from Jones in examining Chinese popular music. Given that academic interest in this area is unlikely to wane in the near future, it would be expedient if we could shake off the romantic and reductionist notions of rock as necessarily subversive, of the popular as necessarily progressive, and of difference as necessarily good.
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Notes This chapter is based on various sections of my PhD dissertation. See Stokes (2002). Some sections of this chapter also appear in Stokes (1999). Thanks to all YUCCS members for their comments on early drafts of this chapter: David Bray (thanks for the title), Peter Micic, Kaz Ross, and, for services above and beyond the call of duty, Elaine Jeffreys. 1 In Chapter 1 of this volume Michael Hayes similarly argues against ‘the tendency in much Western cultural studies to see popular music as transgressive’. 2 Two full-length books on Chinese rock have been published in German. See Steen (1996) and Heberer (1994). For a review of Steen, see Chong (1997). There are a number of English-language articles on Chinese rock. For examples see Chong (1991), Friedlander (1991), Jaivin (1991), Micic (1994a, 1994b and 1995), Lee (1995), Brace (1991), Jones (1994), Wong (1997), Stokes (1997), and de Kloet (2000). For a somewhat different take on Chinese popular music see ‘Listening Otherwise, Music Miniaturised: A Different Type of Question About Revolution’, in Chow (1993): 144–64. For examples of journalistic work on Chinese rock see Asiaweek (1995), Jaivin (1994), Jones (1992b), Mihalca (1991), Schell (1992), Tannenbaum (1998) and Wehrfritz (1998). There are also a number of internet sites dedicated to Chinese rock. A useful site which gives access to a large number of other Chinese rock sites is the Chinese Rock Music Black List: http:// balls.hypermart.net/rock.html 3 Jones’s text has been very influential among commentators on Chinese rock. Thomas B. Gold draws directly from Jones to refer to rock as being explicitly subversive (Gold 1995: 272). Andreas Steen’s MA thesis, ‘Rockmusik in Beijing – Aspekte von Subkultur und Wertewandel in der urbanen Jugrendzene Chinas’, is partly based on Jones’s Like A Knife (see announcement in Chime Journal 8 (Spring 1995): 149). Of various reviews of Like A Knife, Lang (1995) is the only one which raises concerns about Jones’s presentation of rock as an authentic voice of Chinese rebellion. 4 Grossberg et al. point out that the British concept of subcultures is particularly ‘historically entangled’, and hence particularly difficult to transpose to other situations (Grossberg et al. 1992: 8). 5 There are many critiques of Hebdige and of Birmingham subcultural theory in general. For example, see Clarke (1990), Cohen (1980: particularly ‘Symbols of Trouble’, i–xxxiv), Gelder and Thornton (1997), and Thornton (1995). Hebdige himself has revised many of his early ideas. For example, see Hebdige (1988: particularly 17–36). While not a specific critique of his earlier work, his reconsideration of it, particularly the relationship between commercial culture and subcultures, is evident. 6 This is not to say that this particular concept of rock has received blanket approval in Chinese studies. Chinese studies is generally quite a conservative discipline, and popular culture is considered by many not to be an area worthy of study. However, the type of line described here is pervasive among the minority who do take an academic interest in Chinese popular culture. 7 Jones does admit the importance of the portrayal of rock in the print media as an influence on the way in which rock is perceived and used by ‘the larger youth culture’, and includes a section entitled ‘Rock in Print’. Unfortunately this section is very short and only includes discussion of two articles. See Jones (1992a: 125–8). In a later text Jones pays more attention to the role of the media, but discusses this in terms of the ‘commodification’ of Chinese rock, which is reminiscent of many early subculturalist works which see the media as becoming involved ‘after the event’ and incorporating and defusing subcultures. See Jones (1994). For a critique of Jones’s ‘commodification argument’ in this text see Stokes (1997: particularly 59–61). 8 For discussion of Chinese popular music in the print media see Micic (1994a and 1994b). Unfortunately both these articles are brief and are not part of a broader project connecting
46 David Stokes
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discussion of print media material on Chinese popular music to a broader discussion of popular music in China. As Lawrence Grossberg says: ‘Rock and Roll is, from its own side, not merely a subset of “pop”, and there must always be music that is not rock and roll. Such “other” music is “coopted”, “sold-out”, “bubblegum”, “family entertainment”, and so on’ (Grossberg 1997: 38). This of course is only one particular construction of pop, and is a particularly ‘rockist’ one. Throughout this chapter I use the term ‘pop’ predominantly to refer to this particular construction of pop as the ‘other’ of rock. One exception to this was the work of Angela McRobbie. See McRobbie and Garber (1993) and McRobbie (1991). Grossberg discusses what it means to talk about the death of rock in Grossberg (1994: particularly 41–4). For example, Dennis Rea claims that many in the audience at a Cui Jian concert in Seattle in 1994 remarked that ‘the music possessed a passion and vitality that has all but disappeared from corporate Western rock’. See Rea (1994: 98). This is very much the case with Chinese rock, but less so with Western rock. Three magazines which have such beginnings are Pop (Qing yinyue), Pop Songs (Tongsu gequ) and Pop Music (Liuxing yinyue). All three began as monthly song magazines in the mid1980s, gradually changed their formats over the 1990s, and now predominantly contain articles, photos, record reviews and suchlike items. In interview, Zhang Lei, one of the editors of Audio & Video World, frequently used this term in describing the magazine (Zhang Lei, interview 1998). Popular music magazines to begin publication in the 1990s include Music Heaven (Yinyue tiantang, 1992), Fan’s World (Gemi dashijie, 1993), Current Scene (Dangdai getan, 1994), Chinese Broadway (Zhongguo bailaohui, 1994), The East Music (Dongfang gesheng, 1997) and Pop Star (Xingzuo, 1997). According to survey results published in Music Heaven in August 1998, 50 per cent of their readers are aged 16–20 and 46 per cent are aged 21 and over. Their largest readership group is university students, followed by senior high school students, and then by junior high school students (Music Heaven 27 (8/98): 39). According to Audio & Video World ’s Readers’ Opinions Survey Statistics from 1998, 77.5 per cent of their readers are aged between 20 and 30. ‘Pop magazines’ such as Current Scene tend to have a readership made up predominantly of junior and senior high school students. Over the late 1990s Tongsu gequ moved away from being a pop magazine to being a critical pop magazine, with longer, more critical articles, and a focus on rock and alternative rock rather than pop music. By late 1999 it was claiming, on its cover, to be a ‘specialised rock publication’. In surveys and interviews I conducted among tertiary students in Beijing and Nanjing in 1998, Music Heaven and Audio & Video World were the two music publications most commonly reported as being read. All references in this paragraph are to sections of Audio & Video World with no individual author. My decision to focus on Audio & Video World is because it has maintained a ‘critical pop magazine’ role over a sustained period of time, and because, through my surveys and interviews and through general observations, it appears widely popular both among tertiary students and the wider youth community, including many young people involved in music-making. In this chapter I am not concerned with musicological distinctions between rock and pop, but with how the terms are used in the print media and popular discourses. The term ‘rock’ refers to the Chinese word ‘yaogun yinyue’ (literally ‘shake roll music’). This is a Chinese translation of the word rock (or rock’n’roll) and is used to refer to both Chinese and non-Chinese rock. The term ‘pop’ refers to the Chinese word ‘liuxing yinyue’. ‘Liuxing yinyue’ has the meanings both of popular music in general (hence including rock)
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33
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and of ‘pop’ music, referring to a variety of popular music forms including – but rarely exclusively referring to – the style of music sometimes referred to as Canto-pop. This use of the word can sometimes include rock, but in the types of discourses I am concerned with here, ‘liuxing yinyue’ generally would not include rock. ‘Liuxing yinyue’ also refers to both Chinese and non-Chinese music. My use of the term ‘Chinese pop’ in this paper is as a cover-all term for non-rock styles of mass-mediated Chinese popular music. For a discussion of different popular music genres in China see Micic (1995). For a discussion of what I term the ‘reconstruction of rock mythology’ in Chinese academic journals see Stokes (2002: particularly Chapter 2) and Stokes (forthcoming). Particular non-rock artists and genres at times are discussed in terms of the ‘rock approach’. An example of this is the feature on world music in the January 1997 edition of Audio & Video World, which includes discussion of the Chinese ‘world music’ album ‘Agu Jie’ (Sister Drum) by Dadawa. Rock artists are nearly always explicitly referred to as such in Audio & Video World. Singers of other popular music forms are sometimes referred to as singers of pop music, or of particular styles of pop music, but often no particular reference is made to the style of music they perform. Topics of articles introducing styles of music in Audio & Video World in 1995 and 1996 included ‘England’s New Wave of New Wave’ (on bands such as Elastica, These Animal Men, Echobelly, Shed Seven), ‘20 Years of Punk’, ‘Roots of Alternative Rock’ (on The Velvet Underground, The MC5, The Stooges and David Bowie), ‘Women in Rock’, ‘Southern Californian Rock’, ‘Industrial Music’ (on bands such as Kraftwerk, Big Black, Ministry, Godflesh, Nine Inch Nails) and ‘The New York Sound in Rock History’. The first instalment of ‘Yesterday Once More’ (April 1998) contained photos of the Jam, Freddie Mercury, Bob Dylan, Elvis Presley, Peter Gabriel and Linda Ronstadt; the second (May 1998) of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Pink Floyd, Elvis Presley, a young Michael Jackson, Prince, the Yardbirds, Rod Stewart and Chrissie Hynde; and the third (June 1998) of the Sex Pistols, the Rolling Stones, Debbie Harry, Tina Turner, David Bowie and Joy Division. Later entire instalments have been devoted to the Beatles (March 1999) and to the Rolling Stones ( June 1999). In initial surveys I left out this question so as to avoid artificially introducing the rock/pop distinction to my respondents. It became clear from other questions, however, that this distinction was already firmly established among most respondents. This is reminiscent of Pierre Bourdieu’s working-class respondents accepting the legitimacy of ‘high culture’ (Bourdieu 1984: 318). Sarah Thornton similarly gives examples of females accepting their own taste as inferior (‘It’s crap but I like it’) (Thornton 1994: 179) and Robert Walser describes heavy metal fans as accepting the superiority of classical music (Walser 1994: 235). While it is sometimes assumed that rock is ‘anti-pop’, this is not supported by the tastes of the majority of respondents. In response to the question of what type of music they liked, virtually all respondents who indicated that they liked rock indicated that they also liked other music forms, and these nearly always included pop music. In fact, only 1 respondent out of 47 indicated that they only liked rock music, and of the total of 21 who included rock among the types of music they liked, 19 also liked pop music. Indeed, in the context of both ‘traditional’ and contemporary Chinese views concerning the social functions of music, and especially in terms of the Communist belief that culture must be accessible to all, traits such as being easily understood and spreading easily can be seen as quite positive. I discuss this issue in more detail in Stokes (2002). In my doctoral dissertation I demonstrate an important difference between the ‘othering’ of pop and rock taking place in the print media and that taking place among my survey respondents. In the print media the othered constructions of pop and rock commonly involve a ‘demonising’ of pop: pop is presented as being not as good as rock. However, among the vast majority of my survey respondents this othering process is not as judgemental: rock is seen as having particular social and cultural value, but pop is still
48 David Stokes considered relevant and seen as having important functions. See Stokes (2002: particularly 154–7). 34 Thornton stresses that discourses of dance culture are not innocent accounts of the way things really are, but ‘ideologies fulfilling the specific cultural agendas of their beholders’ (Thornton 1995: 10). 35 One of the key features of Thornton’s work on British dance subcultures is that by analysing ‘club cultures’ in terms of the distinctions within their internal cultural hierarchies, she focuses on the processes of struggle within popular culture, rather than on the opposition between popular culture and hegemony. This approach avoids the use of rigid top-down models of social structure – such as those associated with many of the Birmingham School-style subcultural studies – and the associated reductive notions of popular culture as essentially subversive. 36 In keeping with Thornton’s reminder that difference is not necessarily progressive, it is important to note that, from the record industry’s perspective, difference can make good economic sense. One could argue that the desire of fans to distinguish themselves through their non-mainstream tastes is exploited by record companies and encouraged by the media. The print media effectively play as great a hand in creating the rock/pop dichotomy as anyone else in China. A particularly cynical view would see the music industry creating difference, the mass media promoting and legitimating it, and the ‘non-mainstream’ audience/consumer obtaining their social distinction though consuming it. From such a perspective the media’s construction and dissemination of a notion of ‘rock’ in China could be considered to be educating people to be good consumers, rather than encouraging them to embrace a rebellious ideology. Steven Connor describes a similar situation in the West in his convincing critique of notions that ‘marginal rock music’ is particularly subversive or liberating, describing the rock music industry as probably the best example of the process by which contemporary capitalist culture promotes or multiplies difference in the interests of maintaining its profit structure. If there is a dominant in contemporary rock music, it is the dominance of multiple marginality . . . Far from decentring or undermining the structures of the rock industry, each eruption of cultural difference only serves to stabilize this culture, by spreading and diversifying its boundaries. (Connor, quoted in Frow 1995: 62, footnote 6)
3
World music, cultural heteroglossia and indigenous capital Overlapping frequencies in the emergence of cosmopolitanism in Taiwan Allen Chun
This chapter attempts to investigate the various ramifications of cosmopolitanism for the emergence of new public spheres. The semantics of global culture, the economics of transnational capital and the pragmatics of local interest often overlap in discussions of the transnational public. The advent of transnationalism in its various institutional manifestations constitutes a real threat to the existence of prevailing hegemonies by undermining the power of the state to maintain homogenous, standard communities. To what extent does the openness of the media contribute to a democratised space? To what extent do syncretism and indigenisation per se contribute to a multiplicity of cultural voices? In the case of Taiwan, it is important to note that, not unlike the process of democratisation, which was largely engineered from the top down, the introduction of cosmopolitan influences has taken place within the ongoing trend of indigenisation. The compatibility of one to the other must be carefully explained. In this regard, the recent introduction of Western pop culture in the form of world music can be seen as an unusual example of discontinuity and collusion between cosmopolitan and indigenising trends that may have ramifications for future study.
Displacement or dissonance: cultural cosmologies in globalised space In recent years, various writers have accentuated the effects of globalisation upon changing ethnoscapes, newly emerging public spheres and incipient crises of cultural identity. Appadurai (1990) has noted the constant tension between cultural homogenisation and cultural heterogenisation engendered by increasing globalisation but at the same time pointed out significant disjunctures between ethnoscapes, mediascapes, technoscapes, financescapes and ideoscapes. The flow of people, images, technology, capital and ideologies characteristic of the late capitalist cultural economy has in effect created a web of complex relationships that underlie the operation of culture industries, national identities and expressive lifestyles. Different societies are characterised by different kinds of flows and disjunctures. Yet despite the recent current of attention paid to globalisation, one should
50 Allen Chun recognise that the kind of disjunctures so characteristic of Lash and Urry’s (1987) ‘disorganized capitalism’ merely begs the question of what precisely is meant by globalisation or in what sense different kinds of processes may be involved. By understanding globalisation as both a process of material flows and a basis for meaningful localisation, one can then begin to see how different societies receive global flows while at the same time accommodating them within given socio-political and cultural-ideological frameworks. Perhaps more than just a diversity of flows and disjunctures, it is equally important to understand how such diversity in cultural response is a function of different modes of accommodation or negotiation. Patterson’s (1994) lucid analysis of the origins of reggae in the complex interactions of global culture and the formation of the American cosmos represents a good case of how multiple flows (rather than the single threat of a homogenising cultural ‘imperialism’) have contributed to the invention of new cultural forms. In essence, instead of a single global system, Patterson argues that there are many cosmopolises that overlap spatially over a single terrain, each marked by distinct processes of cultural accommodation and strategies of positionality. Apart from the physical effects or functional disjunctures brought about by globalisation (incorporation of the local within the global), transnationalism (the blurring of mutual boundaries between traditionally discrete entities), decentring (shifts in power balance between core and periphery) and time–space compression (dissolution of physical time and distance through media technology), it is equally important to emphasise the perceptual mechanisms in a local context of culture that serve to interpret, negotiate and synthesise these external material processes. Thus, in the context of Taiwan, it is apparent that while society has been subject to processes that are engendered by a new phase of transnational globalism brought about by disorganised capitalism and postmodern technologies, these changes take place with reference to existing cultural norms and social relationships as well as in the context of already evolving political practices and economic hierarchies. In this regard, the notion of overlapping cosmologies is an appropriate metaphor for characterising the emergence of new communities and cultures, for they not only contribute to the advent of new public spheres, but they do so, more importantly, by competing with existing communities and challenging prevailing notions of the public. In this chapter, I shall be concerned with mapping out the contours of such communities primarily in light of their expressive and discursive content. The nature and functions of these expressive and discursive communities should moreover ultimately reflect upon the perceptual mechanisms that serve as the vehicle for creating and reconstituting newly emerging cultural values, while outlining the possibility of resistance to and co-optation of accepted norms. Cultural syncretism and discursive heteroglossia would seem to be products of the transnational experience, or just phenomena whose intensity and diversity have been amplified by the increasing penetration of cosmopolitan influences and global networks. In contrast to, for example, the ethnic nationalist sentiment cultivated during Taiwan’s early postwar era, such syncretism and heteroglossia are to a large degree dependent on the deregulation of the cultural sphere by the state, as well as the deconstruction of dualistic notions of cultural homogeneity embodied in dominant
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ideologies and discourses. In other words, far from being spontaneous events, this increasing trend towards cultural diversity and discursive decentring is attributable both to processes of structural devolution at the top and indigenous movements at the bottom. This is a process of negotiation that constantly opposes interlocking interests. Therefore, one must ask, how do representational aspects of culture interface with their institutional embodiment? How is the multiplicity of discourse a product of transnational regimes, and what are its political effects? Without exploring the entire range of countercultural and counterdiscursive phenomena that have appeared in Taiwan since the lifting of martial law, I wish to focus here on an unusual example of transnational media to assess in what sense it may be possible to generalise about the functional disjunctures brought about by transnationalism per se. To this end, it is necessary to look first of all at the expressive and discursive features themselves to see how both meanings and intentions are a function of their institutional embeddedness; then, second, show how such ‘cultures’ engender new forms of community. The example raised here is ICRT (International Community Radio Taipei), the sole English-language radio station in Taiwan. It has played an important role in spawning a new cosmopolitan popular youth culture in recent decades, and thus represents a prominent and obvious example of one form of transnational media. While it is not wholly representative of the changing nature of Taiwan’s popular culture, the role that ICRT has played in disseminating Western language culture cannot be underestimated. However, the sociological background for its cultural authority in this regard must be seen in the light of its privileged origins as a state-sponsored medium. The contradictions that underlie the nature of its transformation to a commercial enterprise ironically mirror the same contradictions indicative of democratisation and indigenisation processes occurring throughout society as a whole. Moreover, the transnational nature of its medium can be contrasted to other transnational enterprises in ways that have important ramifications for changing notions of identity and community.
Syncretism and indigenisation in the devolution of the state apparatus: the case of ICRT Rob Wilson (personal communication) likes to characterise Taipei as being ‘perpetually under construction’. As he once put it, ‘Taiwan barrages the senses as a dynamic and wacko mixture of the traditional and modern, postmodern and primitive, high tech and agrarian residual, which in contemporary Pacific Rim guise, means the expressive synergy of the global meeting the local, incarnating what we have theorised as the unstable global-local dialectic’, or simply ‘glocal’, as Daniels and Daniels (1994) phrased it. Unlike Wallerstein’s so-called modern world-system, perhaps the local counts even more as the ground of creation and invention. In this regard, ICRT has consciously epitomised the paradigm of ‘think globally, act locally’ with its own motto ‘here’s your chance to think globally, while you tune in locally to ICRT and find out what’s really hot on a global scale’.1 The cosmopolitan ethos that ICRT has forcefully cast upon popular youth
52 Allen Chun culture in Taiwan invites comparison with analogous developments in Hong Kong in the 1970s, which gave rise to a mass media culture that was a hybrid combination of East and West. The kind of cultural syncretism projected by ICRT is easily reflected in the increasing biculturalism and bilingualism of its programmes and its ardent localism despite its exceptional legal status as a foreign-language station. Many of the expatriate disc jockeys are long-time Taiwan residents who vary in their degree of Chinese fluency but who converse with a predominantly Taiwanese listenership as one local to another; there is no self/other ethnic distinction here. The international news coverage is deliberately culture-neutral in perspective, while its local coverage is consistently portrayed from a Taiwan-centred point of view, despite its obvious status as a foreign-language station. The overt cultural syncretism is both an attempt to make accessible to the foreign listener things and events usually of interest only to Chinese listeners and to bridge the linguistic gap with the Chinese listener by increasingly making bilingualism a standard feature. In practice, however, the distinction between audiences becomes blurred, especially when programme hosts routinely switch from English to Chinese and back again. At other times, the syncretism drowns out the very distinctions between native and foreign. Seen on the surface and in the present, the local in ICRT’s syncretic culture is without doubt a ground of creation and invention, but the process itself might be seen as the synthetic tension at many levels between the semantic elements of its cosmopolitanism and the changing institutional status of ICRT from quasi-state apparatus to non-profit organisation to commercial station. What can be viewed as the evolving stages of its musical and pop culture must then be viewed not simply as a result of increasing cosmopolitan influences but equally importantly as an ongoing process by which its institutional disposition has accommodated changes in semantic terms. I would even say that no matter how creative and inventive this local ground may be, these indigenising trends have, in my opinion, tended to follow the socio-political flow of things rather than the other way around. ICRT officially began broadcasting on 16 April 1979.2 It succeeded the American Armed Forces Network (AFNT) as the only sanctioned English-language radio station in Taiwan. The AFNT was operated by the American military from 25 December 1957 until the termination of diplomatic relations and the departure of American troops. Largely due to lobbying by the American Chamber of Commerce and support by then-President Chiang Ching-kuo, ICRT was eventually able to take over from AFNT without any break in transmission, using the same facilities and occupying land which was leased by the Defence Ministry to the US military. The Taipei International Community Cultural Foundation (TICCF) was founded to oversee ICRT, and its board of trustees was made up of ten prominent figures from the government and business community, typically half being Chinese and the other half American. The nature of intercultural cooperation was such that it was beneficial for the board to have good relations with the government; thus it is not surprising to see that it has tended to be conservative in its general outlook. At the time of its official creation, ICRT was a reluctant state enterprise whose survival depended upon a combination of indirect subsidies and corporate contributions. The radio equipment belonged to the US Defense Department but due to
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the unusual circumstances was sold to the Government Information Office (GIO, the agency that oversees all news agencies in Taiwan) for $1. The land continued to be leased to the station by the Defence Ministry, and grants from central government combined with private donations made up the rest of the operating expenses. Moreover, ICRT was legally a non-profit organisation, which meant that there were severe restrictions on advertising. Any profit was supposed to be spent on charity and community service. The staff associated with the station in the early days tended to be made up of untrained expatriates living in Taiwan. Up until 1983, it could hardly have been called a professionally run organisation. It generally lacked a distinctive style, except for its English-language programming; this in combination with the above institutional factors accounted for its perceived status as a non-profit, service organisation catering largely to the expatriate community and a minority of English-educated Chinese listeners. A 1979 survey showed that ICRT’s audience was 65 per cent foreign and 35 per cent Chinese, with people tuning in mostly for news, classical music and easy listening. A trend towards commercialisation began in 1983 with the hiring of Craig Quick, a seasoned broadcaster from Hawaii, who initially became ICRT’s outside consultant, then de facto general manager. Many of the changes were simply organisational and were aimed at transforming an amateurish operation into a professional money-making enterprise. Up until this time the government was subsidising the station through grants by the GIO to cover yearly operating losses; thus it was particularly eager to make it commercially viable. The station was overhauled and divided into separate news, programming, marketing and other departments. New transmitters were bought to replace ageing equipment, and both AM and FM programmes were restructured to incorporate more live programmes on a 24-hour basis. Perhaps most importantly, professional DJs and newscasters were imported on expatriate contracts, mostly from Hawaii, in order to revamp the entire operation. The changes that took place during this period significantly reshaped for the first time the content and style of ICRT vis-à-vis other stations. ICRT had always been one of the few stations in Taiwan to have 24-hour programming, but from 1984 it became the first to extend live programming after midnight and into the early hours. This was a time when martial law curfews still outlawed discos (which went underground) and all-night teahouses (which became nonetheless a popular meeting place for artists and dissidents). The importing of expatriate professionals transformed ICRT from a generally ‘Western’ radio station catering to diverse musical tastes from classical to modern into a genuinely pop-rock music station that tended to promote an underlying American cultural lifestyle. The increasingly commercial orientation of the station was accelerated by a concession by the GIO to allow ICRT to sell advertising, despite its non-profit status, not to exceed initially three minutes per hour. In name, however, sponsors were not buying commercial time; they were giving commercial grants, as though in the form of a donation. It was clear that the content of musical programming, with its poprock orientation, was aimed at a more youthful mass audience rather than predominantly English-speaking expatriates and native elites. In this regard, ICRT was not the only station playing Western pop music but it was the first to establish a
54 Allen Chun consistently pop-rock image whose overall cultural style was distinctively moulded by its various ‘radio personalities’ (to take the current term literally). Most local stations at this time were still slotting various kinds of music as though to cover the whole field and without invoking any special aura or being motivated by commercially competitive goals. In 1985, when ICRT began to become commercially viable, grants from the GIO stopped, and the profits from broadcasting operations enabled the station to expand its community service activities. Beginning in 1984, news coverage also changed significantly from reporting almost exclusively international news to offering a more equal balance of local and international news. The hiring of foreign reporters fluent in Chinese, along with an increasingly specialised division of labour among news staff, was supplemented by a growing number of English-language news programmes on local issues like the law, the environment and politics. Perhaps unlike musical programming, which aimed at diffusing Western pop culture among an undifferentiated resident population, the increasingly radical character of news programming reflected an increasing interest in local affairs that dared at the same time to offer a critical outsider’s perspective on things. The fact that these programmes were being broadcast in a foreign language made them generally more immune from the direct control of the GIO, in the sense that Marxist literature in a foreign language would tend to pass customs more easily than anything of PRC origin, but it eventually got to a point where interviews with political dissidents and controversial figures overstepped the mark, forcing the GIO, through the station manager, who was usually a political appointee reporting directly to the board, to clamp down. In 1992, in a ‘financial’ restructuring, three reporters in the news division well known to have Taiwanese sympathies were laid off, and the head of the news division was transferred to marketing.3 The fact that ideological tension between a conservative management on the one hand, which represented official interests in the bureaucracy like the GIO and the Party, and reporters on the other hand, who derived a different view of news by being ‘on the street’, continued even while the policy of liberalisation was well underway meant that ICRT was not just your typical expatriate station; its nature and operation were not just the product of diffusion and adaptation.4 ICRT’s special status as a foreignlanguage station, in theory non-profit but in practice commercial, guided on the one hand at an operational level by expatriates but controlled on the other hand at a policy level by a management intent on maintaining the official line, indicates that its nature and possibilities of being were always the product of negotiation between different vested interests. The trend toward indigenisation did not really appear until the early 1990s, and this was combined with a move away from ICRT’s predominantly American flavour to a gradually more internationalist orientation. These trends were predicated by a gradual shift in the composition of its audience or a gradual change in the perception of its intended audience. The discovery that its audience was increasingly made up of local Taiwanese rather than foreigners and that its average listeners were teenage youths rather than an undifferentiated public came with the hiring of a charismatic DJ named Patrick Steele, a young black Haitian who had been living in Taiwan and working in a local club. Without having any prior radio
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experience, in 1986 he was hired to work the midnight shift, a typically sleepy time of day. As time went on, the disproportionate amount of fan mail generated by him clearly demonstrated that he was one of the most popular DJs and revealed certain facts about ICRT’s listenership. First of all, he was one of the few DJs who was able to speak any Chinese and, second, his show apparently tapped into a large population of late night students who either deliberately wanted to listen to Englishlanguage programmes or ended up listening to ICRT because it happened to be the only live music programme on after midnight. By receiving calls from listeners and talking in Chinese to other youths on all manner of subjects concerning personal life and activities, he also helped to reveal the popularity of talk shows and call-in programmes, which eventually became a popular fixture on other stations in later years. Despite the success of this particular show during the late 1980s, the growing realisation that a large proportion of listeners happened to be Taiwanese youths did not alter the image of ICRT as an American pop-rock music station. At the time, I would say that it underscored its Americanness even more emphatically in a Taiwanese context. The hiring of Chinese-speaking foreigners like Samantha K as well as Asian faces like Suzy Wonder and Sally Yeh was in my opinion an explicit attempt to make Western pop-rock more accommodating to local listeners. This corresponded with new shows such as The Taiwan Top 20 and Intercultural Music City, which were broadcast in English and tended to cater more to foreigners with no access to local music than to local teenyboppers hooked on Western music. In short, there is a sense here of intercultural exchange, but this was predicated on serving different constituents with different needs rather than invoking a single cosmopolitan ethos, and thus should not be confused with the local-globalism and bilingualism seen in the early 1990s. The trend toward local-globalism, which was in a strict sense a strategy of cultural syncretism or an attempt to indigenise if not creolise cosmopolitan influences, was concurrent with and inseparable from several significant external variables, namely Chiang Ching-kuo’s policy of ethnic indigenisation qua democratisation qua liberalisation, the increasing commercialisation of ICRT’s operations and the trend in Western pop-rock music cultures towards multiculturalism and globalism, as epitomised by International Hit Radio’s (IHR) world pop chart. The success of ICRT to support itself financially led the GIO to increase ICRT’s commercial time to five minutes per hour in 1990, then nine minutes per hour in 1992, which was the legal maximum for commercial stations. This was allowed in exchange for an agreement to expand daily cultural programming by two hours. The Youth Nightline show, hosted by David Wang, was one cultural programme that emerged from this increased ‘commercialisation’. David Wang is an amazing example of a local youth who learned his English almost entirely from listening to ICRT. Youth Nightline was a late-night talk show in which he would interview guests, both Chinese and foreign, on topics ranging from Taiwanese pop music to current social issues. Interviews would ideally be conducted in English, even when talking to Chinese-speaking guests, but in cases where dialogues and call-in questions were in Chinese, he would summarise the gist of Chinese remarks in English and vice versa. Youth Nightline quickly became one of the most popular shows on ICRT’s roster of
56 Allen Chun programmes, and this was followed by a similar bilingual programme entitled Today’s Woman, hosted by Natalie So. The success of such shows demonstrated the importance of capturing the Taiwanese audience. A survey in 1994 showed that 96 per cent of ICRT’s listeners were Taiwanese and the remainder foreign, perhaps the exact opposite of the situation when the station began. Although ICRT never deviated from its core of playing Western pop-rock music, during the early 1990s one could sense a trend toward the increasing incorporation of Chinese pop songs and the tendency of long-time expatriate DJs to occasionally speak Chinese on the air or to accommodate call-in listeners who could not speak English at all. Chinese pop songs were aired, not in special programmes like Taiwan Top 20, but as part of the routine programming, averaging about five minutes per hour. This conscious policy was dictated not only by an increased focus on indigenisation but also by trends in Western pop-rock stations to play proportionately more ethnic and nonEnglish popular music within its normal programming. A more explicit movement towards indigenisation was organisational in nature. When it was established, ICRT was controlled by a board in theory half made up of Chinese interests and half of expatriate interests. In the course of its operation, however, the director of the board, Koo Lien-sung, gradually managed to bring into the board Chinese business and government magnates to replace increasingly smaller numbers of expatriate board members. This development is significant only in light of current efforts to fully commercialise ICRT, which in its 15-year existence as a non-profit organisation cannot be understood apart from the devolution of the state–party apparatus to a more explicitly commercial operation.5 While it is clear that on the surface of things ICRT has undergone a gradual process of commercialisation that brought about the importation of cosmopolitan trends – especially in its most recent trend towards cultural syncretism – such commercialisation was made possible only with the collusion of state interests. The current crisis over the future of the station fought out at the corporate bureaucratic level with regard to the meaning of indigenisation and cosmopolitanism reflects the inherent tension between a Chinese-dominated board with ties to government and business interests on the one hand and expatriates responsible for the production of cultural meaning at the operational level on the other. In 1993 the ICRT Board was notified by the government that it must give up its facilities on military land which had been leased to AFNT, then to ICRT. This included its studios on Yangmingshan and its transmitters in northern and central Taiwan. This was not an action directed specifically to ICRT but was part of the inevitable devolution of the monolithic state apparatus, that is to say, a process of democratisation, indigenisation and liberalisation that brought about in the long run the various legal and institutional consequences.6 In practical terms, the station had to find new sites in order to resolve the impending legal crisis surrounding its occupation of military land. Not being able to find appropriate alternative sites for its facilities, the American Chamber of Commerce in conjunction with predominantly expatriate interests petitioned Lien Chan, the premier, to have the land transferred to the National Property Bureau, which in turn would have the authority to lease the land to private concerns. This
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met with no reply from the premier. In the meantime, Koo Lien-sung, the board’s director, in conjunction with other board members and their private commercial interests, arranged to apply for a new commercial licence operating on a different frequency. To maintain continuity with the present station (in the sense of the more things change, the more they stay the same), he proposed calling ICRT International Cultural Radio Taiwan instead of International Community Radio Taipei. The old ICRT would then give up its old facilities in favour of the new one, which would at the same time complete its transformation into a commercial radio station.7 The group that submitted the application was a separate organisational entity from the current board members of ICRT, but in government circles it was openly recognised that they were all the same people. Either way, the board stood to win from the reorganisation, because the impending sale of existing facilities would bring over NT$100 million to the foundation (TICCF), and this could be used to significantly expand its charitable activities.8 The facilities would still need to be moved to new sites, but this would be a problem for the new commercial owner. The crisis brought about by the actual commercialisation of ICRT in regard to current trends in programming has more to do with the different ways in which expatriates involved in content production and the predominantly Chinese members of the board understand the nature of indigenisation and cultural syncretism. While there has been a gradual trend toward bilingualism and biculturalism in musical programming to the point of being syncretic if not creole in nature, this can be viewed as a function of various trends and perspectives. The multicultural and transnational face emerging in world pop music culture can be seen as contributing to a gradual infusion of local language and culture into the routine programme content. Concurrent with this trend is the obvious recognition of a predominantly local audience and the need to accommodate their listening interests. However, from the perspective of expatriate producers, the cultural authenticity of the programming content has always been the prime prerogative in the promotion of that culture. The number of local youths listening to the radio primarily because it is a foreign-language station is testament to its attraction in this regard. This has been a natural consequence of the increasing cultural cosmopolitanism brought about by democratisation and increased cultural contact. From the perspective of the predominantly Chinese controlling interests at the board level and beyond, the success of ICRT in recent years has been seen as a result of its ability through bilingualism and biculturalism to attract increasing numbers of local listeners. The foreign element of its musical culture has tended to be taken for granted as a secondary element of its success. When news of ICRT’s reorganisation by local business elements broke, there were unfounded but natural rumours among certain elements of the press that this would signal an increase in Chinese-language programmes to the point where ICRT would become truly multicultural and essentially bilingual in nature. While there is no firm indication that the trend toward unconscious syncretism or conscious bilingualism will continue beyond what it is at present, there is on the other hand a real fear among many expatriates that with the corporate reorganisation their authority to define the programming content, and hence shape the message with particular meanings, will be subordi-
58 Allen Chun nated to policies dictated from above, rather like the ‘autonomy’ of Hong Kong after 1997. In short, the determining element of ‘glocalism’ in ICRT’s future is not its inherent disorganisation and spontaneity, as might be reflected in the general process of globalisation, but its ongoing manipulation by entrenched institutional interests. Far from having disappeared, the collusion of the state in the indigenisation process is a continuing feature of Taiwan’s media practices. The state has simply changed its form and tactics like a chameleon changes colour.
The sociological consequences of transnationalising culture The point of the present chapter was not really to examine the breadth and depth of transnational media in Taiwan but rather to show that the penetrations of technology and capital cannot be adequately understood without examining the local context of meaning within which these functional disjunctures are located. The possibilities and manipulations of meaning reflect back upon the parameters defined by the nature of the medium itself as well as the underlying strategies of diverse institutional interests whose authority or business it is to define and produce meaning. The pragmatic (representational plus perceptual) dimensions of media have serious implications for an emerging public insofar as they create communities of discourse that have definite boundaries and rules of sociability. If transnationalism, by virtue of its borderlessness and lack of hegemonic core, challenges modern forms of communal boundedness and dominant ideology, then it is clear that there is not just a single public sphere but many; there is no one cultural cosmology, but many overlapping ones; there is not just one mode of communicability but a whole plethora, rational as well as irrational. The unfolding of democracy in Taiwan is a curious development in its own right (see Chun 1994). Rather than being a natural dismantling of an autocratic system, as though under threat of global pressure and with the sudden recognition of human rights, the devolution of the state-party apparatus in Taiwan has largely been an orchestrated process from the top down whose ultimate aim is to transform the structure of existing power in ways that are routinised, sublimated and selfregulating. Democracy in this regard becomes a mode of legitimation that has the effect of obscuring or deflecting the machinations of power rather than eliminating them altogether. Ethnic indigenisation and economic liberalisation must be seen in this light as factors that collude to create new institutional forms of hegemony. The difficulty of generalising about transnational media in Taiwan has to do with the way in which some sectors of the media are regulated and others are not. During the era of martial law, all forms of media had been heavily regulated and censored. Japanese-language publications and books printed in simplified Chinese were prohibited; even non-local Chinese newspapers had to be left on the plane. Needless to say, TV and radio were heavily controlled, and anything sympathetic to mainland China was censored, expunged or banned. The policy of and trend towards democracy eventually did away with legal bans to a point where it is fair to say that there are no explicit restrictions on media content and competition between individual producers is allowed. Satellite cable TV had at one time more than 80
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stations catering to every conceivable audience and taste, including not only the usual movie, sports, news, MTV, cultural edification, product demonstration and political affairs channels but also video games, live spirit mediums and various degrees of pornography (one late-night sex-education programme I saw featured half-naked couples and was hosted by a male transvestite). Similarly, the explosive growth of internet bulletin boards and new media technologies have stymied the abilities of the government to initiate legislation to regulate them. In this regard, the plight of ICRT may appear perhaps to be exceptional insofar as it has had to straddle the ambivalent borderline of being both non-profit and commercial, but it is important to note that the ‘free’ competition that has taken place has usually been between large commercial interests that, because of prior collusion with the state, have been able to take advantage of the divestiture of state enterprises on the one hand and small independent entrepreneurs on the other. Within such a fractured market, communicability becomes an important issue. Under what conditions does democracy in the media lead to rational communication and an enlightened public sphere; to what extent does it lead to increased alienation into niche communities that, by virtue of their self-centredness, resist social solidarity in any sense? The attractions and distractions of transnational media have created a web of entanglements in both technological and sociological senses. The pragmatic effects on cultural form may not be evident from simply reading the semantics of world music, but it is necessary to ascertain precisely what is accommodating what.
Notes 1 Their hourly jingle begins with: ‘broadcasting around the globe on the World Wide Web of the Internet from the Republic of China on Taiwan and at 100.1 and 100.7 FM . . . International Community Radio Taipei . . . ICRT, Taiwan’. 2 On the occasion of ICRT’s founding, the GIO issued the following terse official statement: The Government Information Office announced that to strengthen the living environment of foreign investors in Taiwan, maintain the spiritual food for foreigners in Taiwan and offer services to tourists, the government has agreed that the American Chamber of Commerce in Taipei initiates the Taipei International Community Radio, a corporate body, to succeed the American Forces Network Taiwan in broadcasting programmes in English. 3 These reporters later filed legal action against ICRT for unlawful dismissal but eventually lost their cases in court. 4 The official brochure commemorating the fifteenth anniversary of ICRT’s founding described the independent nature of the more critical news programmes by saying that they ‘at times tested the limits of broadcast journalism during the 1980s and played an important role in opening up journalistic expression in Taiwan’. 5 Two vestiges of government patronage exist, despite ICRT’s status as a non-profit organisation. First are its ties to the government through the board and its station manager; the second is its control by the GIO. I was surprised to find a picture of the current President Lee Teng-hui hanging in the office of ICRT’s operations manager, even after city government offices had introduced a policy of removing them. 6 This process of institutional devolution took place in other sectors of the state. Around
60 Allen Chun that same time I was living in faculty housing at the National Tsinghua University. The houses themselves were originally occupied by the US air force during their stay in Taiwan. We then discovered that the land had actually belonged to the Bank of Taiwan all this time and had been loaned to the university (being part of the same government apparatus) on a rent-free basis. The bank then began to negotiate with the university to have the land leased at market value or sold outright. Eventually rent was charged with gradual yearly increases that in time approached a rate that was deemed preferential (well below market value). 7 The legal controversy over this attempted move can be explained as follows. ICRT is supposed to be a non-profit organisation where board members serve as non-salaried consultants who are not supposed to have commercial interests in the station. In the end, it was the charitable members of the board who eventually conspired to buy up the station, largely for their own commercial interests. 8 The emergence of seemingly non-governmental organisations directly from what were state organisations mirrors the inherent conflict of interest between, and the ambiguity of, the public and private interests described here. A perfect example is the CCK Foundation, a non-profit organisation headed by Y. Y. Li, a well-known academic who serves the foundation full-time despite drawing a salary from Academia Sinica.
Part II
Local appropriations From nation-building to happy pop and folk resistance
4
The imagined community of Maa Tujhe Salaam The global and the local in the postcolonial Rangan Chakravarty
Though the word ‘global’ is over 400 years old, the use of such words as ‘globalisation’ only began in the 1960s. By the 1990s, globalisation developed into ‘a key idea by which we understand the transition of human society into the third millennium’ (Waters 1995: 1). According to McGrew, ‘[d]uring the 1980s, the concept of globalisation began to permeate a diverse body of literatures within the social sciences’. This was spurred by contemporary developments across the world, underpinning ‘the multiplicity of linkages and interconnections that transcend the nation-states (and by implication the societies) which make up the modern world system’ (McGrew 1992: 65). The issue at stake seems to be the dislocation of stable structures of global→←national→←local as systems of hierarchical interrelationships, mediations, representations, and, therefore, stable anchorages for identities: Since in the modern era the nation-state has been the main container and organiser of people’s economic and political action as well as their social and cultural identity, its decline in the face of globalisation, if it is a decline, poses major questions as to what forms of social structure and legitimisation will take its place across the whole range of social actions, economic, political and cultural. (Garnham 1993: 252) The role of media has been seen as crucial in the emergent processes of power and as ‘undermining’ the nation-state: [T]he growth of an increasingly integrated global market and of global media systems appears to be undermining the key locus of democratic power and accountability within the liberal model – namely the nation-state. (Garnham 1993: 251) How do we understand the impact of these globalising processes on the formations of global/local identities in the late twentieth century which are also described as a
64 Rangan Chakravarty ‘postcolonial’ moment? What are the implications of the ‘decline of the nation-state’ for the imagining of communities? Defining the postcolonial is in itself a site of vigorous academic debates. Scholars do not only challenge its adequacy and epistemological legitimacy in describing the conditions of contemporary societies, but also question the politics of the emergence and uses of the term in the context of other, equally historically and politically constituted terms like the ‘third world’ or ‘neo-colonialism’.1 In an incisive essay, Ella Shohat (1992) raises a number of crucial questions around our understanding of the term, ‘postcolonial’. She argues that using the term as an ‘universalising category’ which neutralises significant geopolitical differences between the ex-colonisers and the ex-colonies, and between the ex-colonies and the colonial-settler states can lead to a blurring of serious and important differences, undermining the political potential of understanding and analysing these societies. She also argues that ‘postcolonial’, when compared with terms like ‘neo-colonialism’, ‘comes equipped with little evocation of contemporary power relations’ (1992: 105). Responding to some of the criticisms of the theoretical implications of the term ‘postcolonial’, Stuart Hall says, [T]he term ‘postcolonial’ is not merely descriptive of ‘this’ society rather than ‘that’, or of ‘then’ and ‘now’. It re-reads ‘colonisation’ as part of an essentially trans-national and transcultural ‘global’ process – and it produces a decentred, diasporic or ‘global’ rewriting of earlier, nation-centred imperial grand narratives. (Hall 1996: 247) Along with Hall, I am willing to work with the term, acknowledging the differences within the space defined by it. I find ‘postcolonial’ to be a useful descriptor for an important period in the history of India and the world, when ‘the colonial’ is not dead, since it lives on in its ‘after-effects’, but its politics can certainly no longer be mapped completely back into, nor declared to be ‘the same’ in the postcolonial moment as it was during the period of the British [colonial] mandate. (Hall 1996: 248) But our understanding of ‘postcolonial’ as an analytic term to account for transnational and transcultural processes at a moment when ‘the colonial’ lives on (and even gets reconfigured) in its globalised ‘after-effects’, can have certain problems. Discussing culture as a strategy of survival, Homi Bhabha says: Culture as a strategy of survival is both transnational and translational. It is transnational because contemporary postcolonial discourses are rooted in specific histories of cultural displacement, whether they are the ‘middle passage’ of slavery and indenture, the ‘voyage out’ of the civilising mission, the fraught accommodation of Third World migration to the West after the Second World War, or the traffic of economic and political refugees within and outside the Third World. Culture is transnational because such spatial histories of
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displacement – now accompanied by the territorial ambitions of ‘global’ media technologies – make the question of how culture signifies, or what is signified by culture, a rather complex issue. (Bhabha 1994: 172) While recognising culture as both transnational and translational is an important insight, the privileging of ‘spatial histories of dislocation’ is likely to limit the possibilities of understanding differences in the postcolonial predicament(s). Aijaz Ahmad (1992) has noted a trend of privileging the immigrant and the diaspora across a vast body of postcolonial, post-modern scholarship. I tend to share his concern. I am by no means challenging the ‘postcoloniality’ of immigrant or diasporic cultures, or their right to be treated as such. I am saying that the politics of treating them as ‘the postcolonial’ is problematic and undermines some of the valuable contributions of postcolonial studies. Ahmad quotes Salman Rushdie as saying, ‘the ability to see at once from inside and out is a great thing, a piece of good fortune which the indigenous writer cannot enjoy’ (Ahmad 1992: 130). Here one begins to see the danger of a myopic vision of the postcolonial in which the ‘indigenous’ is the unfortunate one who has not been able to migrate. S/he is denied the depth of the postcolonial vision because of his/her location. In this chapter, with a case study of a music television event produced on the fiftieth anniversary of Indian independence, I argue that spatial dislocation need not be the only way that cultures become transnational and translational, and the spatially dislocated need not be treated as the only postcolonial voice. The dominant imagination of an Indian nation, formulated at a moment of anti-colonial movement, did not include all the inhabitants as equal members of a national community within the geographic boundaries of the colonial territories increasingly conquered and unified as India.2 The processes of the rise of certain dominant social forces to take over the reins of anti-colonial movements and eventually succeed the coloniser to the throne of the nation-state were clearly mediated by power relations of class, caste, gender, religion, cultural capital and other social markers of privilege.3 In spite of the rhetoric of ‘freedom’ and ‘choice’ trumpeted around in the discourses of global consumerism, the transitions in the imagining of communities, produced by sweeping social and cultural changes in conjunction with economic liberalisation, are showing few signs of including all the inhabitants of nation-states in the emergent imaginations of communities. Thus there are many possibilities for probing ‘insides and outsides’, locations and dislocations within these national spaces as important sites of postcolonial histories. For a study of rapidly globalising media technologies, markets and audiences, the obsessive privileging of the ‘spatially dislocated’ can also seriously constrain the possibility of understanding some of the other dislocations occurring through the process of deterritorialisation, which Anthony Giddens has described as the ‘tearing away of space from place, and the tensions of fostering relations between “absent” others’ (1990: 18) – an experience that millions of people across the world, and away from the metropolitan centres, are facing today. Let me now bring some of these concerns into my exploration of the ‘imagined community’ in a particular piece of cultural production, the TV music video Maa
66 Rangan Chakravarty Tujhe Salaam, which was part of an extensive ‘Vande Mataram’ (Salutations to the Motherland) media campaign, produced on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of Indian independence in 1997.
Marketing the mother nation For a large part of its post-independence history, media transmission in India closely followed the larger model of a mixed economy. There was a dominant presence of the state in radio and television. Press and cinema had relative autonomy, while being subjected to rules of state censorship. By the middle of the 1980s, in tune with global shifts in power formations and balances, significant transitions started taking place in the economic, political, social and cultural arenas in the country. One of the predominant aspects of these transitions was the rise of large middle classes, marked by an increase in their purchasing power, the expansion of consumption habits, and a boom in consumer products.4 Between 1980 and 1989, India witnessed a consumer revolution with a 47.5 per cent increase in consumption expenditure (Dubey 1992: 150). The task of delivering these middle classes to an increasingly globalised market led to an unprecedented growth in media technologies and industries, primarily broadcast television and cable services. The reach of television grew dramatically from covering 9 per cent of total urban population in 1978 to 76 per cent in 1995.5 From the 1980s, commercial advertising became one of the main revenue sources for television in India. This altered the nature and structure of television programming in significant ways. An unprecedented number of commercials sold products directly to the emergent consumer society.6 As consumption power increasingly determined the value of audiences in a media industry supported by advertising revenue, the advertisers became eager to carry out extensive reorganisations of their knowledge of social spaces and communities to match their marketing needs more specifically. The Socio Economic Classification (SEC) – devised by the Market Research Society of India – categorised urban families into eight socio-economic groups. The classification was based on the education and occupation of the main wage-earner of the family – key factors assumed to determine attitudes and abilities to consume. A1 denoted the top rung and E the lowest.7 Analysis of the relative sizes of the classified groups showed that whereas the top four categories of families in urban areas together accounted for only 27.3 per cent of the urban population in India, the bottom four accounted for 72.4 per cent. In addition, urban population, according to the 1991 census, accounted for only 25.7 per cent of the total Indian population. Projections made for 1993–4, based on the last census report of 1991, clearly indicated that poverty in the rural belts remained higher than in the urban areas.8 The growing use and importance of SEC classification in the planning of marketing and media programming also indicated another important aspect: a sizeable affluent and educated population, although a substantial minority even in the India of the 1990s, became the core target audiences for the emergent market operations and media channels. It is within this context of the rising middle classes, the expansion of consumerist economy and commercial messages, that we need to locate the project of marketing
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the media productions of ‘Vande Mataram’, a new version of Bankim’s influential nationalist song, ‘Bande Mataram’, which had nearly become the national anthem of India. The project ‘Vande Mataram’ was the brainchild of Bharat (Bala), a wellknown producer of advertising commercials. It was produced by Bala and Kanika on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of Indian independence (1947–97). According to the producers: Fifty years of freedom has inspired Bala to create an ‘Expression for the Celebration’ designed to give birth to the ‘Indian dream’ . . . Vande Mataram was not formulated with a commercial objective. This is not a pseudo-patriotic claim but the reality – a reality that has been relegated to the corners of our minds and is pleading to be recognised. And to achieve our objective – to spread our message of oneness to the people of India, two tools of communication were applied – MUSIC and TELEVISION.9 ‘Vande Mataram’ was a massive media campaign. It included a music album on audio cassette and CD marketed by Sony, a music video based on three songs from the album, and 250 one-minute films telecast over a period of six months on Doordarshan (state-controlled national television) and various other satellite channels in India. It has been estimated that the campaign reached out to 537 million homes, including 228 million from rural areas (Fax). For reasons of space, in this chapter I shall primarily discuss the music video Maa Tujhe Salaam from the ‘Vande Mataram’ campaign. The music director for the project was A. R. Rahman, arguably the most talented and popular music director of the film and music industry in India today. Rahman became particularly famous in the early 1990s for his nationalistic score for the film Roja, directed by Manirathnam, a film which won awards from the Indian government for its contribution to the cause of national integration.10 He was obviously the right choice for this album. Bharat Bala productions also produced another piece of music television based on a re-rendered version of Bankim Chandra’s ‘Bande Mataram’. The theme for this song was ‘Timeless India’ and ‘the remotest of tribes in Orissa, Madhya Pradesh and from all of the North Eastern India were filmed’. This piece of music television was designed to bring out the ‘essence of India in the form of her natural splendour and people’ (Fax). Talking about the meaning of black music in colonial and postcolonial contexts, Simon Frith has observed: there is a long history in Romanticism of defining black culture, specifically African culture, as the body, the other of the bourgeois mind. Such a contrast is derived from the Romantic opposition of nature and culture: the primitive or pre-civilised can thus be held up against the sophisticated or over-civilised – one strand of the Romantic argument was that primitive people were innocent people, uncorrupted by culture, still close to a human ‘essence’. (Frith 1996: 127) The anti-colonial Indian nationalist had to handle a complex politics of ambivalence
68 Rangan Chakravarty in articulating his nationalist identity. In the colonial discourse, the body of the colonised was divided for different principles of discipline and punishment. Some were seen as animal-like, fierce and mindless, fit for building a vast colonial army. Some others, like the educated Bengalis, were seen as feminine and essentially cowardly. The dominant nationalist patriarch emphasised the civilised nature of his mind to negate the impact of the body. The ‘nation’ in Bankim’s ‘Bande Mataram’ was first feminised as ‘Mother’ to represent purity of essence and then made to inhabit a mythical space of pristine nature, away from the physical realm of the precivilised multitudes. Here are the first few lines of Bankim’s ‘Bande Mataram’: I bow to you, Mother, well-watered, well-fruited, breeze cool, crop green, the Mother! Nights quivering with white moonlight, draped in lovely flowering trees, sweet of smile, honeyed speech, giver of bliss and boons, the Mother!11 Here is an imagined nation, constructed as a realm of nature in its perfect pristine beauty and fertility, inhabited by the lone figure of the Mother Nation, conceived on the lines of a Hindu goddess, and invoked through a high cultural code of classicist language and musical composition. Maa Tujhe Salaam presents a very different imagination of nation, offering us an opportunity to explore some of the emergent shifts in the ways of imagining communities in contemporary India, within the specific contexts of transitions unleashed by the processes of globalisation, and their implications for the formation of identity. It also underlines some of the new impetuses in global/local exchanges at a postcolonial moment. According to the producers: ‘Maa Tujhe Salaam’ represents the colour saffron sung by Rahman and filmed in the various landscapes of India – as in deserts of Rajasthan, the peaks at Ladakh and the fertile lands of Kerala. ‘Maa Tujhe Salaam’ was canned with thousands of people as a human chain filmed in the above landscapes. This stirs the feelings of pride and passion of Indians. (Fax) As the music video begins, we see desert landscapes and mountains. In spite of some green expanses, there is an overwhelming sense of barrenness. Gone are the images of harvest festivals with smiling peasants and their sickles and tractors, and foundation ceremonies of factories with concrete mixers and smoking chimneys that once dominated the cultural transmissions of the postcolonial nation-state. Against these largely barren landscapes, we see women in ‘ethnic’ costumes with water pots, smiling children, older men with their elaborate headgear, camels, elephants, folk dances – all frozen in their exotic otherness rather than engaging in any social act.
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This is the backdrop against which we see the modern ‘son’ of Mother India – Rahman himself, clad in jeans and shirt, walking around and singing. The ‘son’12 in Rahman’s song, the subject of Rahman and Bala’s nationalist product, seems to represent the vision of the upwardly mobile middle-class consumer citizen. In the world order of the market, the citizen-consumer cannot conceive of any links or transactions with fellow beings dispossessed of buying power. There does not seem to be any relationship or point of contact between the protagonist and the rest of the nation. There is no communication between the locals themselves either.13 While they form ‘human chains’, apparently as a symbol of community and togetherness, they remain distinctly silent, aloof and static, fixed in their ‘timelessness’ by the gaze of the protagonist and, potentially, the spectators. In fact, these ‘human chains’, against the backdrop of arid deserted landscapes and stagnant pools of water, tend to resemble queues for food rations in years of drought or other disasters. The national view, designed for the upper levels of citizen-consumers, seems to be marked by a certain sense of delinking and abandonment. This space does not stand in any productive relationship with the new vision, except as a site of ethnic tourism. The visual language of this music video operates within a convention of consumerist television, producing images of incessant consumption by and celebration of the middle classes against a backdrop of passive others. This single-minded persuasion of affluent target audiences has virtually banished the poor from marketsponsored Indian television.14 In commercial after commercial, rural people are used either as silent and static backdrops for the action of upper-class urban heroes/heroines or as clumsy stereotypes of nervous premodern people, entering modernity through consumer goods. Reminiscent of the Romantic tradition that Frith talks about, we are invited to see them as a ‘timeless’ premodern past, part of ‘nature’ – the other to our modern cultured self. Talking about the objective behind the ‘Vande Mataram’ project, the producers stated: We set out with a thought – ‘How will it sound if 900 million people chant with one voice . . . The passion in each Indian that it’s HIS country, had to be rekindled. The occasion was the 50th year of Independence and was the apt time to arouse this spirit. Our sole aim was to reach to the masses with our message that, whatever may be our differences, the inevitable truth is that we are ONE COUNTRY’. (Fax) But the visual representation in the music video clearly marks out the difference between domains of consuming and non-consuming bodies. The agency to ‘salute the motherland’ and celebrate 50 years of Indian independence cannot be given to people who do not seem to have the essential qualification for inclusion in the emergent nation – buying power. The jeans-clad body of Rahman is a marker and a site of consumption. He is the only one who sings in the video, while the others remain mute spectators.
70 Rangan Chakravarty
Identity, market, state If a new consumerist vision of nation is underlining emergent divisions in the imagining of communities, we cannot see these as produced only by national or local processes and relations of power. The patterns of economic growth, as well as decline, in the postcolonial world are complex and overlapping, demanding acknowledgement of new global/local relations: [T]oday’s sophisticated marketers are recognising that there are probably more social differences between Midtown Manhattan and the Bronx, two sectors of the same city, than between Midtown Manhattan and the 7th Arrondissement of Paris. This means that when a manufacturer contemplates expansion of his business, consumer similarities in demography and habits rather than geographic proximity will increasingly affect his decisions . . . All this underlines the economic logic of the global approach. (Saatchi & Saatchi Annual Report 1985, quoted in Mattelart 1991: 52–3) As the rise of the middle classes in India illustrates, there are communities in the subcontinent (as elsewhere in the ex-colonies), who can compete with some of their Western counterparts in consumption power. A specific construction and celebration of Indianness as an essential component of the emergent consumer ethos in the 1980s and 1990s also emphasises the inadequacy of understanding these cultural processes as simple manifestations of ‘Westernisation’. Partha Chatterjee (1993) has discussed how the dominant construction of the Indian nation was based on distinctions between the material and the spiritual. He has illustrated how Western modernity and statecraft were seen as useful in providing material strategies and structures in advancing a nationalist project, which was spiritually ‘Indian’. This view of a complex engagement with modernity is borne out by the myriad narratives of the market in contemporary media. Global product promises are constantly promoted in the name of Indian values, Indian womanhood, the Indian family, Indian sociability, etc. The marking out of differences enables the assertion of an ‘Indianness’ while participating in a globalised consumerist modernity.15 A general failure of dubbed global programmes on cable and satellite in India, and the simultaneous success of national programming with globalised consumer values, emphasises how the mediation of a ‘national’ culture remains crucial in the pursuit of global consumerism.16 Like the nation, the market must also be articulated in both identification and difference. This double act, central to the self-perception of the new middle classes, is marking out a new set of distances and proximities in the formation of their cultural geographies of identity – processes which are essentially global in nature. Commenting on the role of advertising in the creation of social consensus, Mattelart has observed: [B]ehind the concept of advertising in its instrumental sense – namely, ‘the multiple and impersonal announcement of goods, services or commercial ideas
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by a named advertiser, who pays an ad agency and a transmitter (the medium, or advertising support) to deliver his message to the market’ . . . is hidden another, an idea deeply rooted in the history of the mode of communications: that of a new model of social organisation, a new means of creating consensus, of forging the general will. (Mattelart 1991: 31) Signs of what Mattelart has identified as ‘a new model of social organisation, a new means of creating consensus’, underlying ‘announcements of goods, services or commercial ideas’ are already evident in the music video, Maa Tujhe Salaam. Whom we meet and do not meet at the supermarket, whom we see and do not see as capable of sharing our dreams, and realising them through consumption, who are present and not present as protagonists in the instant and constant narratives of conspicuous consumption in emergent media and cultural spaces – all of these contribute towards whom we can imagine as part of our community and whom we cannot. It is interesting to note that one of the categories for describing people in contemporary market research is ‘PLUs’, or ‘People Like Us’. And these inclusions and exclusions need not be bound by national boundaries. In its October 1998 UK edition, the magazine Elle had a travel report on India. In this report, the music video Maa Tujhe Salaam was put on the ‘DON’T COME BACK WITHOUT’ list along with sarees, pashmina shawls and tiger locks. This is what Elle (October 1998: 357) wrote: ‘Maa Tujhe Salaam by A. R. Rahman – the biggest hit in Indian music in years. Bring back the CD to impress your friends while showing your photos’.17 It is not difficult to see how the vision of ‘India’ as represented by Maa Tujhe Salaam can be compatible with the representational politics of the global traveller ‘doing’ an exotic India, and more importantly how this view can now be shared by some Indians themselves. In view of Garnham’s concern for a possible ‘decline’ of the nation-state which ‘has been the main container and organiser of people’s economic and political action as well as their social and cultural identity’ in ‘the modern era’, in the face of globalisation, and particularly the role of media as ‘undermining the key locus of democratic power and accountability within the liberal model – namely the nationstate’ (Garnham 1993: 251–2), it is worthwhile asking the question: how does the emergent vision of a global consumer society, under the auspices of a global market, as evident in Maa Tujhe Salaam, imagine the role of the nation-state in the context of the new social order? The last section of the music video, Maa Tujhe Salaam, can provide us with some possible clues. Towards the end of the music video, conspicuously marked by the passivity of the large number of people who appear in it ostensibly to provide exotic objects for the protagonist’s (and our) gaze, we see inhabitants of the Indian nation space suddenly getting mobilised. Children run with the Indian flag. Processions of grim faces move towards a central gathering. Close-ups of running feet heighten the tension. There is a sense of premonition, of an impending conflict for which the people must be formed into forces. As the desert backdrop of Rajasthan reminds one of India’s border zones, and more specifically its recent nuclear-testing grounds, crowds collect around the national flag. We also see helicopters flying in. In a music video,
72 Rangan Chakravarty celebrating 50 years of independent India, these helicopters mark the only presence of the nation-state in the life of an otherwise abandoned, poor, premodern people. Masao Miyoshi has suggested that in the imaginary of a global market, led by multinational conglomerates, the role of the nation-states will increasingly be that of a global military protector of market interests. Miyoshi (1993: 726–51) argues that the absence of state control in vast areas of social life in the USA, along with the global role of the military might of the USA in protecting the interests of organisations like the IMF, the World Bank and others, and enforcing treaties like GATT, etc., shows that such a model is already in place. The specific invocation of the nation-state in Maa Tujhe Salaam seems to be strikingly close to such a vision.
Conclusion Hall has warned us against any tendency to get carried away by the contemporaneity of transitions and analysing them in ahistoric ways. He points out that the complex links of today’s global, national and local cannot be understood without understanding their roots in a much longer history: [W]hen we are talking about globalisation in the present context, we are talking about some of the new forms, some of the new rhythms, some of the new impetuses in the globalising process. (Hall 1991: 20) The interactions between global, national and local formations and processes of power, therefore, need to be viewed as transitions within the continually shifting dynamics of our histories. Gayatri Spivak has said, ‘India is not a place. It’s really a sort of political construct’ (Spivak 1990: 87). We may remember at this point that this political construct was created by interactions of the global, or globalising forces of colonisation and local cultures and powers, rather than any pre-existing national imagination, and that this community of the Indian nation, based on the administrative structures of a colony and the complex political formations and visions of an anti-colonial movement, is only 50 years old. As my discussion of emergent shifts in the imagining of communities suggests, transitions in societies, in national and even local levels of cultural production and circulation, reveal multiple interactions between forces that have been global in nature for long periods in our colonial and postcolonial histories. The dominant construction of the Indian nation, the gendering of the Mother Nation and the nationalist as her son, had its roots in the transnational processes of colonial domination, and the expansion of Western modernity and nationalist negotiations with, and resistance to, some of these ideologies and structures. A dominant nationalist vision of nation was then systematically circulated through state-controlled media in the post-independence period with its own politics of cultural inclusions and exclusions. The currently ascendant discourse of a ‘free’ market, produced by the globalised restructuring of economies, cultures and political structures, is producing new imaginations of communities, citizenships and subjecthoods in our societies. If these transitions are
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resulting in new divisions within communities, they are also creating new alliances, in which notions of ‘local’ and ‘global’ can only be understood as floating signifiers,18 symbolising shifting power relations and formations, rather than fixed, transhistorical markers of geographic, political or cultural boundaries. My discussion also underlines how we can witness and explore processes of dislocation, marginalisation and disenfranchisement within the boundaries of nation-states, which can illustrate significant aspects of the postcolonial condition. As my study of a particular media production, under the aegis of the global market, suggests, processes of cultural production and circulation as processes of power can be both ‘translational’ and ‘transnational’ in locales where people living their lives within geographic boundaries of nation-states can still be ‘exiled’ from imagined communities. Without taking away from the importance of the ‘postcoloniality’ of immigrant or diasporic cultures or their right to be treated as such, I feel a need to claim greater attention in postcolonial studies to the vast number of cultural and political ‘refugees’, the disenfranchised millions in their own lands, increasingly exiled by a regressive political shift from nation-state to market as the dominant social guardian. These are people who were legitimate members of a national community. The narration of nation, from the pulpits of the nation-state, however hypocritically and reluctantly, had to address them, and include them in its vision. Under the elaborate messages of consumer choice and access, the governing reality is clearly that of buying power. More and more public service functions, traditionally associated with the responsibilities of nation-states, are being handed over to the private sector. What is at stake is a shift from citizenship rights to consumer privileges. It is often argued that in a country like India, burdened with an inefficient and corrupt state machinery, facilities like education or health were never really accessible to the ordinary citizen. This argument, often brought forward by champions of a free market, cleverly covers up the fact that the shift will remove the legitimate platform of statehood to fight from. A consumerist principle of citizenship will delegitimise any demand for political rights, further marginalising millions who do not have buying power – signs which are already evident in the changing imagination of Maa Tujhe Salaam.
Notes Part of the same material has been used in a different context in an article published as ‘Music and Imagined Communities in Contemporary India’, in Identity, Locality and Globalization, Indian Council of Social Science Research, New Delhi, 2001, pp. 400–23. 1 For a comprehensive discussion of the debate, see Mongia (1996: 1–18). 2 In 1983 Benedict Anderson discussed nation as an ‘imagined community’, and this has been an extremely influential concept in cultural and media studies. Homi Bhabha has said, ‘Nations, like narratives, lose their origins in the myths of time and only fully realise their horizons in the mind’s eye’ (Bhabha 1990: 1). In my work ‘imagination’ refers to the active process of ‘the nation’s “coming into being” as a system of cultural signification’ (Bhabha 1990: 1), with the communities as active agents, rather than any static forms or images. 3 This is one of the most written-about aspects of Indian history. See, among others, Chatterjee (1986; 1993).
74 Rangan Chakravarty 4 I am grateful to Nandini Gooptu for insights into the larger historical perspective of the rise of the middle classes in India. I am here summarising the argument we have made in a joint article. See Chakravarty and Gooptu (2000). 5 See National Readership Survey, II, III, IV and V. 6 The advertising budget in the country increased from Rs2.5 billion in 1981 to 12.5 billion in 1990 and is projected to have reached 30 billion by the new millennium. The advertising industry estimated that advertisers would reach 95 per cent of the urban population and 75 per cent of the rural population by 1995 (see Dubey 1992: 152). 7 Currently SEC, as a classifier, is used only in urban India. This classification is not valid for rural areas in the country. 8 For relevant information, see Bhandare and Mukhopadhyay (1997). 9 I am grateful to the producers of ‘Vande Mataram’ for their cooperation with my research project. This and other quotes from the producers are from a fax message sent on 30 May 1998, hereafter referred to as ‘Fax’. 10 There was an extensive debate around the cultural politics of Roja in the context of emergent shifts in India in Economic and Political Weekly. A number of points, relevant to my discussion were raised. See Bharucha (1994), Chakravarthy and Pandian (1994), Niranjana (1994), Prasad (1994), Srinivas (1994) and Vasudevan (1994). 11 Translated by Sugata Bose. See Bose (1997: 53). 12 The image of the nation as the mother and the nationalist as the son has a long history in Indian nationalist music and other cultural productions. The daughters remain conspicuous by their continued absence from these realms. 13 I am grateful to Satish Deshpande for his comments on an earlier draft of this section. 14 For a related discussion in the context of Indian cinema, see Bharucha (1995). 15 I am summarising here an argument that Nandini Gooptu and I have made in a joint article. See Chakravarty and Gooptu (2000). 16 Dubbed programmes have not taken off in India. One reason could be the fact that the lifestyles that are portrayed, the exotic locales, the bad quality of dubbing and the mismatch of cultural/moral values and principles all combine to make them look alien and ‘out of touch’ with the Indian viewers’ psyche. Both Sony and Star Plus did try and experiment with dubbed programmes, but due to lack of acceptance they have been forced to abandon most of them. Sony continues with three dubbed programmes, which are essentially targeted at children, and Star Plus has one dubbed programme again aimed at children. Maybe children across the world are more ‘global’ in their comprehension and acceptance of anything new. Source: personal communication with Amit Roy, media director, Mudra Communications. 17 The travel tips also featured Arundhati Roy’s novel, The God of Small Things (1997) on its ‘DON’T LEAVE HOME WITHOUT’ list along with soap, pillow, rubber plug, socks, a Maglite torch and other items, and said, ‘[R]ead it on the plane to get hooked on the atmosphere of India’. 18 I am borrowing an expression that Hall has used in the context of race.
5
Global industry, national politics Popular music in ‘New Order’ Indonesia Krishna Sen and David T. Hill
Most of us are not so much inspired by the themes of death metal lyrics . . . The attraction is more the music itself, it gives us hope, it’s about freedom, it’s an expression of our soul. Kadek, guitarist in Balinese death metal band, Behead (Baulch 1996a)
Indonesian music has never been ‘autochthonous in the (relatively) pure sense of the term, except to a very limited degree’, for it is overlaid by a cornucopia of musical forms which have continuously washed ashore (Kunst 1973: 1), making it virtually impossible to declare any currently existent forms ‘purely’ or ‘authentically’ Indonesian. Historically the musics of Indonesia have always been syncretic and absorbed outside influences – long before the contemporary coining of the terms ‘globalisation’ or ‘world music’. At its most general our purpose is to place Indonesian popular music within the polarised debate over globalisation, which has swept over the social sciences in the last 20 years. At one end are those who see globalisation as the product of a single hegemonic culture and, at the other, those who see the process as the creation of ever more complex hybridities. Increasingly, though, there are those in the middle (like Appadurai) who collapse the processes of homogenisation and heterogenisation, obliterating the demarcation between the global and the local, finding neologisms like ‘glocal’ (Robertson’s term) in an effort to emphasise the hybrid. What are lost in these accounts that, however sensitive to the notion of the local, seek constantly to apprehend the whole, the ‘globe’, are the different ways in which the global and the local rub up against each other, the way in which one ‘glocal’ is different from another.1 It is possible to tell at least two stories about the incursion of the multi-national (= ‘global’) music industry into Indonesia in the 1980s–1990s, the period frequently dubbed the ‘late New Order’.2 The first is the story of the incorporation of Indonesian music into the regulatory frameworks of global capitalism – the familiar story of globalisation as the forward march of capitalism. The second story (and the one upon which we concentrate in this chapter) is less straightforward. Here we try to show that the same global musical codes and icons – the Beatles, Mick Jagger, heavy metal – marketed by the multinational companies also became new
76 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill dimensions of radical opposition to, or at least anarchic disregard of, the New Order regime’s political order. We argue that, in particular political circumstances – such as in 1990s Indonesia – foreign cultural imports become sources of codes and symbols of local opposition. We document the indigenisation of foreign musical forms and their mobilisation as Indonesian political discourse in the closing years of Suharto’s rule. Western music as political opposition in Indonesia goes back to the early 1960s, when Indonesia’s first president, Sukarno, banned the Beatles. Then, as in the 1990s, what was at stake was not so much the lyric or the music, but a performative style, which symbolised an attitude. We look at two genres in particular: ‘dangdut’, which became national music in the New Order, and semi-underground ‘hard rock’, which remained in many ways the foreign foil to ‘national music’.
Dangdut: hybrid and national With the international prominence of Anglo-American popular music in the early 1960s it became common for successful entertainers in Indonesia to incorporate into their music and live performances elements of this Anglo-American ‘pop’. The most durable band which emerged in the early 1960s featured the Koeswoyo brothers (known initially as Koes Bros, then Koes Bersaudara, and later still as Koes Plus), who became popular with their ‘Everly Brothers’ style of pop. When the popularity of the Everly Brothers declined in the West, and following that in Indonesia, the Koeswoyos started performing in the Beatles’ style. However, Indonesia’s first president, Sukarno, was highly critical of what he dubbed pejoratively ‘ngak-ngikngok’ music (rock’n’roll). Such (Western) music was forbidden on Indonesian radio. Accused of playing ngak-ngik-ngok music, the Koeswoyo brothers were arrested at the height of Sukarno’s radical nationalism on 29 August 1965 and detained for three months until after the 30 September coup brought Suharto to power.3 The Koeswoyos had turned a combination of apolitical lyrics and rock tunes copied from the west into a symbol of political radicalism.4 After the fall of Sukarno in 1965 and the reopening of Indonesia to Western cultural imports, Anglo-American recordings flowed freely into the country and again graced the airwaves. This stimulus reinvigorated attempts to synthesise an identifiably ‘Indonesian’ modern popular music. Rhoma Irama is credited with the invention a national-popular music. With his Soneta Group and co-performers like Elvy Sukaesih, Rhoma Irama transformed older-style Malay orchestral music into up-tempo dangdut (dubbed onomatopoeically after its syncopated drum beat, dang then dut), and in so doing became ‘one of the best-paid and most widely recognized contemporary Indonesians, and a musician who changed the face of Indonesian music’ (Frederick 1982: 108). Rhoma Irama took the rhythmic style of Indian film songs, popular with lower-class urban Indonesians, and transformed it into a ‘national’ treasure, favoured in the 1980s even by the middle classes, and with the patronage of cabinet ministers. In the 1990s about 35 per cent of total record sales in Indonesia were dangdut. Some established ‘pop’ performers have adopted dangdut as part of their repertoire
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since the 1980s. University students saw in it a way of playfully adopting lower-class music as a gesture against commercial ‘pop’. The armed forces’ monthly music programme on the state-run television station, TVRI (Televisi Republik Indonesia), Aneka Ria Puspenhankam ABRI frequently featured dangdut, often played by military bands. State officials began to include dangdut entertainment in formal and social events. By the mid-1980s dangdut had become an established vehicle for populist politicking, endorsed by the highest levels of government. It was championed by State Secretary Moerdiono, who declared when opening a nationally televised epic dangdut concert celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Indonesian independence in 1995 that ‘This country [has been made] of the people, by the people, for the people. And so is dangdut of the people, by the people, for the people.’ It is, he was earlier quoted as declaring, ‘very, very Indonesian’.5 Rhoma Irama’s attempt to use his music as a medium for Islamic evangelism also made dangdut a point of party political contention. His lyrics, rhythms and performances tapped the early 1980s Muslim resentment against the New Order and were well received by Muslim scholars and students in Muslim schools and colleges around the country. He aligned himself with the moderate Islamic opposition political party, the PPP, campaigning for them in general elections and singing at the campaign rallies. For this allegiance, the state-owned TVRI blocked his television appearances for most of the 1980s, and strict security conditions were applied to his public performances. But by the 1990s Rhoma was back on television. In 1991, when he appeared on the first private commercial television channel, RCTI, to celebrate the Muslim festival Idul Adha, he was paid Rp30 million (about $US15,000) and made it a condition of his appearance that it was not cut or censored in any way (Kompas 1992). His allegiances were shifting too, as he and dangdut were becoming a vehicle for the New Order’s rapprochement with the Muslims, finally enacted in the ‘Raja Dangdut’s’ candidature for the Suharto government’s political organisation, Golkar, in the 1997 elections, after which he occupied a Golkar seat in the parliament (DPR). Rhoma suffered a decline in popularity, due at least in some part to his being tainted by his association with Golkar. This became more evident after the fall of Suharto in May 1998. On resigning his membership of Golkar and his parliamentary seat in November 1998, Rhoma Irama declared that he did not intend to join any of the newly emerging parties, but would be content to be a neutral Islamic preacher (mubaligh) (Kompas CyberMedia 1998). Like several other popular singers, he recorded songs with a ‘reformasi’ theme, but sales of the cassette were modest. In contrast to his high profile in previous elections, Rhoma was absent from the general election of 7 June 1999, campaigning neither for Golkar nor any of the Islamic parties, perhaps marking by this absence the political, non-partisan, ‘national’ spirit of this music.6 If dangdut’s message, played out on the national political stage, was one of moderation, piety and religiosity, there was another secular and very sexual face to dangdut, seen in tamed forms on television, but in the main played out in humbler venues by unnamed performers. This dangdut was performed at local fairs, festivals like Yogya’s Sekaten, or in open-air entertainment centres like Yogya’s Purnawisata. Here heavily made-up bespangled female singers in body-hugging micro-minis,
78 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill some as young as 14, performed to the backing of an all-male band.7 The singers were almost exclusively women from kampungs (villages), their audience predominantly (90 per cent) young, lower-class males. The singers’ ‘stylised pelvic gyrations’ (goyang pinggul) were ritualised flirtations in a matter-of-fact, even bored, manner, periodically bending backwards, legs apart, pelvises thrust forward as the audience beneath the stage craned to view their sequined g-strings (Pioquinto 1995; Tony 1996; Susanto 1992). The songs performed were mostly current hits by recording artists. But what Pioquinto calls the ‘genital focus’ of these acts stripped dangdut of both Rhoma Irama’s religiosity and the cute televisuality of singers who made it into the national media. On television, the ‘goyang pinggul’ was necessarily toned down, and sequined undies were replaced by glamorous calf-length dresses, modifying the implications of the same love-lorn lyric by a very different kind of embodiment of the song. While dangdut was frequently labelled ‘as the authentic music of the Indonesian people [musik asli rakyat Indonesia]’ (Harahap 1996), its legacy from Indian film music popularised through imported films since the 1960s was also readily acknowledged. One critic of Rhoma Irama even identified several of the ‘king’s’ own tunes lifted directly from Indian movies (Harahap 1996). Moerdiono’s archetypal ‘Indonesian’ music was arguably quintessentially hybrid and trans-medium – a foreign film form transformed into a ‘national’ music. Indeed the persistent popularity of dangdut since the early 1970s has partly been due to its hybrid character, constantly incorporating and synthesising other musical genres, potentially in competition with it in any section of the Indonesian market. Many older provincial popular music forms have spawned their dangdut variants, like ‘dangdut Sunda’ (in West Java) and ‘dangdut Jawa’ (in Central Java). So have new imported musical genres. In the 1970s there was ‘disko-dangdut’. In 1996 Remix Dangdut House Mania was all the rage as dangdut adjusted to the latest international trends. The lyrics on the House Mania album point to the diverse sources of dangdut’s inspiration, and the hybrid character of the genre. The titles of the songs are Indonesian, the refrains are all in English! The first song of the album starts in a distinctly American accent: ‘Right now we want you to get your hands together and we’re going to start a party’, then cuts into the lead male singer Amry Palu’s voice: ‘Party time, party time . . .’ and ‘let’s move those feet, let’s move those feet’ in the voice of the female lead, Neneng Anjarwati. The rest of the lyric is in Indonesian, with periodic repeats of various English phrases, particularly ‘all aboard now’, which carries through most of the album. A Hindi phrase, ‘a-a-a-ao bai’, broken into a rap beat cuts into some of the numbers. The Hindi phrase ‘ao bhai’ means literally ‘come brother/s’ but would not be understood as such by the overwhelming majority of the listeners to this album. The collection also includes a devotional song from a 1950s Indian film sung entirely in its original Hindi, interrupted briefly by English phrases ‘now what do you think of the women’s liberation’ and the repeated ‘let’s let’s let’s do it now’ and ‘all aboard now’! This was not an instance of an Indonesian cultural form being overwhelmed by foreign cultural imports. Rather it was a particular localisation of codes circulating in the global cultural markets – a hybrid which would not make sense in either of the
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linguistic/cultural contexts (India or the USA) from which this album, and dangdut more generally, draws its various elements. In other words, this was an Indonesian form, though the lyric and the melody may be copied from Hindi cinema and the refrain and the beat from American rap or house or some other musical fashion. On the other hand, we need to understand that dangdut, one of Indonesia’s most successful national popular cultural forms, cannot be explored within the bounds of the nation alone. It proved too to be one of the country’s most successful musical exports. Dangdut is also common in Malaysia, which shares a common national language and hosts a large population of temporary Indonesian workers. Albums by popular ‘dangdut queen’ Elvy Sukaesih were available in Japan where occasional tours by big-name Indonesian bands were reportedly well received. Islamic-influenced qasidah band Nasida Ria Group had an album on sale in Germany, and Sundanese singer Detty Kurnia was marketed in the UK. Mostly such performers were distributed by small independent (‘indie’) labels like Wave ( Japan), Piranha (Germany), and Flame Tree (UK). But even large multinationals like Sony tested the international market for dangdut.8
Underground In the 1990s, at the other end of the Indonesian musical spectrum (whether we see the continuum as either local–global or traditional–modern), ‘alternative’ or ‘underground’ bands, closely following the latest global trends in youth culture, also operated outside the mainstream recording companies, though individual bands aspired to, and some were co-opted into, the mainstream. They produced their own albums on small independent or ‘indie’ labels9 using the marketing strategies and technology of the ‘pirate’ cassette producers of the early 1970s (Sen and Hill 2000: 168). For as little as Rp1.5 million (about $US625), they could hire a cheap studio (or record ‘live’ on rented equipment in someone’s home), reproduce in small production runs and sell by word of mouth, through a local radio station, at gigs or by mail order, priced to undercut commercial cassettes and sometimes even at a loss. Most were fiercely proud of their creative independence from the major record labels and their rejection of middle-of-the-road Indonesian musical styles. They adopted ‘creepy, “whitey-sounding” names’ (HAI 1996), like Closeminded, Full of Hate, Insanity, Sonic Torment, Trauma, Koil, Sadistis and so on. Bandung, the Indonesian city known for its art, its engineering schools and student radicalism, was the centre of the ‘indie’ industry, and home to one of the first successful ‘indie’ bands, Pas, whose initial album 4 Through the Sap was produced in 1991 by Samuel Marudut Sitompul, the musical director of local Bandung rock radio station GMR. Through his innovative SAP Music Management company, Sitompul arranged to have the cassette distributed in Jakarta and West Java. After their initial success Pas was contracted by the major label Aquarius Musikindo which re-released the first album and followed it up with a second, In (No) Sensation, and a third, IndieVduality (whose cover image incorporates Australia’s AC/DC and alludes to the Beatles’ Abbey Road zebra crossing). Most of the tracks on the second album (and several on
80 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill the third) are in English, as was increasingly common among underground bands (Theodore 1997). Other underground bands have been similarly absorbed into the mainstream media. Surabaya band Boomerang opened the ‘live’ Indosiar broadcast of the Gong 2000 concert (staged to celebrate Armed Forces Day) at the former Ancol racing circuit before a crowd of 50,000 on 12 October 1996. But this institutional cooptation did not appear to tame either the radical message of the lyric or the anarchic message of the performance. The first track on Boomerang’s 1996 cassette Disharmoni, is a Who-like rock anthem, ‘Generasiku’ (My Generation), whose gravely voiced refrain yells out: ‘Raise your hands high / Yell out This is my generation / Raise your hands high / This is my generation.’ It challenges ‘those who are sharp-tongued, poisoned / by ambition and crazy for power / Don’t be taken in by their tricks / This world belongs to us!’ (mulut-mulut tajam berbisa / ambisi dan gila kuasa / jangan hiraukan ulah mereka / dunia ini milik kita). Another track, ‘OKBM’, expressly attacks the leaders of the country: ‘a million dreams you’ve offered / but you’ve only left frustration / you’ve tricked and destroyed me / you’ve sucked all my blood dry. / It’s false . . . everything that you have done for me/ desire [nafsu] . . . it’s only to satisfy your own desire / . . . / where are you taking the kids of our country?’ And their advice to their fans on their cassette cover: ‘enjoy and play it loud, stay crazy okay . . . !!!’( in English). Perhaps the most successful band bridging ‘underground’ and ‘commercial’ genres of popular music was Slank,10 which since its first album in 1990 has had a string of ‘best-selling album’ awards and maintained a hold on the commercial ‘Top 10’ listings with a mixture of soft sentimental songs like ‘Kamu Harus Pulang’ (You Must Come Back) and ‘Terbunuh Sepi’ (‘Killed by Loneliness’, rated amongst the ten best video clips on RCTI’s Video Musik Indonesia programme for 1995–6) (Republika Online 1996)11 and growling angry protests like ‘Feodalisme’ (Feudalism) and the Led Zeppelin-ish ‘Generasi Biru’ (Blue Generation), the title track from their 1995 fourth album, on ‘PISS Records’!12 Slank’s ‘Blues Males’ (Lazy Blues) is a laidback blues track. The lyric plays on sleep/sleeping around (tidur/tidurin), about how great it would be to get a (girl-)friend (the band is all male) from a (powerfully connected) conglomerate, ‘so life wouldn’t be destitute any longer / waiting for inheritance while sleeping around . . . / If you know the most powerful people / you can let troubles pass you by / you can get a well-placed position to sleep around / . . . / A water-bed to sleep around / A (five-)star hotel to sleep around/ a stack of money for whoever you’re screwing’. In the scribbled lyric on the cassette cover, the final line is ‘Punya jabatan . . . Buat nidurin bawahan!!!’ (‘Got a (high) positions to screw the underlings!’) – the word ‘nidurin’ struck out but visible through the pen stroke. On the audio track in place of the word nidurin (‘screw’, ‘sleep with’) there is only the sound of a piercing ‘beeeeeeep’, which deletes the offending word, but simultaneously draws attention to it. It was not a form of audio censorship generally used in New Order Indonesia, where anything unacceptable was editorially omitted without any indication of this intervention. Slank’s ‘beep’, however, implicated the explicitly sexual expression, its political use in the lyric and its censorship while managing to stay within permissible limits of broadcast language.
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‘Generasi Biru’ went ‘double platinum’ as BASF’s best-selling cassette across all musical categories in Indonesia in 1994–5. Slank diversified to establish a management bureau, recording studio, production house and recording company, as autonomous enterprises. Slank market research on their first five albums indicated that 43 per cent of the buyers were between 15 and 19 years old, and 35 per cent were between 20 and 24. Fifty-eight per cent were males. Though the majority of Slank’s fans were in Java (21 per cent in Jakarta, 18 per cent West Java, 16 per cent Central Java and Yogyakarta, and 2 per cent in East Java), their appeal was national, their sales broadly reflecting population densities (12 per cent in Sumatra, 9 per cent in Kalimantan, 5 per cent in Sulawesi, 3 per cent in Maluku and Irian Jaya, and 2 per cent in the Lesser Sunda chain).13 One of the bands at the 1996 Bandung Underground II concert, which drew about 4,000 people to the local badminton stadium, was Jasad (Corpse), who gained prominence not only because of their 1994 underground mini-album C’est La Vie, but also by establishing a independent recording studio, Palapa. ‘We want Palapa to have a broad scope, ranging from punk to grindcore. Basically the idea is to work with all those genres thought to be anti-social by the mainstream’, said guitarist Yayat. ‘Most of us underground musicians feel now that we’ve got to start building up a system that’s independent of all the snakey fucks with the major labels’ (Baulch 1996b). In an ironic play on symbols, Jasad’s studio Palapa, through which Bandung’s underground bands attempted to circumvent the commercial companies to reach a rebellious national youth subculture, shared the name of the New Order’s telecommunications satellites, through which the New Order government tried to control the national electronic media. Such underground bands were quick to take to the potential of the internet as an alternative to mainstream recording companies. By 1997 there were nearly 50 internet sites on ‘Batavia.net’ promoting Indonesian music, often with audio files that could be played and downloaded. ‘Syahreza’s Radio Station’, which prided itself as ‘the First Indonesian Live Internet Radio Station’, had audio (MIDI) clips, the latest Indonesian Top 10, a ‘live chat show’ and links to various music sites at www.hway.net/syahreza. A music mailing list
[email protected] was started in early 1997 with a strong interest in ‘underground’, ‘heavy/death metal’, ‘punk’ and ‘thrash’ genres including Indonesian bands like Rotor, Suckerhead and Alien Scream. Bandung underground band Koil was one of the early bands with its own web page at www.melsa.net.id/~karatan, with lyrics, biographies of the musicians, mail-order paraphernalia, quizzes, and ‘demo’ audio-clips of unreleased songs. Individual composers or singers are also putting their work directly on the web for global consumption, bypassing national and multinational recording companies.14 In their lyrics, the projected personalities of band members and their mode of address, this ‘underground’ music was intensely conscious of its identification with the young and obsessed with the ‘generation gap’. The concept of a generational identity as political ideology goes back to the pre-independence nationalist discourse, which gave the ‘pemuda’ (youth) a revolutionary anti-Dutch role (Anderson 1972: 1–16), a role which was reinforced by the part played by university and high school
82 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill students in their crucial support for the army in the establishment of the New Order (Raillon 1985). But by the mid-1970s the New Order had depoliticised campuses – ‘normalisation of campuses’ equated ‘normal’ with ‘apolitical’, breaking the longestablished identification of youth with political mobilisation. As Siegel has pointed out, in the New Order young men and women have been redefined from ‘pemuda’ to ‘remaja’, more recently dubbed ‘ABG’ or ‘Anak Baru Gede’ (‘a child just grown’). The remaja ‘comes as a result of the depoliticisation of youth in the New Order. In that sense it replaces the Indonesian term pemuda (youth), a term whose sense always includes political activity of the sort that the Suharto regime has made difficult’ (Siegel 1986: 224–5). One is not remaja by being a certain age. ‘It is by having certain “tastes” (selera) and certain aspirations that one is or is not a remaja’ (Siegel 1986: 204). Writing on Solo in the mid-1980s, Siegel noted the centrality of music and various discourses surrounding it in the definition of the remaja. Writing of a punk concert in Bali in the mid-1990s, Baulch (1996a) suggests that ‘“alternative” music has fast become an integral part of what it is to be an ultimately modern teen’. Politics and fashions/tastes may not be as clearly distinguishable as some of the foregoing analysis suggests. In the 1990s the musical messages about bosses screwing everyone, and indeed screwing up the younger generation, was fashionable, bought and listened to by the thousands of remaja fans of the ‘alternative’ music scene. The message and the medium are so much the defining ‘taste’ of the remaja, that large recording companies embraced these bands for the sake of the markets. The anti-authority message and the invitation to disorderliness underlying the medium – ‘alternative/underground’ and rock music in New Order Indonesia more generally – may well have been more important than the verbal discourse of the songs. Disorder, always the political antithesis of the New Order, became ‘in’ for the younger generation. But we need to move from the confines of recordings to live performances to understand the politics of this disorderliness.
Concerts/carnivals In October 1988, after more than two decades as a rebel hero, Mick Jagger finally performed in Jakarta. One cartoon captured Jagger’s popular image, with young Balinese musicians downing their gamelan instruments to pay him obeisance. On the day of the concert slum youths stormed the huge outdoor venue, charging the security cordon around the stadium, and swarming over middle-class patrons who had paid for the expensive tickets. Rocks were thrown, cars (a symbol of middleclass achievement) torched and the entrance damaged as the gatecrashers surged inside. It took several hours for the military to re-establish law and order. After a February 1989 concert by the immensely popular rock musician Iwan Fals and his band Swami in central Jakarta’s Senayan stadium, some of the estimated audience of 100,000 stormed down Jakarta’s main boulevard, Jalan Sudirman. Iwan’s group was promptly banned from touring Sumatra in March 1989, a prohibition later extended briefly by the Jakarta police commissioner to ‘all rock performances . . . for an unlimited period’ (Harsono 1989: 14). Iwan Fals later joined
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with several other well-known musicians, including businessperson Setiawan Djody (friend of Bambang Trihatmodjo, one of President Suharto’s sons), rebel poet Rendra and Sawung Jabo, to form the ‘super-group’ Kantata Takwa (‘Cantata of Piety’). Kantata Takwa embraced something of the Islamic lyrical iconography employed so effectively by Rhoma Irama. The first line of the Muslim Confession of Faith, the Syahadat, namely ‘la ilaha illallah’ (There is no god but Allah) echoes through the chorus of the title song ‘Kantata Takwa’. The album contained several poems by Rendra set to music, most powerfully ‘Kesaksian’ (Witness). The musical style was dubbed ‘Rebana rock’ (after a traditional tambourine) and described as ‘a blend of Jimi Hendrix and Rick Wakeman, to a Betawi [Jakartanese] “rebana”’ (Ensiklopedi Musik 1992, vol. 2: 171). Kantata Takwa performed in Jakarta in 1990 to an enthusiastic crowd of tens of thousands. At one point it seemed likely that a brief power black-out in the stadium would erupt into arson, as the crowd ignited cigarette lighters and matches to illuminate the arena, but peace prevailed. Three Swami songs had become anthems to the fans and their performance stirred tremendous emotions: ‘Badut’ (Clown), interpreted by many to be a satire on the Minister of Information, Harmoko; ‘Bento’, about a spoilt young entrepreneur, said to be directed at the President’s youngest son, Tommy (Hutomo Mandala Putra); and ‘Bongkar’ (Rip it down), whose stirring lyrics include the exhortations to take to the streets: ‘Obviously we must take to the streets to / Overthrow the devil that stands over us / Oh . . . Yes . . . Rip it down!’ It was another two years before Iwan Fals was permitted to perform in Jakarta again, and then only for two benefit concerts (December 1992, January 1993) for victims of the earthquake that devastated the Indonesian island of Flores. The January 1993 concert was held not at the central Senayan stadium, but at Lebak Bulus soccer stadium on the southern outskirts of the city, ‘for security reasons’, possibly (according to some young fans) because Senayan’s plastic seats were more susceptible to arson than Lebak Bulus’ concrete tiers.15 Tickets for the main arena were Rp4,000 (about $US1.90). Constant drizzle throughout the evening did nothing to dampen the exuberance of the fans, most of whom were males between 15 and 30 years old. Iwan’s voice was often drowned out by the mass chorus of fans, who had memorised his anthems of opposition – ‘Bongkar’, ‘Bento’, ‘Wakil rakyat’ (Representatives of the People), a caustic comment on the lives of parliamentarians, and ‘Penguasa’ (Powerholder). Patrons had been thoroughly frisked several times before entry. All cigarette lighters, glass bottles, heavy belt buckles and sharp objects were confiscated. Antagonism was evident towards the estimated 2,100 troops present, particularly during songs with overt political messages. Patrolling police were frequently jeered at and occasionally showered with plastic bottles or discarded muddy sandals. The rock star tried to calm spirits, urging the audience to ‘dance, not fight’. As the drenched crowd surged out at the close of the performance, public transport was non-existent. Taxis were conspicuously absent, afraid of being set upon by the crowd. Youths piled onto the roofs and bonnets of any passing cars, some hurling rocks at glass windows in multistorey buildings. A church was pelted and private cars had their windows smashed.
84 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill These incidents were insignificant compared to the aftermath of the April 1993 concert by the American heavy metal band Metallica, when ‘about 70 people were injured, a mini supermarket was looted and scores of cars were vandalized’ (Jakarta Post 1993a). The crowd, many without tickets and hoping to gatecrash, had become impatient as they waited for the Lebak Bulus gates to open. They pelted security guards and, with the arrival of the anti-riot police, a running battle and rampage began as the crowd retreated towards the elite suburb of Pondok Indah, stoning and looting houses, shops and cars along the way. The Minister of Justice, Oetoyo Oesman, was trapped in his car by the crowd, which smashed his windscreen, attacked his driver and took his carphone. Police arrested 88 people during the mêlée. The Jakarta Post editorial on 12 April noted that ‘there is almost always an element of class resentment’ in such rampaging, given that the ticket prices were high: from Rp30,000 ($US14.25) to Rp150,000 ($US72), that is 10 to 50 times the Rp3,000 ($US1.40) minimum daily wage for a factory worker. ‘The fact that the stadium is surrounded by elite housing districts might well have heightened the youths’ anger and shortened their tempers’, the paper wrote. Sociologists and political observers cited in the press argued that ‘there is a crisis of authority in a society where social jealousy is a problem’. Gadjah Mada University psychologist Djamaludin Ancok argued that ‘The public was frustrated because of the huge gap between the rich and the poor’ (Jakarta Post 1993b). The Military Commander of the Jakarta Region (Panglima Kodam Jaya) Brigadier-General Hendro Priyono appealed to academics and intellectuals not to analyse the riot ‘excessively’, lest any ‘polemic’ be ‘politicised’. He warned bluntly that ‘If there are signs in that direction, then I will follow them up and take firm action’ (Kompas 1993). It was not clear precisely what he meant by the threat, but it was widely interpreted as silencing any analysis that emphasised social and class tensions as the root cause of the disturbance. After the 1993 Metallica riots, mass public concerts (both dangdut and rock) were usually permitted only under the auspices of either a government instrumentality or military division. In the case of Iwan Fals such arrangements were no guarantee of public order. His Bandung concert in January 1996, sponsored by the local military command, ended with rioting. Later in the year, in Ujungpandang, at the eleventh hour the local police withdrew permission for him to play at an ‘Environmental and Musical Appreciation Performance’ because of concerns at the ‘community order and security situation’ (situasi kamtibmas) (Kompas 1996). His concerts remained a flashpoint for public disorder. At the other end of the political spectrum too, concerts and political rallies merged into each other. Dangdut performances were so integral to Golkar rallies that Tempo Interaktif (1996) dubbed it the ‘official music’ of the electoral campaign in 1997: ‘the dangdut singers . . . have rendered the greatest service in attracting the masses in their thousands to the rallies . . . All the top dangdut singers “came down” [turun] to strengthen the ranks of [Golkar]’. Rhoma Irama (as mentioned earlier) had appeared at opposition PPP rallies in previous campaigns. His transfer of allegiance to Golkar prior to the 1997 elections was highly contentious. When riots broke out in the PPP stronghold of Pekalongan on 28 March, the eve of his performance at a Golkar
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election rally, many press reports presented it as a protest against the ‘dangdut king’s’ political shift. But even apart from the contrived general elections, which passed as the fiveyearly ‘festival of democracy’, the New Order promoted vast public spectacles, with musical entertainment as their centrepiece – intended as displays of the regime’s ‘popular’ support. The celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of independence involved a 12-city Rp3 billion ($US1.3 million) concert tour ‘Pesta Rakyat 95’. Hundreds of tonnes of equipment were ferried by Indonesian air force Hercules aeroplanes, obviously requiring high-level political endorsement. Major national anniversaries were often celebrated with huge concerts broadcast live on television, such as the ‘Dangdut Ria HUT ABRI’ celebrating Armed Forces Day in October 1996. Under the banner of ‘National Discipline Movement’ and the Jakarta Military Command, the audience was treated to synchronised dance displays by armed men in uniform alongside bespangled female and male dangdut singers. Uniformed soldiers gyrated in unison and carried out mock flirtations with some of the biggest names in dangdut, and for the finale the Jakarta Commander himself joined in the act, which was punctuated throughout the night by the compères’ cry of ‘Long live the Armed Forces!’ (Hidup ABRI ). The undirected communal passions of live concerts, much more than even the most politicised lyrics on the recordings, seemed to represent both the threat and the promise for the New Order state. Compared to other popular media, such as the press, radio, television and film, the record industry was the least censored and the least used for state propaganda. Performers from Rhoma Irama and Iwan Fals to some of the more radical ‘alternative’ bands were banned from television and live appearances, but were not stopped from reproducing or marketing their records. Similarly the New Order state attempted to mobilise the communally felt and expressed pleasures of live performances for its own benefit, but paid scant attention to recorded music. These practices seemed to acknowledge the political power of the performances in generating communal expressions of pleasure and frustration that were always just a breath away from exceeding the orderly bounds of time and space into which these carnivals were restricted through permits, procedures and military guards surrounding the venues. In a way the records were just that – records, accounts, memories of the real thing, and consequently far less potent than the performance itself. Increasingly from the late 1980s, however, deregulated television was the medium for both a closer reproduction of the performance and for containing its carnivalesque excesses.
Recorded images State-run television, TVRI, always had studio performances by established recording artists and new faces. During the 1980s the Saturday night spot was crucial to the success of the ‘Safari Artists’, a group which had emerged out of Golkar’s efforts to recruit musicians and entertainers to perform at election rallies. The opening of competing private TV stations since 1987 has fostered new music programmes, and spawned the video clip industry. Recording companies began running new video
86 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill releases like advertisements in the middle of popular television programmes. When new band Junior (which included two sons of members of Koes Plus, mentioned earlier) released their album Bujangan (Bachelor) in early 1996, their video clip was broadcast about ten times on a single day on the private station RCTI, including several times in the middle of the popular evening feature film. At a reported cost of about Rp7 million ($US3,000) per screening this was a risky investment of Rp70 million ($US30,000) by Billboard Records, which paid off when the album was a runaway success. A video itself may cost anywhere between 5 and 30 million rupiah ($US2100–$US12,600) to make and even leading feature film directors, such as Garin Nugroho, crossed over into music videos. The clips were not retailed, but produced exclusively for TV broadcasting to boost cassette sales. As a rule television excluded the headbanger bands of Bali and Bandung, and the highly sexualised lower-class dangdut, and promoted on the whole a sanitised dangdut, bubble-gum pop and middle-of-the-road rock. Access to television was regarded as a huge boost to marketing. But being banned from television could also stimulate interest in an album. In March 1990 a rock song called ‘Pak Tua’ (Old Man) by Elpamas was ‘banned’ by TVRI (and other stations fell into line) because the lyric, deriding an old man no longer capable of doing his job, was regarded as alluding to the ageing President Suharto.16 A 1992 song called ‘Jagung Bakar’ (Roast Corn) by Ellyn Tamaya was also ‘banned’ from television broadcast for including sexually explicit sounds. Such prohibitions appeared to generate increased listeners’ requests and consequently increased airplay of these songs (Theodore 1992). But such instances were few and far between and required actual prohibition and publicity to generate special interest. In the 1990s, technology and finances made possible and profitable the direct broadcast of live performances on television. As mentioned earlier, in the mid-1990s most large concerts involving Indonesian performers were sponsored by the army or other state institutions. And increasingly these concerts were pre-sold to one or another of the private television stations. Television was, as we have noted elsewhere, more restrictive in both sexual and political discourse than either the recording industry or even radio (Sen and Hill 2000: 108–36). Moreover, direct telecast erased the separation between the relatively ephemeral performance and the relatively durable record of it – a record that could be checked and used as evidence in a variety of institutional contexts. Through this erasure, television’s co-optation of Indonesian musical concerts may have brought these into a more ordered domain of the New Order media. Even as this process of ‘taming’ took place, the critical lyrics and communal gestures of defiance against the political (and sexual) strictures of the New Order remained inseparable from the pleasures of many of the performances in the 1990s.
Summing up We have argued that there are a number of axes along which we can plot the global connections of popular music in Indonesia. We can think of the historical pattern of
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foreign musical styles that swept onto the shores of the archipelago, spawning new musical genres or transforming existing ones. We can think of the recording technologies invented and continually transformed in the West, opening up new creative possibilities for making and reproducing music in Indonesia. More recently we have seen the articulation of Indonesian music into the marketing economies of the multinational recording industry. In each instance we find that the ‘outside’ has not overwhelmed the local. Rather, the foreign has been indigenised and transformed into something other than a mere copy of an imported product. But, more importantly, some of the foreign imports were re-interpreted in the Indonesian context to become signifiers of opposition to the New Order. Ever since Sukarno implicated Western music in his nationalist rhetoric, certain forms of foreign music have signified opposition to the rulers. Of course, as we have suggested above, transgressions were not limited to those who (relatively selfconsciously) adopt Western music. Even dangdut, the New Order’s ‘national music’, in some contexts escaped the moral order of the New Order regime. In the late New Order, however, certain kinds of rock music adopted from the Euro-American scene came to signify a gesture of generational opposition to an ageing national leadership. Translations, transmutations and transformations of Western rock are not only more popular than the imported originals, they signified in the 1990s a political statement against the New Order that the original did not carry. Our account of the music scene suggests some parallels between the early 1960s and the 1990s – both periods when codes of Western popular culture were pitted by the young urban population against an old and increasingly unpopular ruler.
Notes 1 This chapter draws heavily on Sen and Hill (2000). 2 The ‘New Order’ is the term used by Major-General Suharto to refer to the government he established after coming to power in a brutal countercoup in October 1965. Its twin platforms of political stability and capitalist development remained its central legitimising rhetoric until Suharto was forced to resign from the presidency in May 1998, facing a rising wave of popular opposition and an economy in deep crisis. For an overview, see Hal Hill (1994). 3 On Sukarno’s foreign and domestic policies during this period, see Legge (1972: 358–84). 4 After their release they became one of the biggest bands of the 1970s whose re-released albums were selling well even in the late 1990s, when they were still performing polished cover versions of Beatles hits on television. See entry on Koes Bersaudara in Ensiklopedi Musik (1992, vol. 1: 296–7). 5 Arguments here and quotations from Moerdiono’s statements are taken from Simatupang (1996), with the translations slightly adapted from the originals on p. 55. We would like to thank Made Tony for providing a copy of this article. 6 Our thanks to Theodore KS for information on the place of music in the 1999 general elections (personal communication, 10 June 1999). 7 One dangdut singer we spoke to privately after her performance at the Yogya Purnawisata entertainment park in 1996 admitted to being only 14 years old and still in junior high school. In a separate conversation the middle-aged male leader of the backing band had earlier told us she was ‘about 17’.
88 Krishna Sen and David T. Hill 8 Broughton et al. (1994: 432), lists among other international releases, the following: Elvy Sukaesih’s Elvy Sukaesih and Return of Diva (Wave, Japan); Detty Durnia’s Coyor Panon (Flame Tree, UK/Wave Japan); Nasida Ria Group’s Keadilan (Piranha, Germany); and Maryam Mustafa’s Kau Mulai Tak Jujur (Sony, Japan). 9 Thanks to David Bourchier for bringing to our attention various articles on the ‘underground’ scene, particularly HAI (1996) and Baulch (1996b), which provide much of the information included in the following paragraphs. 10 The name ‘Slank’ derives from the youth slang expression ‘slenge’an’, meaning ‘whatever I want’ (according to Nug Katjasungkana, ‘Slank’s Music: A Portrayal of Current-Day Youth Culture’, typescript dated Sunday, 7 April 1991, photocopy provided by Bimbim Sidharta, 22 May 1997). 11 We would like to thank Slank’s Bimbim Sidharta for detailed background on the band. 12 The band’s publicity material translates their record label ‘PISS’ as peace! 13 Statistical and background information on Slank from Bimbim Sidharta (fax, 21 May 1996). 14 For example, Budi Rahardjo’s music page had links to songs he has composed on http:// www.ee.umanitoba.ca/~rahard/music.html, and singer Irma Pane, whose 1979 album got into the Top 10 charts, marketed her third album, Haruskah, released on her own independent Indonesian music label IPB-Disc Productions, via her homepage, http:// users.aol.com/hbraam/musicians.htm. The California-based independent record label, Ragadi Music, ‘formed primarily as a vehicle for Indonesian artists to market their music in the US . . . and around the world’, was located at http://members.aol.com/ragadi/ home.html. 15 Our comments are primarily based on observations of the January 30 performance. 16 Elpamas’s homepage http://www.lookup.com/homepages/74753/alb2.htm had details of the band, and both an audio clip and the lyrics of ‘Pak Tua’.
6
The case of the irritating song Suman Chatterjee and modern Bengali music Sudipto Chatterjee
I will make you think, I will Whatever it is that you may say I’ll get you out on the streets, I will However much at home you stay.1 Suman Chatterjee
The modern Bengali song is a relatively recent phenomenon. It cannot be dated to much earlier than 150 years or so ago, although its content is variably defined by much older traditions. This explains why, in musical terms, it has always boasted a rich spectrum, chromatised with presences and traces of many other musical traditions – classical and folk, devotional and secular, Indian and Western. The modern Bengali song has much to do with the growth of Calcutta as a metropolitan city in British India. The birth of the Bengali modern song can be traced to the appearance of individual musical artists who entertained and thrived under the semi-feudal patronage of the nouveau riche intelligentsia (better known as the bbus). These artists created a popular form of salon music that drew freely from the tradition of North Indian classical music.2 Although its target audience was the upper class, Bengali salon music did not hesitate to synthesise the expressions of existing folk forms that were immensely popular among the lower classes. With the birth and subsequent expansion of the middle class, the salon music ‘tradition’ expanded too, entertaining a larger audience. But towards the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries, a generation of bbu lyricist-composers came forth, aiming to free Bengali music from the bane of low culture, take the entertainment-based salon music out of its decadent ‘idle-rich’ setting, and charge it with new aesthetic/philosophic meaning. Heavily inspired by Western musical forms on the one hand and Orientalist3 constructions of a certain Indianness on the other, these new lyricist-composers wrote and composed ‘serious’ songs that addressed lofty themes, from devotional songs to dainty love songs, from soft satires to songs depicting nationalist sentiments. The major contributors to this genre were poet-musicians like Rabindranth Tagore, Dwijendrall Ry, Rajanknta Sen and Atulprasd Sen (most of whom are still regarded as the masters of the Bengali modern song, especially Tagore, who later became an institution in himself). Parallel to this
90 Sudipto Chatterjee ran a sub-tradition of popular songs in the public theatres of Calcutta. As an offshoot of the older popular tradition smoothed over by bbu sensibility, this subtradition enabled playwrights to write songs that would have a life outside the plays and make the audiences return to the theatres. There were also chap books in the pulp literature market that carried the lyrics of popular songs – elite and popular. With the turn of the century came the technology of recorded music and its mass distribution, first through the radio, next movies, and finally gramophone records. This had a tremendous impact on the Bengali modern song which could now live on its own. Singing and song-making now provided lucrative professional opportunities. Bengali music, thanks to the radio and cinema, had already been given a semi-democratic listening base. Records and gramophones, by introducing the element of choice and control – the ability to choose what and when to listen – turned music into a whole industry. Bengali music had become more dependent on the listener than ever before by the first half of the century. With commercialisation came the fetishisation of music as an object/commodity made possessable by the exchange value of money. This fed directly into the producer-consumer loop of the market economy system of distribution, subjectifying music to the vagaries of commercially determined taste, business ‘risks’ (more than aesthetic ‘experiment’), and popular fashion and entertainment. But an alternate mode of musical dissemination was waiting in the wings. In the 1940s, in the wake of the Communist Party of India’s rising political prominence in Bengal, came the Indian Peoples’ Theatre Association (IPTA). Although initially a party organ created expressly for agit-prop theatrical performances, the IPTA soon branched out into making gana-sangt, or mass-music – sung en masse, chorally, mainly in order to mobilise the masses. IPTA had as members a number of talented singers, composers and lyricists who served the party’s purpose. IPTA was a nationwide organisation, but the Bengal sector was particularly known for its musical talents, best seen in composers like Salil Choudhury (Bengali Caudhur) and Hemga Biws and singers like Hemanta Mukherjee (Bengali Mukhopdhyy), Debabrata Biws and Sucitr Mitra. Although gana-sangt continued to survive as an inspirational propaganda weapon for the Communist Party of India and also the factions it came to breed, it had little or no effect on the commercial Bengali song that continued the salon tradition, except that the salon had made way for the studio and the stage. This transformation became more evident with developments in recording technology in the West throughout the 1950s and 1960s, which constantly informed its counterparts in the East. Patrons were now many, divided almost in the manner of a pseudo-assembly line. They were the record companies, the state-run radio, concert sponsors and the educated middle- and upper-class Bengali who listened to the radio programmes, went to the movies and to concerts, bought records, or even sang the songs. It certainly looked as though the listeners were deciding what music was to be created/ manufactured for them. But in fact the record companies were the biggest players in the process of manufacturing taste by not only feeding and pandering to the tastes of their customers, but also by giving them an excess of it and taking, from time to time, calculated business risks – pseudo-experiments on aesthetic lines – to keep their
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enterprises going. ‘Thus’, Theodor Adorno says, ‘although the culture industry undeniably speculates on the conscious and unconscious state of the millions towards which it is directed, they are an object of calculation; an appendage of the machinery’ (Adorno 1975: 12). This marketing process results in the fetishisation of the work of art as commodity. And, ultimately, ‘[t]he fetish character of music’, Adorno suggests, ‘produces its own camouflage through the identification of the listener with the fetish’ (Adorno 1982: 288). The commodification of the Bengali song had turned it into a casual artefact, a ‘thing’ divested of any great aesthetic value; a quotidian thing that could be easily understood, admired, loved and enjoyed, something that would sit on the shelves to be played on the gramophone at will or heard on the radio at the turn of a knob, something the listener could somehow control, be proud of as a possession and ostensibly decide the future of. This does not necessarily imply that there was no aesthetic value in the work the artists, the creators of the modern Bengali songs, put into each number. Indeed, there is a huge body of songs by certain artists rendered unforgettable by the merit of their compositions and/or the virtuosity of their performance. Very often one finds these songs to be stellar examples of masterful distillation of a deep understanding of musical expression, despite how artfully they might have been fashioned to fit the bill of the fetishised normative expectations of the listeners. Fortunately, even before its mass distribution, the Bengali modern song tradition had established conventions out of both intercultural hybridity and syncretism of traditions. Consequently the music – in spite of the market’s sway over it – retained a certain artistic probity. What suffered most, initially at least, was the quality of the lyrics. While musicians had no alternative but to adjust from being patronised by the feudal bbus, to an industry run by the radio and the gramophone companies, lyricists went to the world of poetry and publishing for more autonomy. Also, as intellectuals and propounders of high art, it was not fashionable for literary savants to traffic with the lowly philistines of the commercial world – art and commerce could not share habitats. Therefore the first limb to be amputated from the body of the modern Bengali song, with its growing commercialisation and resultant fetishisation, was the hand that wrote. Two kinds of music, more or less, had managed to stay out of this circle of commercial fetishisation – classical Indian music and gana-sangt. But that too changed rapidly. Classical music, for long a preserve of the cultural elite, was beginning to find a gradually expanding commercial market – on the stage and in the studio. Gana-sangt, on the other hand, remained for a considerable length of time, outside commercial ambits on the merit of its political alignment with the activities of the communist parties. The gana-sangt situation began its transformation with the gentrification of the communist movement in Bengal, when large factions of the once-united party decided to participate in the democratic political system. Ganasangt became a device for mobilising the masses to put their stamp, not on revolution, but the party symbol on the ballot paper. By the early 1970s gana-sangt records were up for sale in the Bengali music market, as several groups sprang up, offering their professional services to election campaigns and college campus festivals as well as paid stage concerts. Revolutionary
92 Sudipto Chatterjee slogans and the vanguardist position of the intelligentsia, with their tendency to speak on behalf of the subaltern, had become profitable material for gana-sangt. Ganasangt had been co-opted by the music industry and was now ready for the listeners to fetishise. Erstwhile revolutionary slogans turned into peddled wares, rendered meaningless in a dangerous inversion, neutering both the songs and their politics. This turning point in the nature of dissemination of gana-sangt happened at the time of the election of the Left Front government – a coalition of several leftist parties led by the Communist Party of India (Marxist) – into power in West Bengal in 1977. Hitherto struggling Marxist artists were now on the right side of political power which, in turn, was tied to a largely capitalist system of production in which music had also been industrialised. Protest had been co-opted into the market economy. Salil Choudhury, for example, the former IPTA activist turned Bombay film music director, reissued several of his older revolutionary numbers as new, technologically more sophisticated, re-recorded, reorchestrated albums. Other choral groups too, like the Calcutta Youth Choir, started releasing gana-sangt records. Individual artists began singing revolutionary songs too. The most noteworthy singer-songmaker among these individual artists was Bhpen Hzrik, an Assamese songwriter fluent in Bengali as well. Hzrik, hitherto a moderately well-known music director in the Bengali world (although he was very well known in his home state of Assam4 as an intellectual, filmmaker, writer and musician), became one of the biggest contributors to the new trend of progressive songs for commercial consumption. A graduate of New York’s Columbia University, he had met Paul Robeson during his student days in the United States and was influenced greatly by the American civil rights and desegregation movements, especially its protest music. He had composed an Assamese version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein number, ‘Ole Man River’, from the hit musical Showboat. The song had gained much popularity in Assam, but its Bengali version took Calcutta by storm. Other songs by Hzrik gained tremendous popularity as well, including one called ‘Dol’, on the rewardless lives of palanquin-bearers and their exploitation by the rich. Hzrik‘s songs were very much in the IPTA mode, especially in the concern they expressed for the downtrodden. Hzrik’s politics did not, however, have an obvious party alignment. In this his affinity was more with the semi-partisan leftist activity of a number of American artists. Adorno cautions against the consequences of such individualisation of the collective spirit of mass music that is contaminated by commercial co-option: The dressing up and puffing up of the individual erases the lineaments of protest . . . just as in the reduction of the large scale to the intimate, sight is lost of the totality in which bad individual immediacy was kept within bounds in great music. Instead of this, there develops a spurious balance which at every step betrays its falsity by its contradiction of the material. (Adorno 1982: 283) Bhpen Hzrik’s immense popularity in the 1970s, however, did not outlive that decade (although, he has recently staged a comeback with remarkable success in
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Hindi film music). While the legacy of the gana-sangt survived in its commercial incarnation with direct governmental support, the purely commercial modern Bengali song survived on its own, with generous help from film albums. The lyrics did not matter so long as the music was attractive. But by the 1980s the Bengali modern song’s existence was seriously threatened by the rising hegemony of Hindi film music that prevailed over the young music listeners of Bengal. There was a void and older listeners watched their progeny moving away from what was once the infallible modern Bengali song. The much needed remedy was nowhere in sight, until the sudden arrival of a new voice (not quite new really, as would unfold soon after) – Suman Chatterjee (Bengali Caopdhyy5). In 1989, when Suman Chatterjee returned to Calcutta from almost a decade and a half of life in exile to resume his career as a Bengali music-maker, he did not think he was destined for super-stardom. He had ended his second contract as a broadcast journalist with German International Radio and returned to Calcutta to make a final, somewhat desperate, attempt to present before the Calcutta listeners the Bengali songs he had been composing in exile. Having realised the personal nature of his songs, and equipped now with the newly mastered classical guitar, he had decided on going solo. Tomke Ci (Want You), his first solo album, was released by HMV in 1992. It was an instant hit. Suman’s number of stage concerts grew exponentially. Journalists were suddenly running after him. Business Standard, an English daily from Calcutta, cried in an elated headline as early as 1991: ‘The City Finds Its Chansonnier’. Loud speakers in neighbourhood social gatherings played his songs in loops. T-shirts, carrying lines from his songs, were up for sale. Excerpts from songs were cited like proverbs. Suman’s second and third albums did not belie the expectations of the first and he continued to top popularity charts. Very soon he had bagged a gold disc for record sales figures. Bootleg recordings of his concerts circulated among his young followers, many of whom he had weaned away from both Hindi music and the standard Bengali modern song. Suman has wrought distinctive changes on the physiognomy of modern Bengali music. The freshness of his lyrics, their poetic beauty, economy of expression and, in some cases, biting satire – coupled with the syncretic quality of his music, assembling traits from music all over the world – have made for a new kind of song. Much in the mould of the Latin American nueva cancion, his songs offer a platform for the lay person to express her/his innermost thoughts and feelings. Suman’s songs encapsulate and are nurtured by the cultural nuances of life in Calcutta, its pedestrian tragedies and catastrophic trivialities. In an urban musical tradition that has emphasised melody over lyrics, where the normative expectation of traditional aesthetics keeps the so-called ‘prettiness’ of song lyrics immune from the dissonances of daily life, Suman’s arrival was a major rupture in the status quo. In his earlier attempts with choral groups Suman had tried to move down the beaten paths of gana-sangt. His initial efforts were not very successful. Perhaps the listeners were not ready for the kind of self-critical stance his songs adopted, or maybe it was because Suman refused to tow the party line and proclaim selfaggrandising slogans that salved the political conscience of the Bengali middle class. Even in his early phase, Suman was writing against the romantic strain of gana-sangt.
94 Sudipto Chatterjee Here is an example from a song entitled ‘Song of Flies and Dead Faces’: Some write songs on hunger Some from hunger die Their faces are puke-covered And flies over them fly. (Chatterjee 1993: 7) The song ends on the following note: When dead faces are in your song And you sing it in a show even It’s bound to rub some people wrong But still keep up the endeavour. (Chatterjee 1993: 7) Informed largely by the Frankfurt School – mainly its theories of culture and aesthetics – Suman’s songs from the very beginning were bitingly satirical, critically trenchant, romantic or simply comic. Despite their obvious Marxist orientation, they differ considerably from the venerable gana-sangt tradition in many ways, but mostly in their self-reflexive quality. Suman’s songs are not the utterances of a vanguard of the proletariat, nor do they ventriloquistically project the imagined voice of the oppressed subaltern in musical rhapsody. This is music for/by/of the urban middle class that stands its ground by simultaneously celebrating and critiquing its contradictions, ambiguities and paradoxes. Suman’s songs are not mere messages of social equality. Rather they map a social text that attempts to create a complex, ambivalent discursive space that has to be engaged by his listeners. It is ironic to note that gana-sangt as a mode of musical communication was based on direct contact between the artist(s) and the masses, until it was co-opted by the mediating music industry through mechanised commercial reproduction and rendered void. Suman Chatterjee’s music, on the other hand, emerged from within the confines of the recording studio and was made popular by the same music industry that neutered gana-sangt. Historically, then, Suman’s music has traversed an almost reverse path, since it was only after his popularity was established by recorded albums that he could use the stage to work both within and outside the music industry. In fact, it can be argued that Suman’s music is all that gana-sangt today is not, but could (or for some, should) have been. Just as the turncoat hypocrisy of mainstream left-wing politics in West Bengal has rendered any kind of ideologically realised art an impossibility, it is the same failure of leftist politics that has enabled Suman to speak from a ‘more-left-than-the-Left’ position located beyond the spectrum of the official left. However, gana-sangt and Suman’s music have much in common. Suman’s songs, like the gana-sangt, claim a communist utopia, but in a clearly different context. While a gana-sangt song would generally proclaim the utopia by announcing the simplistic, wishful, fantasised death of capitalist exploitation – ‘The
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wheels of exploitation will turn no more! No more!’ says a song by Salil Caudhur, a stalwart of the gana-sangt tradition – Suman’s songs would talk, instead, of the reality and perpetuation of exploitative capitalism, thereby showing the need for utopia. Suman’s communist utopia, then, is more a check on reality, a radar that detects the ills of exploitation and engages the listener to reckon with the social and political conditions, not wishing them away with a slogan or the excitement and glory offered by a certain ideological position. In certain cases Suman applies the same technique where the utopian dream line comes after a series of quotidian images – pristine nostalgia, childhood or even natural beauty: Desire is some sort of a loony bin Who’d in a bat of an eyelid do anything. Desire is a sort of a dream in my eye: To see a world Commune before I die! (Chatterjee 1994: 43) But Suman is acutely aware of the contradictions of being a professional musicmaker in a society that sees music as a profitable corporate industry, where the coopting of political voices for commercial gains is normative. He says in a song about ‘selling out’: Protesting voices, too, are a money-matter; Protesting itself needs food and shelter. Whether you are a worker or Mr. Something, You’ve got to have food, or it’s all for nothing! ... I sell my verse through musical expressions, By means of disgust, disdain, even adoration. That hope, too, now is up for sale . . . if sold, It may bring some money home, I’m told. So, I sell lyrics that will change the day. Maybe some day other songs will pave a way To dump the rules of tum-ti-ti-tum and find A way to fetch better days for humankind. If you think you’re buying me up . . . you are mistaken! (Chatterjee 1994: 47) Effectively, Suman was doing more than making and inspiring new music. He was shattering the traditional notion of the singer as a benign social entertainer. He revealed himself to be a scathing social critic, an intellectually exceptional, erudite artist who spoke and argued well, with and occasionally without social grace. From almost the onset of his arrival he interlaced his songs on stage with provocative
96 Sudipto Chatterjee polemical utterances, which included sharp criticisms of the powerful Left Front government of West Bengal, led by the Communist Party of India (Marxist) (a.k.a. CPI(M)), which he had supported not too long before, as well as of the right-wing religious fundamentalist parties. His aggressive stage sermons augmented the protest inherent in his songs with direct calls for action and the condemnation of social ills. Suman has written, composed and publicly sung numerous songs on the ills in Bengali society, and has spoken out against the so-called Marxist government – its policies and wrong-doings – very openly in concerts and interviews. In a remarkable song on Anita Dewan, a social worker who was raped and brutally murdered by hoodlums in suburban Calcutta, Suman criticises not only the crime but also the society and government whose lack of conscience not only allow crime to happen but also let the criminals go unpunished because of party connections. There’s blood in your new apartments In water faucets, at dusk and dawn, It’s the blood of raped women flowing, Blood telling tales of the land goes on. Look – it’s blood upon the snack-bar! On your mutton-roll – it’s blood! It’s the same sprinkled blood that My bowl of fish curry floods. The same invisible blood has now The flag of the same colour wetted The coloured world of politics Is stained in blood unabetted. (Chatterjee 1993: 43) This song and others have created confrontational scenes between the singer and party goons, who, Suman told the author in an interview, ‘openly said they were of the CPI(M) and came, armed’ to threaten the singer. But perhaps the biggest blow to Suman’s steadily souring relationship with the party and the government was his active participation in the directly anti-government Kanoria Jute Mill agitation in 1993–4. In December 1993 Kanoria Jute Mill, on the banks of the river Hooghly, a little north of Calcutta, had been closed by its owners. The official explanation was that the mill could not afford to run its business and make a profit large enough to pay the employees. A majority of the employees thought otherwise, although many of the party-based unions agreed with the owners. A non-partisan union was established, which most of the workers joined. The new union disobeyed the court’s injunction and forced the mill gate open to resume work. The mill was closed down again. Negotiations continued, but there was no resolution in sight. No one got paid, yet the workers continued to resist. They built community kitchens to feed their families with support from local farmers and the middle class. The support grew with
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newspaper coverage and direct encouragement from leading intellectuals extending their hands from Calcutta. Kanoria became a subject of great discussion among the urban intelligentsia. Then the situation took a critical turn when a group of mill workers went on a hunger strike. Suman Chatterjee came forward to urge people to continue to support and participate in the Kanoria agitation. He sang for days near the mill premises to motivate the workers, and at street fairs and public gatherings to raise money. The Bengali daily Pratibedan (Dispatch) reported on 19 December 1993: Music, too, is a weapon for struggle. That is exactly what Suman Chatterjee proved, standing by the side of two members of the Kanoria Struggling Workers’ Committee. By taking a stand in front of the Kanoria Jute Mill gates Suman declared his wholehearted support for this ‘real’ workers’ struggle. The way Suman usually extends his anger towards decaying values and a wormridden establishment, was the modus operandi today when he expressed resentment at the corrupt political parties. . . . Cautioning [workers] against the so-called progressive parties, he said, ‘Stay away from them. And keep yourselves united. Or else, they’ll create differences among you on lines of caste and religion and lead the agitation astray’. . . . Thanking the local farmers who have helped the workers with food, Suman said, ‘You can find me in any of your struggles. When you need it, my voice will always deny the lures of slavery.’ (Kanoria Jute Workers’ Revolutionary Union 1994: 51) On 26 December the Sagbd Pratidin (News Daily) reported: ‘Suman Chatterjee said that the way the Kanoria Workers are conducting their agitation is nothing short of a revolution. So, I will write a song about it. That’s all I am thinking about these days amidst all my other chores’ (Kanoria Jute Workers’ Revolutionary Union 1994: 52). In a few days Suman had, indeed, come up with a new ballad, where the river laps its own banks to tell tales: In the mills the workers work and perspire Profits made from their work owners acquire. Boats sail on sweat (not water) dash’n’lash. ... Tell us River tell their stories back’n’flash – Splish’n’splash splish’n’splash splish’n’splash. (Chatterjee 1994: 67) On 3 January Suman raised funds for the Kanoria workers at a concert in Calcutta. The Sagbd Pratidin reported it in the following words: For the first time Suman Chatterjee has, transgressing preventative governmental sanctions, raised funds for the Kanoria Jute Mill. All proceeds, after production costs, will go to the Kanoria funds. On Wednesday Suman announced from the Biwarp stage, ‘If there are any people from the party or the government among the audience, do not try to stop the concert. I won’t stop
98 Sudipto Chatterjee singing’. . . . When representatives of the Kanoria workers showed up in the auditorium, he said to them, ‘You are re-writing history . . .’. (Kanoria Jute Workers’ Revolutionary Union 1994: 55–6) On one occasion Suman Chatterjee performed at one of the busiest street crossings of downtown Calcutta, Mayo Road and Park Street, to raise funds for the Kanoria workers, singing before a thousand people who gathered spontaneously. The arrangements were meagre, the sound system being no more than a basic microphone better suited to neighbourhood political rallies. It was during the evening rush hour and armed police sergeants intervened, trying to prevent the workers from collecting money from the audience. Suman interjected at this point saying, ‘What do you have against the workers? You, too, can starve to death tomorrow. Why are you doing this? Why don’t you help instead? You’ll see the workers will help you’. And the workers did help. In just a few moments the situation was reversed. The young armed sergeants were seen encouraging the audience members to donate money while a number of workers got busy managing the rush hour Calcutta traffic! ‘And there I sang. It was a good three to four hours’ concert, with at least a thousand people around, who were constantly singing along’.6 The Kanoria situation put political activism on a different footing: a non-partisan group of workers claiming what rightfully should have been the job of the left-wing party-backed unions, who the workers thought had sold out. The workers needed a better alternative, and this led to the formation of a new union which, despite its nonpartisan orientation, was an ultra-left organisation whose position was being defined not merely by its ideological orientation but by the fact that existing leftist parties had moved closer to the centre. It reflected the quizzical, if not hypocritical, turn leftist politics had taken in West Bengal since perestroika and the fall of the Soviet bloc. In the specific labour situation in Kanoria, at least, the leftist parties had decidedly chosen to stand by the seat of capitalist power rather than champion the rights of the workers. While the workers expressed their disgruntlement at this reversal of ideological position, the party administration applauded their own restraint in not letting this turn violent as, according to them, may have happened in a number of other states. Kanoria offered an alternative to the traditionally party-based workers’ union politics where the issue of workers’ rights were the reason for a change, not the party lines. It was a metaphor for the larger political theatre of West Bengal where the Left Front was in power largely by default, because none of the opposition parties were viable alternatives. The situation had drawn Suman Chatterjee’s studio and stage-bound music – playable comfortably on Walkmans and stereo systems – to the streets, working as an active agent in creating a progressive public opinion. Salon music, studio music and stage performance finally had its interface with the street. The stage and the studio had, in a manner of speaking, been ‘streeted’. Suman confessed in an interview with a representative of the Kanoria Revolutionary Workers’ Union: I am not really a worker. I sell songs to live. But, when I see a group of workers uniting to make their demands – I want to be a part of it . . . A number of people
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coming together – without shouting any religious fundamentalist war-cries, without raising political flags of any particular color – to make legitimate demands. I don’t have a stake in their demands, since I don’t live their lives, I don’t live in their homes. But I’m putting myself in that space because their demands are human demands. I cannot deny the demands of the times. That’s all. (Ry 1994: 21) In one of his best-known songs, Suman summed up the dogged spirit of Kanoria: Don’t lose heart, my friend, Let loose your voice, instead, loud and strong. We shall meet, you and I, At the dawn of another song! (Chatterjee 1993: 27) It was not just Suman who inspired the Kanoria workers; their grit and determination inspired him. Suman said in the same interview with the Kanoria representative: I have participated in the revolution in Nicaragua . . . That’s where I learnt about the structure of a revolutionary organization . . . I even had to learn combat . . . I know how it feels to walk through a mined area, how a man could shit in his pants . . . I know these things first hand. I have seen mechanized warfare. . . . And I am somewhat bull-headed, which is why I can even think of making a living out of singing/making Bengali songs at 40 something. But here [in Kanoria] I saw people whose bull-headedness was of a better kind . . . without any restlessness, devoid of histrionics. Here I learnt something new, the strength of satygraha . . . the strength of non-violence. . . . I went there to see, to be a supporter-spectator, but I ended up being their student. (Ry 1994: 23–4) Suman served the Kanoria agitators with his music; not only his own songs but songs from older writers and composers, even songs that were once the rallying slogans – now sanctimonious passwords – of the same Communist Party of India that opposed the Kanoria workers’ struggle. Suman also sang traditional love songs with a broken harmonium into a street-vendor’s bull-horn outside the factory gates (since only employees could enter the premises), as the workers re-ignited the furnace. ‘At times’, he said later, ‘love songs can inspire more than protest songs!’ But Suman’s relationship with Kanoria too became tenuous when the middleclass leadership of the workers was eventually co-opted by the CPI(M). When he realised that Blessings [were] being sought from the same person in whose regime factory workers can’t find work. When I heard that the middle class leader – he is not a worker, he had nothing to do with the movement, he had really gate-crashed
100 Sudipto Chatterjee into the movement (which I learnt later) – and his people [were] saying, ‘Our respected leader, et cetera, et cetera . . .’ To hell with our respected leader! I realized the workers did not have any say anymore. The workers’ lack of agency was the question for Suman. He would not make any assumptions about what they had to say. He would not speak for the subaltern. He would not transgress his limitations as a performer to set foot in a political space that would require him to adopt even the slightest hint of a patronising position, or even the slightest support for such a position. Explaining how the Kanoria workers were almost coerced to follow the path of middle-class leadership, he said, The workers feel kind of intimidated. They’re always worried that if they say no, maybe these [city folks] will go away. I don’t know. I don’t want to underestimate their sagacity. I think they’re wiser than all of us. They are the ones who suffer most. They are the ones who toil. They are the ones who are really oppressed and repressed. So . . . what I had told them is that as long as the workers would continue their movement independently, independent of any middle class leadership, I will be with them, not as a vanguard, but as someone who happens to make music and who’s there to entertain them during their struggle. The Kanoria affair, initially at least, was in total harmony with Suman’s politics when it showed the potential for an alternative left-wing movement that exposed the sanctimoniousness of the ruling left parties. But his opposition to the hypocritical politics of the left movement in West Bengal was only one side of the coin. The other side has not only been asserting his own class limitations, but also confessing its complicity in perpetuating socials ills. ‘I am not [Swm] Viveknanda or Che Guevara’, Suman told Swdhn Bngl (Independent Bengal) in 1995, I am just a member of the privileged class. I can’t even eat heartily when I am outdoors. Feels like there are so many unfed eyes staring at me. I feel an impotent rage, an emasculated frustration within myself. I sing, but all the time it seems I am stuck in the same place! Along with this has come his scathing criticism of the right wing, especially the growing fascist tendency in Indian politics that is marked by divisive communal sentiments: rising Hindu fundamentalism and its intolerant anti-Muslim agendas. While creating room for critical discourse around these ideas, Suman’s clearly nonpartisan, non-aligned position has put him in an unfriendly middle ground, between the extreme right and the so-called left. In the spring of 1993 a big procession had been planned in Calcutta by a coalition of Hindu fundamentalist parties. A chariot symbolising the mythic vehicle of the Hindu god Rma was to traverse the city, with volunteers shouting anti-Muslim slogans. This was part of a nationwide project undertaken by Hindu fundamentalist parties where chariots (or raths) were taken in procession to signify the journey of
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Hinduism to Ayodhy, Rma’s supposed birthplace. Not all Indian states had agreed to give the procession free passage, since it was expressly unsecular and designed to denigrate the minority Muslim population of the country, but the Left Front in West Bengal had. Suman Chatterjee showed up to protest: [W]e formed a cordon. People came down from their houses, from buses. Not many. But at least a good 50 people. They gathered. It was also not without hazards, because the procession was headed by armed hooligans, you know. Armed with lathis, batons. Wonderful, isn’t it!? In a democratic [country]. You can’t even imagine . . . what I experienced that day. And . . . not one party belonging to the Left Front government opposed the procession [or got] involved in a resistance. Among the songs sung on the occasion was Suman’s adaptation of Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’. The performative circumstance here was even more basic – plain human voices, singing in unison. The resistance was finally broken down by the police and the crowd dispersed. ‘And naturally . . . there’s no point in bloodshed. No point in martyrdom. So we withdrew. But at least we put up a resistance for a good three to four hours’. Suman’s political position thus puts him between the recognised ‘extremes’ of Indian politics – the official left and the right – and places him beyond its visible margins. In fact, however, Suman proposes an alternative route of political activism that does not tout political colours hypocritically. Suman, especially after Kanoria, has been a consistent cause of government embarrassment, and his songs cause for irritation. The government has made all kinds of attempts to curb his wagging tongue, from trying to grease his palms to direct death threats. Cultural organisations wanting to hire Suman to sing for them have been threatened, and state-owned auditoriums have on many occasions refused to let Suman perform in their spaces. But Suman’s immense popularity among the people, especially the youth, of West Bengal has made it difficult to silence him. Suman continues to keep his music close to the pedestrian life of Calcutta, even while his albums hit the commercial market through regular HMV releases. And although lately he has had to cut down on public appearances – on both stage and street – his songs continue to engage life in the Calcutta streets. A solo album, released in late 1996, for example, despite HMV’s initial opposition, contains a song about a group of children who, on the morning of election day, faced dire consequences while playing with what they thought were cricket balls. The ‘balls’ were in reality bombs that detonated, killing two and blinding one: Little Raju has Lost his eyes. ‘How’s that?’7 On Election Day The only one shamed Is the cricket bat.8
102 Sudipto Chatterjee The same album also contains a song on pointless public lynchings which happened frequently in Calcutta streets, bringing the listeners’ conscience to task. The song builds itself on the almost unmusical harmony between the cold, graphic description of gross acts of physical violence performed by various people on a dying youth, on the one hand, that is set to a tune, on the other, in a menacingly haunting melody, with the plucked guitar strings playing a threnody of repressed anger. These are ‘irritating’ songs that do not make listeners comfortable. On the contrary, they question and even deny the very comfort, the ‘listening pleasure’, that the consumer of the audio tape wishes to possess through the act of buying it. As a result, Suman’s songs, for a large number of people in Calcutta, have turned into social irritants. Suman’s music, intent on assaulting complaisant consciences, continues as always to face/address, even ‘stage’, the life of Calcutta streets. Initially, both press and public lauded his frankness as heroic, timely and much needed. But the position has shifted radically in less than two years. Whatever positive response he received initially has been outweighed by negative criticism thereafter, not so much of his music, but of his personality and behaviour on stage. Responding to Suman’s stage polemics the Sunday Statesman reviewer wrote in April 1993: Quite frankly, HMV hadn’t bargained for quite the kind of excess the singer allowed himself when he was given a golden disc . . . Suman is the singershowman making no bones about his intention to whip up emotional frenzy. Were there children in the audience? He couldn’t care less as he used the choicest expletives to denounce the ‘enemy’. That’s part of the package. Suman retaliated by including the press in his list of ‘enemies’, frequently launching verbal opprobria against how the press manipulated or manufactured public opinion. ‘They have nothing to say against the obscenities shown on television or Bombay films’, Suman said in the same interview to Swdhn Bngl (see above), ‘Their invectives are all fired towards specific people, yours truly being the chief target.’ Suman even built his critiques of the press into some of his songs. Papers days and paper nights . . . Newspapers – two-edged knives, Chopping heads from left to right For some, may be, better lives! Time for Big Brother’s business now. Papers and TVs wherever you name. Bite into that business somehow, Like a tiger hunts its game. (Chatterjee 1994: 16) One by one, the very newspapers that had once hailed Suman as the best thing to have happened to Bengali music were now either slandering him whenever possible
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or ignoring him altogether. The conflict reached an almost farcical height in July 1995, when an attempt was made to frame him with a charge of making a ‘prank’ phone-call which also involved the Calcutta police! The Statesman, among other English and Bengali newspapers, published a cover story with the following headline: ‘Singer Suman interrogated for “making” abusive calls’. The Bengali daily JKL did a front-page story too, but also added a photograph of Suman being escorted out of a police station. Cartoons depicting Suman in chains have appeared in newspapers. Even pulp monographs lampooning Suman and his contemporaries were circulated. Suman has retaliated in song, saying: Cursing on the telephone isn’t neat Face-offs have a more satisfying touch Real power is in words, tune and beat A kicking song – right into the crotch. (Chatterjee 1996: 2) In the mean time, side by side with more attempts at deriding the singer, there have been attacks against the so-called jban-mukh gn movement. They initially came in the form of a single obsessive question, circulating doggedly amongst both press and public – ‘How long will it last?’ The question is almost invariably pitted against the enduring quality of the older Bengali modern song that talked little about social situations and were mainly about musical beauty and dulcet melodies, mood and maudlin emotions. In the general public discourse, this older tradition is now being recognised as ‘eternal’ while the ‘new’ song is cast in the pall of transience. The tacit argument is that all singers of the older generation had a certain kind of regimented training in Indian classical music that the jban-mukh singers lack. Suman is loath to be identified as jban-mukh, and rightly so, for he hardly fits either of the two kinds of singers described. He is a trained singer of Indian classical music with a deep understanding of Western music, just as he is well versed in the newer tradition (of pre-jban-mukh) modern Bengali music. So are some of the other jban-mukh artists (although not as extensively as Suman). In fact, some of the older-generation singers were just as untrained as the new ones, but reached heights of great fame nonetheless. But the stigma lives on. Although one cannot but admit that the general mediocrity of most of the so-called jban-mukh singers has helped the movement rapidly to come to a point of natural liquidation, the fault cannot rest with Suman, for his music cannot simply be contained under a subheading like jban-mukh. His songs may have helped crack open the floodgate of jban-mukh songs, but his music stands out uniquely because of its superior individuality and sophistication – on the merit of its ever-alert social insight, critical seriousness and disciplined prolificacy – as a nursery of multitraditional, transnational music that continues to graft newer branches and deliver the gift of efflorescence to the older stalk of modern Bengali music. The listening public, with generous help from an antagonised Calcutta press, has learned to turn a deaf ear to Suman Chatterjee’s music, despite paying lip-service to his contributions, by lumping it together with the convenient category of jban-mukh. Some ardent fans of Suman are now claiming
104 Sudipto Chatterjee the artist has disillusioned them – that he has not delivered on the promises his songs made not too long ago. The most recent aspect of this problem finds expression in the re-recordings of older Bengali songs rendered by younger artists which are topping the charts, ousting the singers of the ‘new’ song, including Suman, throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Recently, young singers like Indranl Sen and Riknta Crya, have released ‘new’ albums of ‘old’ songs which are currently selling in record-breaking numbers. In a way, the progressive advantage that Suman’s music offered is being substituted by the very past which Suman’s songs had tried to outgrow and let evolve. While all this certainly confirms the tremendous impact Suman Chatterjee has had on the Bengali cultural front and further afield – acknowledged alternately, through reception and then rejection, commendation followed by condemnation – it does not explain why the controversies have waged in such obsessive ways in public discourse, and in such chimerical changes of musical taste. Why, or even how, could a singer-songmaker have rankled a society to this extent? Suman Chatterjee has no doubt performed some sort of unspeakable outrage by putting the normative conception of the Bengali singer as entertainer into quandary. By overstepping the boundaries of what a song, or even a singer, can do in/for society, Suman Chatterjee – his music and its effects – has wreaked a kind of ontological, if not epistemic, violence on the social psyche of the urban Bengali. His work and personality has, in one way or another, challenged the normative aesthetics of music that has long been grounded on a hitherto unchallenged notion that music is generally a passive form of art, and musicians pacifists. In this, Suman fits Theodor Adorno’s appraisal of Gustav Mahler: They call him uncreative because he suspends their concept of creation itself. Everything with which he occupies himself is already there. He accepts it in its vulgarized form; his themes are expropriated ones. Nevertheless, nothing sounds as it was wont to; all things are diverted as if by a magnet. What is worn out yields pliantly to the improvising hand; the used parts win a second life as variants. [They] . . . arrive at places which the approved musical language could never safely reach. Such music really crystallizes the whole, into something new, yet it takes its materials from regressive listening. (Adorno 1982: 298) Add to Adorno’s description of Mahler, Suman Chatterjee’s on-stage belligerence, his pugnacious critique of the state of affairs (and affairs of state) in West Bengal. Suman’s vociferous, if not over-zealous, diatribes against the establishment have more often than not been seen as part of a ‘package’ (see above) that sells well. After all, anti-Suman critics have claimed, he continues to release albums through an outfit as corporate as HMV. But Suman’s music, despite its participation in the commercial mode of production, moves through several modes of dissemination, working at times through the industry, at times without. More than the urban folk (song) hero that his politics can easily make him out to be, Suman Chatterjee is a professional musician who
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produces and sells his craft to earn a livelihood out of an industry that has built itself on the commodification of music. But Suman’s diffidence to the system, however small, is exemplified by his conscious efforts at trying to reach his audience without help from his recording company, through direct communication from and off the stage, and on the streets. However, despite its clear and critical incision into public culture, its deeply unsettling effects on the listeners of Bengali music and the interface it has managed to generate between art and social action (albeit at a limited scale), one cannot ignore the long-term effect of the artistic versus commercial production loop to which Suman Chatterjee’s music must submit itself. Theodor Adorno, in his seminal essay ‘On the Fetish Character in Music and the Regression of Listening’, does not express much hope for progressive ‘mass music’ to escape the inevitabilities of the market. He has doubts about attempts that strain to balance art and commerce. [T]echnically consistent, harmonious mass music purified of all the elements of bad pretense would turn into art music and at once lose its mass basis. All attempts at reconciliation, whether by market-oriented art-educators, are fruitless. They have accomplished nothing more than handicrafts or the sort of products with which directions for use or a social text must be given, so that one may be properly in-formed about their deeper background. (Adorno 1982: 297) It is not up to the present writer, or anyone for that matter, to gauge the level of immunity Suman’s music has or will have against the incursive ways of the music market and/or its longevity in public memory. However, it is a fact that Suman Chatterjee’s popularity is currently waning, at least if one is to set much store by the hit charts flashed daily across the newspapers. But Suman continues to straddle the middle of the political spectrum, moving between expressed wrath or determined ignorance on one side, and, adulatory fans, on the other. The former, however, seems to have gained more ground in recent times, as best indicated by the recent revivals of older Bengali songs sung by new singers (see above). This returns us to the question posed earlier on in the chapter: What has Suman Chatterjee done to deserve the ire of such a large music-consuming audience? Surely it would be simplistic to say it is only his anti-establishment repartee and, from time to time, direct support of people and movements that critique the establishment and government. Indeed I have heard more expressive critiques of the government in the buses of Calcutta. Here again let us momentarily return to Adorno, to his ‘regressive listeners’, who . . . are not childlike . . . they are childish; their primi-tivism is not that of the underdeveloped, but that of the forcibly retarded. Whenever they have a chance, they display the pinched hatred of those who really sense the other but exclude it in order to live in peace, and who therefore would like best to root out the nagging possibility. (Adorno 1982: 286)
106 Sudipto Chatterjee If this is an acceptable explanation, then the Bengali listener’s partial rejection of Suman Chatterjee’s music is a result of his/her own inability to deal with the overconscientious (read preachy), often direct (read brazen), erudite (read pedantic), anecdotal (read ostentatious), honest (read scurrilous) meta-text implied in his songs, that is often spelt out directly in his spoken interludes between songs in concerts or in interviews. Effectively, then, the audience has regressed from the very person they had once welcomed when they were exhorted to do more than listen to the music, and instead had to face it. Back to Adorno: The regression is really from this existent possibility of a different and oppositional music. . . . They are not merely turned away from more important music, but they are confirmed in their neurotic stupidity, quite irrespective of how their musical capacities are related to the specific musical culture of earlier social phases. (Adorno 1982: 286) One would hesitate to disagree with Adorno in his downright disregard for popular culture and his high-brow snobbery towards the lay listeners of popular music. However, there is wisdom to be found in his theoretical postulations on how the market controls – through production, repetitious commodification and ultimate fetishisation of the musical ‘object’ – the public reception of mechanically produced music. Suman Chatterjee’s music, despite its uneasy alliance with the market and recently decreasing popularity, continues to retain a certain degree of independence. He asks pertinently in a song: My voice can be bought, in piece meals (To make a living I have to make deals). You can as well buy the fingers of my two hands, I have no problems with making deals, no demands! But, then, what do you get – my deals or me and my hands? (Chatterjee 1994: 47) But if one were to go by what the reclaiming of a musical past ‘of earlier social phases’ is expressive of in the case of the Bengali modern song, one cannot but see traces of prophecy in what Adorno has to say about the ‘regressive listener’. In the Bengali context it expresses itself as an almost desperate bid to banish the new song by breathing new life into the nostalgia of the easy-to-digest, more ‘musical’, conscience-less older Bengali song. Effectively, Suman’s songs, for a large number of people in Calcutta, have turned into social irritants. But his music continues to face/ address, even ‘stage’, the life on the streets of Calcutta. In December 1996, the Left Front administration launched its ‘Operation Sunshine’ – an urban ‘clean-up’ project for Calcutta. One of the aspects of this operation was a crackdown on the street hawkers/vendors – erstwhile unemployed people who had found a living through setting up shops on the sidewalks of the city. The hawkers’ hatches were to go. They were issued with warnings, but without
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tangible rehabilitation arrangements. Calcutta had to be cleaned up, since its decrepit looks were turning corporate investors – domestic and foreign – away. Turning the hawkers out was an easy way to let the sun gleam on the streets. In response Suman Chatterjee has done what he has always done – written a song. This many people, where do they go? Rehabilitation? Where? Do you know? (No elections now, that’s the good part!) The policemen’s watches strike midnight Hawkers are booted, their daily bread knocked outta’ sight.9 This song – quite literally, about life in the streets – and the corpus of Suman Chatterjee’s work as a whole, palpably connects the Bengali music production industry in an ambivalent, though polydirectional, loop of Salon–stage–studio– street that is still playing on. Suman’s music moves through these four modes of dissemination in multifarious ways, working at times through the industry, at times without it. A number of his songs which have never been recorded on albums (and perhaps will not be in the near future) manage to reach his listeners directly through concerts and subsequent ‘bootleg’ recordings. Suman has never claimed or threatened to take legal measures against illegal recordings of his concerts. In fact he is known to have said publicly that he would like his songs to be recorded by audience members if/when his recording company declined to publish some of his more directly political songs. Is there a meta-industrial aspect to this? Is this a way in which Suman manages to thrive both within the industry and outside it? Is this his way of not letting, while he can wield that power from his seat of popularity, the commercial caprices of the recording industry control his music? There are no easy answers to these questions, for the sociology of music in the neo-colonial capitalist market is vexed with numerous unanswered (unanswerable?) questions, especially with the ideological alternative of Marxism being a jaded and faded entity in most of the neo-colonial world. Adorno had argued for a chain of production where the artist would initiate the process of music re/production under pristine circumstances by creating the work of art. But the logic of the late capitalist and neo-colonialist condition dictates that the media and cultural industries situate artists in market economies in such a manner that there is little that is ‘pristine’ or untainted by the ‘production’ loop. The artist who has once participated in the system is premediated to ‘create’ a product that will invariably be up for sale. The situation indeed is larger than the individual artist for, as Fredric Jameson has argued, ‘Multinational capitalism . . . is a concept that has to include within itself reproduction as well as production’ ( Jameson 1995: 49). Suman Chatterjee, as an individual working within this capitalist set-up is not simply an artist working through genius and inspiration, but is already subjectified as a re/producer of art as a commodity for market consumption. More than the urban folk (song) hero that his politics can easily make him out to be, Suman Chatterjee, as a professional musician, has to produce and sell his music to get a livelihood out of an industry that builds itself on the commodification/fetishisation of music and regressive listening. But
108 Sudipto Chatterjee Suman’s indifference to the system, however bantam in weight, is exemplified by his conscious efforts at trying to reach his audience without help from his recording company through direct communication from and off the stage and on the streets. Also, very much like the persecuted Cuban singer Carlos Varela, Suman often introduces new songs in concerts that his audiences ‘record’ (or even ‘learn’). Despite the fact that they are never released through any means of mass reproduction these songs are on the lips of thousands in no time. These songs do work, even in their small way, meta-textually against the other ‘industrialised’ songs coopted for regressive listening, creating a site for resistance close to the street, or even a site for an alternative history, the possibility of a paradigm shift. However minuscule that site may be, it is crucial that it be sited beyond the panoply of the neocolonial capitalist market and regressive listening. Thus, even while he works within that larger-than-the-individual cultural industry, the tenacity of Suman Chatterjee’s liberatory politics is certain. The question, I guess, is how long will he or can he persist with such autonomy?
Notes 1 From Suman Caopdhyyer Gn (Songs of Suman Chatterjee) (Chatterjee 1996: vol. III, p. 1). All translations, songs and prose passages, from Bengali sources are mine unless otherwise indicated. 2 See Banerjee (1990) for more information and detailed analyses of nineteenth-century Bengali music in Calcutta. 3 I am using the term here in the way in which Edward Said has deployed it, where Orientalism is not just a genre of scholarship, but also a political organ that aided the imperialist venture in the East. 4 Assam is a north-eastern state of India, sharing borders with West Bengal on its west and Bangladesh to the south. The Assamese language has affinities with Bengali, and Assam had a large Bengali presence for centuries until the violent ethnically based agitation in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Bhpen Hzrik has for a long time straddled the awkward gap between the two ethnicities because of his close ties with both. 5 In this chapter Bengali words from the North Indian group of languages have been spelt using standard international transliteration conventions. 6 From a private interview conducted in March 1997. All unreferenced interview quotes are from the same interview. 7 A traditional vote of appeal for the dismissal of a batsman made by the fielding team (usually shouted in unison) to the umpire in a cricket match. 8 Unpublished as text, but featured in Suman Chatterjee’s 1996 album Cichi Tomr Bandhut (HMV). 9 Printed in a protest pamphlet circulated by a citizens’ group opposing ‘Operation Sunshine’.
Part III
Travelling theories, syncretic exoticisms, or diffusion by any other name?
7
Magical mystical tourism (debate dub version) John Hutnyk
The first part of this chapter is a straightforward (in some ways) essay which discusses the uses of South Asian music and cultural forms by the band Kula Shaker. It was presented at the Perth symposium and so bears some of the marks of writing for oral presentation. As there was some lively discussion and criticism there, I have tried to recapture some of that engagement here through the device of a supplementary discussion. Thus the second part of the present chapter opens up some of the polemical angles of the first part through debate with a magazine editor, a ‘world music’ practitioner and with comrades (there is, of course, some degree of fudge in the construction of these subject positions and the debate does not thereby ‘reflect’ any ‘really existing’ empirical event; nevertheless . . .).
Part one: magical mystical tourism In 1997, on MTV Europe, a young white male ‘pop star’ stood outside a Hindu temple in India and looked into the camera to say: ‘Did you ever get the feeling you were in a Star Wars movie?’ His comment on the project of filming in India: ‘What happens here is about what you feel, you can’t necessarily show that on camera.’ When filming local musicians he explains: ‘this is the tribal stuff, everyone has a good heart and they put it into the music . . . they are just happy . . . them living their culture just seems completely natural’ (Mills, Kula Shaker in India, MTV 1997). Kula Shaker’s lead singer and guitarist Crispian Mills makes souvenirs of ‘real experiences, man’ by meeting sadhus and priests at Indian temples and buying trinket versions of cosmic harmony, singing dirge-like versions of devotional tunes while strumming his six-string guitar. Of course this souveniring of sound and culture is only possible on the basis of a long history of colonial power and theft transmuted into nostalgia for an idealised exotic India. Today we would also want to tie this to the idea of a new ‘cool’ England, and not just an MTV phenomenon: the general population is flocking to curry houses to dine out on twisted appropriations of colonialism brought here in new packets; the red hot ‘fuckin’ vindaloo’1 is the country’s national dish; white women are wearing bindi and nose-rings; world music festivals are a common event along with the popularity of the ‘new’ Asian dance music at fashionable nightclubs – all this as exotica deliciously snapped up at bargain prices.
112 John Hutnyk What is wrong with all this? Is it really worth a critical focus on the touristic practice of the pop star Crispian Mills? Best of luck to the temple touts who manage to redistribute a few of the pop star’s royalty monies. But with considerable mediaenhanced influence, Crispian is representative of pop music’s rediscovery of the East, and this has extensive consequences. Although it has become fairly commonplace to acknowledge that authenticity is a sham, it is also true that conscious recognition of the staged character of ‘authentic’ performance does not compromise, but can in effect enhance, authenticity. It would be enough here to consider the carefully crafted and annually remodelled identities of Bowie, Madonna or even the Spice Girls. In recent times all three took an ‘Asian’ turn, with the Spice Girls appearing dressed in saris for a performance in Delhi, and both Bowie and Madonna doing Asian-influenced dance tracks on their latest albums, with the material girl displacing Asian group Cornershop at the top of the charts with the track ‘Frozen’ from her album Ray of Light. Her performance videos now include decontextualised symbols of Hinduism and tawdry imitations of Bharatanatyam dance moves (MTV Madonna Special, March 1998). Such highprofile visitations come with access to public broadcasting opportunities rarely enjoyed by anyone else. So there is an important cultural politics at stake in the old pop-star-goes-to-seethe-gurus routine, and in this context Crispian’s pronouncements on India are fundamentally dangerous when he says things like: ‘India is the Ibiza of concepts’ (Mills, MTV 1997). Crispian is the son of Hayley Mills, a Hare Krishna devotee and the film actress star of Disney’s Pollyanna and Whistle Down the Wind. His estranged father Roy Boulting and maternal grandfather Sir John Mills were also film stars in their own right (Grandpa Mills won an Oscar for his role as the village idiot in David Lean’s Ryan’s Daughter). Even with such a pedigree, obviously many in the audiences who might hear him make these comments will laugh, and know that shit still smells like shit when it is dished out undisguised like this, especially on MTV. But at risk of picking on a soft target, there is an element which prides itself on its ethnic cosmopolitanism and will accept such statements with the lack of irony intended, much more so than ‘enthusiasms’ for temples or for ‘India’ are required to escape prejudicial patronising and garden-variety Orientalism. Let us consider patrons and pedigrees though. Cool Kula Crispian’s search for the alterity of Asia through music, like that trek of George Harrison 30 years ago today, celebrates the overpopulated, history-laden, olfactory, sensuous abundance of an ‘India’ that is almost entirely fantasy. Supreme irony then that Madonna’s sanskritised single lyric repeats: ‘You only see what your eyes want to see’ (Frozen 1998). Crispian and the MTV film crew went to India to explore the ‘Eastern influences’ of the band. Embarrassing travelogue this. In one scene the singer faces up to a Brahmin priest who mixes and applies red paste to Crispian’s brow. Crispian says he does not know why it is done or why the Brahmin says he needs it, but afterwards – well, after an edit cuts away to Crispian on his own outside the temple – he explains it is a ‘third eye’ and that it is the sun, just set, on his forehead. This process of moving from incomprehension to explanation, from letting something happen to explaining it to camera, from participation to observation (and later
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dissemination to the MTV audience worldwide) is the typical structure of ethnographic storytelling and the way exotica is always coded and consumed, irrespective of local significance. Collecting cultural experiences and displaying them provides the pattern for intercultural engagement that relentlessly produces meaning and text (and videotape) in the global media circus. But fashion saves us from this: according to Crispian, it is by paying attention to the supposedly ‘timeless’ spiritual message in the music that the contemporary ills of the planet can be cured. To a journalist who asked him if all this India pose was not just a bit ‘out of fashion’ and kitsch, he insists that it is not some incense burning, talking philosophy bollocks. It is always relevant, it always means something. India is the source of all, they hold a lot of secrets . . . We are in a civilisation about to destroy the planet. Everything is destroying itself . . . and so where is the rescue mission gonna come from . . . we have something to learn from India . . . it’s just about keeping a door open in the back of your head . . . for some people it’s just a fashion, but for others it is timeless. (Popview Live interview 1997) The moral certainty is presented as instruction, the music is the message, the planet must be liberated (this missionary zeal). Indeed, most of Kula Shaker’s public relations repertoire is moral and ethical (why, for example, does Crispian need to tell us he is not into drugs anymore? How does he cope?). To understand the marketing of the band in this register it is important to remember that cure-alls for alienation and moral-epistemological crisis have long been sold in mystic bottles. Call this the snake-oil medicine man gambit of the cultural frontier. Too many Bhang lassis, Crispian? Could it really be that he thinks mumbling conspiracy theories about an imminent apocalypse from Asia is funny? The accusation that Kula Shaker are racists and ‘racist by ignorance’ (Time Out, various issues 1996–7) was always going to be controversial, however substantiated by really offensive comments (Crispian says rap is not music, it is attitude; and so buys into the complaint rock explanation routine of the right-wing reactionaries). No matter how well intentioned and multicultural the lead singer might claim to be with his studies of Eastern scripture, the consequences of commercial appropriation and decontextualised decorative aesthetics were always going to offend. Gross ignorance is confirmed in slide-shows at live gigs which superimpose Lord Horatio Kitchener (the butcher of the Transvaal) over Radha (Krishna’s consort), as well as in the imperious arrogance of planning a concert at the Great Pyramid of Cheops on 31 December 1999. This big gig was to go ahead presumably only if the promised Armageddon which Crispian believed would begin with conflict in Pakistan, India and China could be averted by the saviour St George arriving from a place of spiritualism destined to free the world – that is, from England.2 That Crispian is covertly rehearsing a grand epic nostalgia for the days of the Raj must be taken seriously. He is part of a family who, like many, have very real links to the old imperial project – in Crispian’s case those thespian relatives worked the ideological division, grandfather John portraying the heroic deeds of men such as
114 John Hutnyk that same slide-show Kitchener (in the arguably mediocre film Young Winston). In contemporary times, Kula Shaker plays at a struggling re-run of the psychedelic late 1960s because this rehearses the last moment of excitement before the post-imperial crisis really caught hold at home. Today, the rules of retro 1960s mean operating a tamed psychedelics without the counter-establishment threat – neither Crispian nor Clinton inhale these days (yet even the 1960s UK music scene fascination with an ‘otherworldly’ India of peace and good vibes was in large part in denial of, and even counter to, a sharp and strident worldwide political movement, one that was eclectic and disorganised in some ways, but with serious student politics and worker alliances in Chicago, Paris, Algeria, Japan, and in different ways, China). In retro 1960s nostalgia, opportunities to extend the parallels to political issues are never taken. Whatever the tactical incoherence of the Situationist International at the Sorbonne in 1968 or of Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin’s exuberant Youth International Party (Yippies) in Chicago, it was at least possible for the vehicle of music to convey concerns about Western imperialist aggression in Vietnam and racist exclusion and white supremacy at home. (What is Crispian’s view on direct foreign investment in India? On the bombing of Baghdad? On anti-Muslim sentiment in the media? On racist violence and murder on the streets of Britain? On import/export quotas? Or must we remain in trivial fanzine-land and only ask Crispian his views on Rajasthani mirrorwork vests, the Knights of the Round Table, his horoscope and his star-sign?) What is more troubling is the abject failure to recognise that the retread character (caricature) of the Kula Shaker sound is blind to the circumstances of its own production even at the point where it tries to claim some sort of heritage. That Kula Shaker sitarism can place itself on the eastern end of British pop in full knowing ignorance of the myriad presence of Asian musics in the UK is not only naive. The wilful failure is of the Sony Music-signed stars to recognise the full heritage of Asian musics in their own country at the very time when Sony were attempting to market those very musics (with the signing of Birmingham turntable stalwart Bally Sagoo, and the release of a double LP sampler of other ‘new’ Asian artists).3 What does Kula Shaker know of how Asian musics have travelled to Britain? The band trace their interest in ‘Eastern’ sounds to white ‘innovators’ in the West. The Byrds, the Incredible String Band, Donovan and later Quintessence (Shiva Jones), Gong (Daevid Allen), Magic Carpet (Clem Alford) and the Teardrop Explodes, right on up to Paul Weller’s Parisian sitar experiments on ‘Wild Wood’ offer examples. Yet theirs is only the white Britpop side of British Asia. (Are Kula Shaker Britpop like Oasis? What does Oasis signify if not T. E. Lawrence’s mirage desire for a green and pleasant island in an inhospitable desert?) There is of course much more going on in British music than the market hype of guitar bands. It would be plausible to think of groups like Fun^Da^Mental and Asian Dub Foundation (ADF) as the current avant-garde of a well-pedigreed sound only now becoming saccharinised for commercial purposes in the Sony production sampler and in popular mixed club nights like Anokha in London. This does not mean that outfits like Fun^Da^Mental and ADF have not also sought commercial success, nor were the efforts of Bhangra, Qawwali and playback singers before them
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without commercial desire. But as much as the publicity machine was cranked up around the Fun^Da^Mental videos produced for MTV (but banned), financial success was secondary and in any case not readily forthcoming4 – the Nation Records posse directed their efforts to using the media space, and all their time and energy, in projects like bringing Pakistani Qawaal Aziz Mian to British audiences, campaigning against the removal of asylum rights from British law and against the draconian Criminal Justice and Public Order Act.5 The point here is to establish the basis for arguing that cultural appropriations such as those by Kula Shaker in regard to ‘India’ are not innocent, but rather do ideological work for a basically exploitative frame – the inexorable logic of value misappropriation, prejudicial division of labour, inequitable distribution of resources and a homogenisation of social relations throughout the world. This homogenisation of the world under capitalist relations proceeds by bringing all differences to the HMV bargain bin and it indeed ‘thrives’ on ‘cultural’ content where differences can be equated through abstract equivalencies. All this was so well foreseen by Marx, not Madonna.6 So when Kula Shaker present themselves as a ‘rediscovery’ of the Asian sound and its crossover into popular music they manage to ignore the significance of political and musical histories that paradoxically they must also acknowledge, only to appropriate and convert. This is nothing more than the operation of a business-asusual colonial project. It is still about wanting to rule the world. Another danger of this Orientalism in action can be seen in Kula Shaker’s repackaging of souvenired knick-knack mysticism in tracks like ‘Tattva’ and ‘Govinda’. When, in the MTV travelogue, Crispian was faced with a unscheduled performance at a conveniently ‘found’ Hindu ‘party’7 at a Roadside Hotel stop, the most uncomfortable and awkward moment of ‘intercultural relations’ is shown in full glorious colour. The mix of pop star prima donna and nervous pre-stage appearance tension, the embarrassing, halting, jangling, acoustic and discordant – though mercifully short – performance, and the attempt to authorise this difficult moment as the culmination of Crispian’s India pilgrimage illuminates the hypocrisy. The disturbing spectacle of consumable India presented to audiences in this version at least has the merit of being too transparent for most viewers and fans to swallow whole – though it may be feared that even this could sometimes be taken as representative of a real and available India. The only image in the MTV special that conveys the possibility that there is also a political domain in India is a split-second still of a red protest banner declaring ‘Coke-Pepsi Quit India’ – but you need a dexterous hand on the pause button to read it. Unfortunately a significant degree of scepticism and cynicism from the music press has been insufficient to undo the ideological stereotyping achieved by the new media Orientalisms that Kula Shaker, Madonna and Bowie are able to deploy. In the end we are left with an apocalyptic vision of a scary alternative universe: what should we make of Crispian’s interest in Arthurian legends, his English St George’s flag pasted onto his guitar (ironically?) alongside the Sanskrit om? His eulogy for empire in his display of both Kitchener and that flag evokes a nostalgia for the East (nostalgia as a career?, to paraphrase Disraeli8) that omits the oppression,
116 John Hutnyk violence and struggle of history, as if a different outcome to the Raj can be imagined into being through Crispian’s mystical trip. Kula Shaker’s trinket sound-bites are souvenired baubles in an ongoing Raj powerplay. The sitar strumming, tabla thumping and temple touring philosophy are the knick-knacks of a distorting remix of the past. Rather than the global jukebox9 which Kula Shaker and so many others seem to imagine as the perfect multicultural soundtrack, an engagement with political issues, exclusions and the co-constitution of racism and imperialism would be a far better project. In the face of deportations, police attacks and repressive force, an injunction to ‘shut up and dance’ to the bhajans of Crispian is just not an adequate response to the expansive appropriations of capitalism.
Part two: dialogic discussions The second part of this chapter is a response/discussion by several people, and my responses in return, over a version of the above sent to the magazine Mute 10 and circulated electronically over a few days in March of 1998. By no means does it represent the range of possible responses, taking up only the possibility-credibility of white uses of ‘exotic’ cultural forms. Nor is it, as mentioned at the beginning, either representative of the discussion at the Perth symposium, or exactly representative of any ‘really existing’ discussion beyond that constructed here from written and spoken texts. This dialogic presentation is an edited transcript of email and conversation (of course all so-called dialogic texts are reconstructions with no guaranteed relation to the ‘real’11). Yet there is considerable correspondence with the actual words of the named participants – all samples have been cleared and rash rapid asides have been left in (as markers of ‘authenticity’). At the end there is a summation which I hope opens up these questions in yet another direction. From Josie: Hi John, I’ve just finished reading your Kula Shaker piece for the next issue of Mute, and while I’m still fresh and flustered from the experience, I’m taking the opportunity to write to you. Two remarks before I begin: 1) I’m *not* in any way a fan of said band. 2) I really like your piece overall. BUT . . . I’m afraid I do have some questions and reservations, The main question boils down to this: Is the logical conclusion of your argument the fact that no white Western musicians can incorporate non-Western instruments, rhythms, harmonics, scales, etc. etc. into their music without being guilty of orientalism, hypocrisy or ignorance? Although I fully agree that Kula Shaker’s method of adopting Indian exotica is, in the words of Time Out, racism by ignorance, the question being begged here is what kind of musical exchange is legitimate? Are you perhaps saying that legitimate adoption of non-Western styles must occur outside the mainstream or else it is hypocritical of ‘the circumstances of its own production’? I’m tempted to say that this line of thinking would lead to white, patriarchal rock being the only option left to the ‘mainstream’, if I weren’t aware that Brit Pop and the like are also in denial as to their non-white, non-Western musical genealogy.
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I suppose what I’m saying is you need to make the premise of your critique more clear – what are the implications more generally for music coming out of the West? Especially when one considers that all music is in part ‘mongrel’, and in a world of global communication networks, liable to become more so. My last question/criticism is this: one of the most powerful points of your essay is when you root your critique in the concrete example of the scene with Crispian, the MTV crew and the Brahmin at the temple. I suppose I feel that, in contrast, your focus on Crispian’s own personal family genealogy is ill advised – a) because it becomes too specific in a context where colonialism is in every white’s history, regardless of their own particular family stories – the guilt is communal, and b) because it inadvertently gets Crispian off the hook – this, because he becomes subject to his own family history and circumstances which in turn seem beyond his control or individual responsibility – he didn’t ask to be born into this family etc. etc. Either all whites inherit responsibility for colonialism or none do. Phew! Got that off my chest. Please don’t infer from this that I think you should rewrite this piece – it’s just a question of maybe bringing out the broader implications of your argument, and sorting out the family issue. I realise that there is an irresistible coincidence of both grandfather and grandson employing the figure of Kitchener to notionally different ends – which really form part of the same spectrum – but maybe the excavation of the family history should be limited to this point. Please just tell me to piss off if I’ve misunderstood you on any of these points or, if you think the criticisms are founded, I would suggest the following alterations: – draw out the broader implications of you critique (no more than a sentence) – limit the family history to the Kitchener issue. I look forward to your reply! love Josie From John: Hi Josie, Thanks heaps for the comments. I think your bit about the Kitchener connection is good because that brings out the point even more clearly, but it is also important that Crispian’s mum was a Krishna devotee – its the dancing end of appropriation shared by many today – so I want to stick to the family romance. I deal with the links of all white families to the Empire project in a different version of the piece. I don’t think it lets Crispian off the hook to show that his is a family project. I think this project is a family one for everyone. I used to ask my Manchester Political Anthropology classes if they had any personal involvement in imperialism – to which most said no – and then we’d go around the room and ask everyone if any of there parents were ever in the services, overseas, missions, education etc. etc. Invariably ninety percent were linked up in some way, even if it was just a grandparent who fought in the second world imperialist war.12 Rushdie’s comment that England’s history happened overseas and the English are unaware of it (1981) is only partly true, they are mostly in a kind of knowing denial. White Rock as the only option left to the mainstream?! Well, I’m confused as to what you mean by ‘left’ here. I guess not left wing eh, as in left of the mainstream (wilful
118 John Hutnyk misunderstanding here!), cos rock hasn’t been close to that for a long time. Mainstream? What’s that? Is rock anywhere near it? I guess Brit Pop is the mainstream in England – but I’ve been saying that Oasis is just the colonial dream of a cool green and pleasant nostalgia amidst the inhospitable desert of a world that is too threatening – a rerun Lawrence of Arabia boy’s own adventure in the game of global domination. Options? This mainstream doesn’t take options, except in the financial speculation sense. As for all music being ‘mongrel’. I have real problems with such lines of argument, since they offer no hope for any transformative politics, they misconstrue the past as a time of non-mongrelness, and they celebrate without consideration every mix in a relativist mish-mash. I’ve a chapter in the book Debating Cultural Hybridity where I go through the arguments about why academic celebration of ‘Hybridity’ is fatally flawed as a political strategy. The chapter is called ‘Adorno at Womad: Crossover Musics and the Limits of Hybridity-talk’. It is mostly about Adorno and Asian Dub Foundation, published by Zed in 1997 (hmmm, one day I have to rewrite that in terms of critique of Haraway’s Cyborg stuff that you are into). OK. Now to the question of who can sample sitars and get away with it. Answer. Who cares? I don’t feel any responsibility to provide neat lists dos and don’ts. My quick answer would be – it’s OK if it raises money for the revolutionary party or defence campaign . . . I was asked a similar question by an musician in Australia. I’ll attach her question and my answer below. Take care, Be well, John: From Liz Van Dort, singer, ‘Far’: OK – I think that the issues you raise are certainly very topical – I face these questions all the time, bands like Deep Forest and Enigma get lots of flack for sampling ‘ethnic’ voices (in this I think the flack is deserved – I find this, as well as immoral, totally pointless – isn’t the point of releasing music to show off one’s OWN talents?). What your paper doesn’t answer for me is – where do you draw the line? When is it theft and when not? Can anything be used at all – if not, then what do we do, accuse Indians wearing Levis of cultural theft? Or have I totally missed the point . . . From John: Hi Liz Your comments raise one of the most important issues, and I need to clarify. However much people into making music might want a line to be drawn, I personally don’t see that as my project. I’m not interested in drawing a line as to when it’s OK to borrow and when not . . . I remember George Bush drawing a line in the sand re Kuwait – and of course it didn’t matter where the line was drawn, because the agenda was American world power (as globo-cops) and no matter what happened George wanted to be a bully muscleman and get himself reelected.
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BUT, what I do want to point out is that the versions of India that Kula Shaker think are ‘Indian Culture’ are ones that belong to this racist imperialist trinketizing exoticising fantasy dream of white supremacy and world domination.
I want to argue that this temple-trip jaya version of India that comes along with the ‘sitarism ethnic restaurant music and Womad woolly llama macramé bicycles’ scene is one that provides an alibi for a rather more sinister Western intervention into India. It’s exactly the one that gets people buying Levis jeans – the routine of structural adjustment programmes, direct foreign investment and the international division of labour . . . While cool Kula Crispian is babbling on about tribal music forms, those tribal people have been fighting revolutionary war against capitalism/imperialism (and not generally winning) and etc. Other groupings of India are engaged in other kinds of political struggle against that same intervention. By looking to the temple and not to the oppressive apparatus we participate in the global menace. A similar argument could be made about enthusiasm for the didgeridoo. Sure, great instrument, and it sounds ‘nice’ when played by Irish folk bands etc!, but this allows people to ‘be into’ Aboriginal culture at the very same time as doing nothing about the racist Howardite clique and the disaster that is contemporary Australian so-called ‘race relations’ (well this doing ‘nothing’ of course doesn’t include everyone – there are lots of good leftists doing solidarity work and hopefully Howard will be gone after the next vote . . .). Anyway, if you have to pay your rent and you can do that by music, that’s as good if not better than working for an international jeans manufacturer, isn’t it? Though, no matter what ‘your’ identity/cultural reference, if you sample the sounds I would consider setting aside a proportion of any royalty money etc. to the anti-racist groups in your area, to the Pay the Rent Campaign in Australia, to the Free Satpal Ram Campaign in the UK, or to some Naxalite group in Bengal if you can get a CPI (ML) address (there is of course a very respectable history of music people showing the way through such benefit-solidarity). There you go. John. [Insert added later: There is of course some contextual information needed to put the above in focus. The racist Howard government in Australia is debating legislation to secure farming and mining rights to Aboriginal land. Unfortunately, there is no guarantee that the opposition Labor Party will provide any substantial opposition since it is equally bound up in relations of clientage and compromise with the mining and farming lobby. There are some that hope this is not true. Far more progressive are those groups campaigning and organising together to defeat the Howard push and for the first time begin an adequate and just process of redistribution and reconciliation with Australia’s Aboriginal peoples. The ‘Pay the Rent’ campaign was a proposal from left groups that a percentage of every organisation’s operating budget be allocated to such campaigning – admittedly in most cases a symbolic gesture, given it is the mining industry that has the big income and they do not often pay rents.13 The music of No
120 John Hutnyk Fixed Address, Warumpi Band and perhaps Yothu Yindi would be the soundtrack. Information on Satpal Ram’s case I take directly from material prepared for flyer for a ‘New Asian Dance Music’ club night in Frankfurt, Germany April 1998 – the text, translated, reads: Satpal Ram is in his eleventh year of imprisonment in the racist UK prison system. At an Indian restaurant Satpal was attacked by six men, one of whom was injured after Satpal defended himself. The injured white man later went to hospital, but refused treatment when he found that the staff assigned to help him were Asian. He subsequently died. In British law, self-defence is no offence, but Satpal is in jail for murder. Satpal’s appeal was heard, but rejected, in November 1995: his campaign organised several lively demos at the High Court. Satpal was refused the right to speak in the court and was dragged out shouting ‘No Justice No Peace!’ The campaign continues for Justice for Satpal Ram. Most recently, the group ‘Asian Dub Foundation’ released the single ‘Free Satpal Ram’ to highlight the injustice of this case. Across Europe the state authorities continually turn a blind eye to their own outrages. This must be stopped by the mass of people demanding: Free Satpal Ram! Support the Free Satpal Campaign, c/o Handsworth Law Centre, 101 Villa Rd, Birmingham, B19 1NH. For Naxalite, again Asian Dub Foundation figure in the story, but here it’s a little strange that an East London Drum n Bass outfit have recorded a CD eulogising the armed struggle of the Bengali peasantry in 1967 – it is not at all clear what audiences of ADF, besides those diasporised Bengalis of London, would make of ADF’s plan to ‘encircle the cities’ and other ultra-Maoist tactics. That a ‘peal of Spring Thunder has broken over Brick Lane’ may signal a new urban politics, but the issue of metropole celebration of peasant struggle is not without contradictions (see note 9). The abbreviation CPI (ML) stands for Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist), of which there are several fragments extant in Calcutta alone – the CPM(ML)TND – Towards New Democracy – group are at 102 S. N. Banerjee Rd, Calcutta, Bengal.] From Josie: Thanks for getting back with such extensive comments. I suppose what this comes down to – if it’s at all possible to be brief here (!) – is the fact that you see music (rightly of course) as a product of its cultural/political/economic/etc. etc. context and therefore any appropriation of that by external cultures as a direct engagement (conscious or not) with those circumstances. The implications of which are clear and the hypocrisy, wilful ignorance and the false consciousness of certain appropriations is clear. But where your argument falls down is your refusal to answer the question: Are there instances of mixing the music of different ethnicities which do not fall into this trap? And more specifically to your particular area of interest – i.e. Western uses of non-Western musical traditions – are all such adoptions automatically Orientalist. I think saying that it’s not your problem to lay down the dos and don’ts is missing the point. Of course no-one would want you to and there would be little point in that. These questions relate far more to an examination of your own position than the formulation of prescriptions.
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I haven’t read your piece on hybridity *yet* and I will do so today – but while I’ve still got fire in my fingertips I’ll just state two objections that immediately come to mind: 1 2
Cultural mixing or hybridity can be bricolage – a way of indicating that no cultural artefact is whole or natural or central etc. Music, it could be argued, in many cases seeks to transcend the circumstances of its production. Although reaching ‘outside’ to the music of a foreign culture immediately implicates the (always already implicated) musician, it could conceivably be motivated by the will to find an ‘outside’ to the inside of the musician’s circumstances. I think your argument sweeps away the possibility that Westerners are looking for ways to confound the circumstances that position and entrap them through the music of ethnic culture and that this can entail a fully conscious knowledge of global power relations.
All in all I think your criticism of KS are right on, and mostly those criticisms can be levelled against musicians doing the ethnic thang – but there must be possibilities for non-racist cultural hybridity or the scenario looks bleak for a variety of reasons. Love Josie From John: Hi Josie, I have to be brief, there are deadlines hanging around my neck today... but some quick points just speculating and trying to tie your interesting questions to directions I think my research is heading: You wrote: . . . I think saying that it’s not your problem to lay down the dos and don’ts is missing the point. Of course no-one would want you to and there would be little point in that. These questions relate far more to an examination of your own position than the formulation of prescriptions. On dos and don’ts. I say do join the party. Don’t just ‘shut up and dance’. We will sing multicultural songs as we march into battle, but they will be approved by the central committee. My position is that anything less is compromise. I really don’t care what good multiculturalisms are possible. Without massive political organising it amounts to the same liberal alibi. That is what ‘comes first’ ‘in the last instance’. At home I listen to stuff with lots of samples. Is it OK? Fun^Da^mental, ADF, Hustlers HC and others – and I think they are OK because they do their sampling/appropriations in the course (or cause) of a militant politics. When Western musicians sample they do not do so – well, very rarely – within such a politics. I’d valorise the struggle over the tunes (and with all the many contradictions of struggle too, which I write about in Dis-Orienting Rhythms). On hybridity, you wrote: 1
Cultural mixing or hybridity can be bricolage – a way of indicating that no cultural artefact is whole or natural or central etc.
122 John Hutnyk One of my points in ‘Adorno at Womad’ is that if no cultural artefact is whole, then hybridity is saying nothing and all that is useful for politics and all the old problems and analyses/struggles around class, race and gender are still to be argued (and saying things are hybrid or constructed doesn’t do much there). Postmodernist storytelling about the videographic construction of the Gulf War does not in any way win justice against the slaughter inflicted upon Iraq. You wrote: 2
Music, it could be argued, in many cases seeks to transcend the circumstances of its production. Although reaching ‘outside’ to the music of a foreign culture immediately implicates the (always already implicated) musician, it could conceivably be motivated by the will to find an ‘outside’ to the inside of the musician’s circumstances.
Yes, I wonder if old Beardo on the subsumption of the ‘outside’ might be useful here? Endless paragraphs of discussion in the deep end of Capital. But maybe quoting Marx as oracle is too hard-line, my point can be illustrated with Kula Shaker – to whom there is a fantasy ‘outside’ (called mystical India), which is outside of the commercialism and all that of the West, which Crispian and the lads obviously want to escape. However, it is exactly at this point that their participation in the commercial game – of pop music, but also of travel, and that which enables travel, the aeroplanes, trains, passport controls, border guards, service economies, chai-shop workers, guidebooks, fanbooks, temple touts, international hotel chains, radio, satellite, etc. – that suggests there can be no outside here. Or at least, it is an outside that Kula Shaker are in the front-line process of bringing ‘inside’. This is called appropriation. The psychology of expansion. The most favoured practice of Capital. Orientalism today. [And maybe – in another lifetime – a whole other discussion about the role of technology and music enabling this outside-ification would be possible, starting with Benjamin’s age of reproduction essay, but you can imagine the routines here.] You wrote: . . . I think your argument sweeps away the possibility that Westerners are looking for ways to confound the circumstances that position and entrap them through the music of ethnic culture and that this can entail a fully conscious knowledge of global power relations. Umm. But Kula Shaker just aren’t doing very well at confounding those circumstances . . . Yeah, I know I know, it’s too much to lay on the shoulders of a ‘soft target’. My guess is that we need to ask how many Westerners (and how many musicians into ethnic samples) are doing this sort of searching, and whether the organisational apparatus they do it within (say the People’s Sampling Party of Cadre for the Revolutionary Potential of Jungle – PPSPCRPJ – Marxist-Leninist March 23rd tendency) is actually adequate to win – yup win – against Capital at this time. I don’t find the scenario bleak. Just hard work. Derrida once said, if things were easy, word would have got round.
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Do you mind if I pass your comments on this piece to others? Be well, John From Virinder Kalra: re: Debate on Kula Shaker: There are plenty of ‘Western’ bands (or perhaps I should say I’m sure there are) who have engaged in political struggle using musics which are ‘appropriated’. Off hand, if we look at all the music produced in the anti-apartheid movement I’m sure there’s plenty of examples. The point which should be made is that the ‘appropriation’ isn’t the issue, as all music is (I know this is obvious) predicated on some form of borrowing. The issue which the Kula stuff brings out is about both the repetition of Orientalist discourse and repetition of white imperialist fantasy. In these two senses the fact that music is the medium is irrelevant. The significant fact is in the way that Kula’s stuff works and augments those ideologies rather than possible struggles against them. Any explicitly political music, irrespective of its hybrid/appropriating origins, can therefore be validated in the way that Josie seems to be looking for. – Virinder
Coda: final reflex action I guess that in the end I have been drawing lines in the sand. Such clarification and amplification through debate is only one example of the usually more scattered commentaries that operate in the relative immediacy of internet and conversation vis-à-vis scholarly writing. If the issues raised are complex, this is why we continue to debate them, as do many others. Whether or not this suggests a move to conclusion with regard to debates about appropriation and authenticity, what this discussion also does for me is raise some wider questions about politics and writing. Thus this piece ends with a brief reflection on such problems. While a more ‘scholarly’ writing may have passed without much comment, the reactions of Josie and Liz to what, after all, is ‘only’ a polemical piece are interesting insofar as they force a consideration of the tactics of writing and reading. Writing and reading are co-constituted, separated only in time; they exit in the same moment of creation (re-creation?). While different readers read differently, and authors have many agendas (sometimes many in the same piece), the scene is inextricably one of joint production and these factors complicate any easy assessment of the game. But should the difficult reception of this ‘attack on a soft target’ mean the writing should be more circumspect? Considerate somehow? Less blunt and willing to offend? Obviously not all writing should seek the happy agreement of all readers, and thus never provoke an exchange. This is not merely a polite question of literary style but, at another level, what are the obligations of a polemic that tries to use the sledgehammer differently? Unlike bludgeoning the reader to death with Brechtian devices and postmodern anxiety about the ontological status of punctuation, the reflex is here situated between the writer and the reader. Perhaps it more readily evokes responses in this way. I am certainly interested in Crispian Mills’ response, but alas, as yet, no word . . .14 Reflexivity already has a long pedigree as the proposed cure for postcolonial
124 John Hutnyk dilemmas. We are so often hammered now with a scrupulous micro-self-consciousness that reflexivity comes closer to kneecapping than a small tap that tests reaction. What legitimate position in solidarity politics might be taken that does not succumb to the privileged roles of broker, gatekeeper, expert, translator, liberal, opportunist, parachutist15 or parasite? Probably none, but it is pretty certain that reflexivity is not a defence against patronising and imperious appropriation, nor does it (as Ko Banerjee points out (1998)), redeem the anthropologist in the eyes of the ‘other’. I would add that reflexivity is no security against comprador co-option and the desire-temptation which succumbs to the delights of polite intellectual discussion – a cosmopolitan salon mentality. Self-reflexivity works as seduction to export fragmentation and divisive tendencies (from Trotskyite sectarianism to postmodern anti-essentialism, diversity sells) and in so doing undermines solidarity and unity. Progressive programmes too can be co-opted by state agencies when offered without organisation. What sort of reflection, reconsideration and reaction are required here? Against the dual problems of fragmentation without coherence, and resistance without plan, perhaps we need to regroup with a more sophisticated rationale and programmes capable of winning, to reconstruct the social power of popular and mass activity (not some pale celebration of microscopic, and diverse, resistances, which, although perhaps capable of surviving the attacks of the state for a time, or of slipping under the wire and avoiding the brutality of the border guards, are never in themselves the basis of a defeat of oppressive states or removal of border laws). On the other hand, there is a place for this kind of reflex questioning that escapes the salons of elegant contemplation – to engage in the double movement of both activism in organisation and semi-autobiographical critical (self-)educationre-education work and thus to do so in a way that is not unrelated to the reflexivity themes, but which turns them into political practices. Dialectical once again, we come close to agreement and wander away soon after. Is this only a reflection of my musical preferences? Is it OK just to tap your toes to the stuff? Cultural commentators and practitioners know that music is not an innocent pleasure. Subtle, then, the writing which ignores any reflexive anxiety over these issues and blunders on regardless because of them.16
Notes This paper was presented for me at the symposium by Ramona Mitussis, to whom I express many many thanks for stepping in at a time of difficult family drama. Further thanks for comments on this writing go to: Raminder Kaur, Saurabh Dube, Peter Phipps, Sanjay Sharma, Virinder Kalra, Gerard Goggin, Liz van Dort, Josephine Berry, Hari Kunzru@Mute, and Ashwani Sharma. Red Salute. 1 See Banerjea and Banerjea (1996: 111) in Dis-Orienting Rhythms: the Politics of the New Asian Dance Music. We began the introduction to that book (Sharma, Hutnyk and Sharma 1996) by noting how the voracious appetite of the market had turned all manner of ‘Asian’ markings into exotic objects of value – saris, vindaloo and Ravi Shankar being the least offensive items – but we also noted that this was concurrent with increased racist violence and murder on the streets, police persecution and deportation by the government, and a prurient voyeuristic interest in ‘culture’ on the part of much of academia. 2 Further evidence for the unacknowledged but ever up-front persistence of colonial
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nostalgia is the reproductions on the first Kula Shaker album cover, imitating the Fab Four and Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts with a collage that included Rudyard Kipling, Kitchener again (this time towering imperiously over the image of Jomo Kenyatta) and Ben Kingsley (Attenborough’s imported Gandhi), together with JFK (perhaps this particular archimperialist balanced by Martin Luther King), as well as Clark Kent and Captain Kirk to remind us of contemporary US fantasy imperialisms in the sky (all K’s, but tactfully no Ku Klux Klan, yet no KC and the Sunshine Band either. Old Beardo Uncle Karl is included as a fashion statement, alongside Khrushchev). Finally, among others such as Boris Karloff and Katherine Hepburn, there is an image of Kali and the centrepiece of Krishna and Radha (the only three non-Western representations of things Indian), which confirms that Orientalism also thrives in the days of desktop publishing. It could be objected that Sony Corporation is after all an ‘Asian’ company, but I think in this case the reification of Japanese business practices tends towards another mode of exoticisation. I would argue that the capitalist ‘identity’ of Sony overrides any corporate ‘ethnicity’ which might be deployed. Elsewhere I will discuss the question of Sony TV’s South Asian satellite channel offerings. See Housee and Dar (1996). Recently Nation Records released a double CD compilation of the label’s most wellknown and memorable tracks, entitled ‘And Still No Hits’. See Hutnyk (1996). I elaborate this connection in a longer version of this writing in Kaur and Hutnyk (1998). It is not clear what this ‘party’ is, but it appears to be an example of the recent rise of Hindutva ideologies in the subcontinent. Hindutva celebrates those same mystical imageries that Crispian portrays in Kula Shaker slide-shows. It has, especially in its Mumbai-based Shiv Sena form under Bal Thackaray, been explained as a consequence of Hindu nationalism mixed with ‘casino capitalist’ black market speculation and Green Revolution pay-offs enjoyed by the landed Maharashtran elites. There may be resources within Hinduisms that would not lead to support for the far right, but ignorant participation in the ‘natural’ celebration of Brahmanical and fascist Hindutva populism by white pop stars cannot pass unacknowledged. The often quoted phrase ‘The East is a career’ appears in Disraeli (1871: 141). I take the citation from Chow (1993: 185), for whom it was located by Prabhakara Jha. There is, however, something disturbing in Chow’s use of this phrase to make a point about students ‘of the East’ when she writes: ‘The difficulty facing us, it seems to me, is no longer simply the “first world” Orientalist who mourns the rusting away of his treasures, but also students from privileged backgrounds Western and non-Western who conform behaviourally in every respect with the elitism of their social origin . . . but who nonetheless proclaim dedication to “vindicating the subalterns” . . . they choose to see in others’ powerlessness an idealized image of themselves and refuse to hear in the dissonance between the content and manner of their speech their own complicity with violence. Even though . . . [they] may be quick to point out the exploitativeness of Benjamin Disraeli’s “The East is a career”, they remain blind to their own exploitativeness as they make “the East” their career’ (Chow 1993: 14–15). Against the saccharine multiculturalism of the Global Jukebox, Nation Records inaugurated their ‘Global Sweatbox’ club night in London, in March 1998. Mute magazine is published in London from: mute: 2nd floor, 135–9 Curtain Rd, London EC2A 3BX. www.metamute.com Vincent Crapanzano has usefully commented on the so-called dialogic turn in anthropology and takes issue with the ‘interpreters’ who assume they ‘can engage in dialogue’ with ‘recordings, texts, and other materials’ (Crapanzano 1992: 197). This is an error in three parts; the first of these is the error of ‘taking a metaphorical relationship (the interpretation of a text is like a dialogue) nonmetaphorically’. The second involves a failure ‘to recognise that the dialogue with which the interpreter is now dialoguing is no longer a dialogue but is a “dialogue” – the theme of another dialogue’. The third, and rather more acerbically expressed, error grants to the interpreter ‘a super-human ability to bracket off secondary dialogues and their language’ (Crapanzano 1992: 197).
126 John Hutnyk 12 Added later, ‘For the record’: British (as well as US and Australian) soldiers in the South East Asian theatre were kept on after the second imperialist world war to fight various communist insurrections. In Malaysia many communists were slaughtered, and this is just a part of a concerted effort to ‘cleanse’ the world of the ‘Red’ threat. A useful, if harrowing, documentation of the millions killed for the crime of wanting the best possible world for all is Kovel (1994). 13 An initial guide to resources on this issue is available at www.ozemail.com.au/~nlc95/ native_title.htm 14 Crispian does sometimes respond. In an amazing reply to one journalist’s reporting of the controversy over his comments about the swastika, Crispian offered a long letter, subsequently posted on the Sony www page, which in part reads: I have travelled to India many times and have been influenced greatly by its people and philosophy, especially that of Bhakti or devotional love. It is my love of Indian culture, and its artistry, music, rich iconography and symbols that prompted my comments in the NME [about the legitimacy of the swastika and its ancient Indian origins]. My comments were not in any way a support of the crimes that are symbolized by the Nazis’ use of the swastika . . . I apologize to those who have been offended by my comment and humbly ask that they accept that I am completely against the Nazis . . . Lately I have considered how confusing some of the things I have said appear, especially when they are taken as sound bites, and on occasion, out of context. Communication seems challenging at the best of times, and I now appreciate that my bundling of themes like the Grail, Knights Templars and Hinduism has not done much in the way of helping deep understanding. You are correct when you comment on my ‘complicated and intriguing mystical worldview’ saying that you, ‘find it hard to understand in simple terms’ the co-mingling of all these ideas. I think the only way one can reconcile their relationship (if indeed one accepts that there is one), is if one looks at them from a mystical or spiritual point of view. There are of course lines of thought that suggest how eastern ideas made their way to the west, especially via the Crusades, but it is true that for the most part they do not have a currency in modern thought. Thus in essence, the co-mingling is largely a personal expression of a desire to know and understand the deeper secrets of a spiritual or inner life. From the little that I know or understand, I see that somehow similar themes appear in different cultures and settings . . . I appreciate that my own special mix of themes is at best eccentric. (Crispian Mills, letter to Mr Kalman, The Independent 17 April 1997. Full text www.music.sony.com/Music/ArtistInfo/KulaShaker/reviews/inde_fax.html) 15 ‘Parachutist’ refers to the practice of white left groups ‘parachuting in’ on communitybased self-defence campaigns to do publicity for their own group under the guise of solidarity. The strategy here is to get involved with the local group, recruit the advanced layer of activists, then abandon the campaign to concentrate on building the party. This seems to me to be the worst of the Trotskyite deformations evident in left-wing politics today. See Kalra, Hutnyk and Sharma (1996). 16 Kula Shaker web references: www.shef.ac.uk/~shep/music/interviews/kulaint/index.html www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/7772/ www.music.sony.com/Music/ArtistInfo/KulaShaker/ www.kulashaker.co.uk/kulashaker/grape/newep.html www.gws.or.jp/home/miyuki/kula.html ( Japan): (includes picture of Sir John Mills’ handprints in the concrete pavement of a London street, and a tif file of a $60 ticket for a KS show in Japan – comment, ‘pretty expensive huh?’). www.2launch.com/kula.html www.hello.no/html/what_up!kula_shaker.html (Norway)
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‘Love Never Dies’ Romance and Christian symbolism in a Japanese rock video Carolyn S. Stevens
Christian symbols are commonly used in Japanese popular culture to express ideals such as romanticism and Occidental exoticism. This concept fuels the imagery in the video at hand: ‘Love Never Dies’, by the Alfee, features Christian architecture, Caucasian models, crosses and, most significantly, a guitar in the likeness of the Virgin Mary. Here, as in the wedding, Christian icons are used to convey a perceived modern version of romance. In this case modernity is set in an indeterminate past, conflating the traditional and the modern into one visual concept that exists in opposition to the present. The present and future encased in the past is the dominant trope, engaging the notion of modernity (and postmodernity) as something necessarily sequential, as is most often the case in Eurocentric definitions of modernity (Sakai 1989).1 Miller notes anthropologists’ and other social scientists’ concern regarding the application of theories of modernity to other societies, fearing the ‘pretensions of a particular European tradition and history being assumed as the relevant account for areas as diverse as Latin America or Japan’ (Miller 1994: 67). The argument for the application of ethnographic methods to studies of modernity in non-European societies is, however, a compelling one, as cross-cultural analysis can further our understanding of globalisation and its processes. Despite these theoretical considerations, there may be more particularistic explanations for this example of symbolic manipulation. The Alfee repeatedly use Christian symbolism in their stage sets, instrumental design and stage costumes.2 The band’s tendency to employ Christian symbols may be attributed to their education at Meiji Gakuin University, one of Japan’s oldest Christian universities. The use of these symbols evokes little religious sentiment but creates a sense of nostalgia associated with one’s schooldays. Christianity also symbolizes the ideological purity of youth and one’s first love. Christianity’s secular presence in the Japanese context allows its symbols to be freely manipulated and adapted in popular culture.
128 Carolyn S. Stevens
Plate 1 ‘Maria’ guitar, as featured in the ‘Love Never Dies’ video. Designed by Toshihiko Takamizawa for ESP Guitars. Photograph by Makoto Kurosawa. Courtesy of Time Spirit Co. Ltd.
Methodological and analytical considerations Cross-cultural analysis is helpful to dissect meaning. In the Western case, we see that [m]usic video draws our attention simultaneously to the song and away from it, positing itself in the place of what it represents. As a genre, its formal structure is based on a paradox, which is unravelled here through the trope of the guitar. (Berland 1993: 25)
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Plate 2 Baroque guitar, as featured in the ‘Love Never Dies’ video. Designed by Toshihiko Takamizawa for ESP Guitars. Photograph by Makoto Kurosawa. Courtesy of Time Spirit Co. Ltd.
The visual space represented in the video at once becomes the place where the music is performed as well as consumed, and the guitar (here drawing on Christian signs to create a new guitar trope) is still at the forefront. However, differences in the function and the consumption of Western and Japanese videos are worth noting. The study of music videos is necessarily a postmodern phenomenon; though
130 Carolyn S. Stevens visual records of musical performances predate MTV’s appearance in 1981 (Negus 1992: 93), the music video of the 1980s changed the way producers, consumers and scholars alike viewed music as a commodity to buy, sell and analyse. This change affects the way audiences perceive music; in fact, it has been noted that ‘the songs themselves have become less important as conveyors of meaning than have the visual images that accompany and sell them’ (Bradby 1992: 73). Bradby rightly points out the ‘semiotic problem in attempting to read music video as a purely visual text’ (1992: 74). Negus also notes the tendency for music video analysis to ‘ignore the music’ (1992: 93) and finds that it does little to illuminate the video production process with the larger music industry. He claims that the appearance of videos has caused great change in the industry. Videos have transformed the production process and created new specialist roles that thrive solely on the production of videos (director, stylist, choreographer, etc.). This new industry changed the way an artist is presented to the public: not merely through the eyes and ears of a live audience or the eye of a still camera (Negus 1992: 94–6). Though the technology to produce videos is similar, the function of the Japanese video is quite different. MTV did not start broadcasting in Japan until 1991, and MTV-type shows are not as pervasive in Japan as they are in other Western and Asian countries. There is not an immediate and wide-reaching context in which music videos are viewed in their entirety. Japanese music television shows rarely use video clips in their programming.3 If video clips are used, the audience only sees about 5–10 seconds of it. The Japanese music video is produced primarily as a short sales pitch – literally, a visual sound bite – for programmes broadcast on the halfdozen or so commercial (not satellite) networks. After the release of a single and subsequent album, several clips might be edited together as a video collection sold to fans in retail shops. These videos are not as widely viewed as MTV videos are; rather they are produced in the short term for a quick shot of mass PR and in the long term for a smaller connoisseur market. Thus one can argue that the audience for small portions of Japanese video clips is wide but when considered as an entire work, the range of viewers is narrower. The latter audience is a group of consumers who are well versed in the semiotic and musical discourses the artists regularly employ. However, its first function as a promotional instrument is still important and Japanese video clips must use visuals that are considered effective in only five to ten seconds. Plot development is not as important as visual impact. Therefore, this chapter attempts to embed the visual aspects of the video in a larger cultural system of meaning focusing on the notions of romance, nostalgia and modernity.
The Alfee in the larger pop music scene The three members of the Alfee (Sakurai Masaru, Sakazaki Kohnosuke and Takamizawa Toshihiko 4) met while students at Meiji Gakuin University in the early 1970s. Sakurai and Takamizawa both attended Meiji Gakuin’s affiliated high school, while Sakazaki entered the institution as a college student. They formed the group in 1974 and originally presented themselves as an acoustic folk trio. At that time,
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Plate 3 The Alfee, 2003. Photograph by Yoshiaki Sugiyama. Courtesy of Project III Co. Ltd.
Japanese folk music was developing into its own genre, separate from the US tradition, with acts such as Moriyama Ryo¯ko, Mike Maki and The Folk Crusaders. Sakurai, Sakazaki and Takamizawa first signed with Victor under a different name and recorded one album that did not dent the national charts; not long after, their contract was allowed to expire. They debuted again in 1979 as the Alfee with Pony Canyon Records, and for the following four years they recorded a series of albums and singles that found limited success. After a few folk releases with Pony Canyon, the band changed their strategy and instrumentation. Like Bob Dylan in the 1970s, they ‘went electric’, and the Alfee’s rock/pop sound at last made the charts in 1983 with the single ‘Marie Ann’. Their tireless performing schedule had eventually paid off, and they were able to establish a fan base across the country. A string of hits followed, labelling them as one of Japan’s premier rock groups. This is reflected in their record of opening concert venues (kokera otoshi), such as the Tokyo Dome in 1988 and the Tokyo International Forum in 1997. One reason that they have been able to achieve such status in the industry is the fact that other super groups of the 1970s and 1980s such as Off Course and YMO have disbanded. To stay successful in the quickly changing Japanese market is a major coup. Thus the Alfee are often referred to as the ‘Japanese Rolling Stones’, because of their decade-spanning success. Other long-running acts in Japanese pop/rock include the Southern All Stars (who formed one year after the Alfee, in 1975), Chage and Aska (debuting in 1979),
132 Carolyn S. Stevens Matsuto¯ya Yumi (debuting in 1972), Nakajima Miyuki (debuting in 1975) and Yamashita Tatsuro¯ (active in 1970s, but debuting as a solo artist in 1980). All of these artists, including the Alfee, are categorized as ‘new music’ performers. This term refers to the ‘new’ synthesis of Western-style folk, pop and rock that emerged from the folk movement around 1975. These performers wrote their own music and often produced themselves, making them independent of hierarchically structured talent agencies and music publishing companies. These artists were not ‘manufactured stars’; their music was seen as ‘authentic’, similar to the original folk movement. The most important difference was that ‘New Music’ artists were not as vulnerable to consumer trends, and once successful they were able to enjoy longer careers (such as the Alfee). Also, some of the artists went on to create their own record labels, consolidating their power in the music business (Yoshida Takuro¯’s ‘For Life Records’, which he created with fellow artist Inoue Yo¯sui, for example). In 1998 the Alfee’s members were aged 43 and 44: old by Japanese pop standards. They are no longer at the peak of their success; they are considered a 1980s band by many rock critics. Thus their current hits, though new, may be seen as nostalgic. The Alfee have been able to sustain their fame by constant touring; their reputation as a live act still draws in audiences in their tens of thousands during their annual outdoor summer event. They perform an average of 94 live shows each year, outperforming many other more trendy acts. The Alfee are living symbols of nostalgia in the Japanese pop music scene.
Video ethnography and analysis5 The structure of ‘Love Never Dies’ includes an introduction, verses A and B, a chorus, and an instrumental solo section which repeat for the 5:44 minute duration of the song (see Table 8.1 for details). At the end of the song, the final chorus is repeated approximately three times; the first final chorus is followed by a key change. CD liner notes (LOVE 1996) state that the album’s instrumentation includes ‘electric and acoustic guitars’, ‘mandlin’ (sic), ‘bass’, ‘acoustic piano and synthesizer’, ‘synthesizer manipulate’, ‘drums’ and ‘percussion’ (see Table 8.1). The song starts strongly with full orchestration but quickly fades to a more restrained arrangement of voice and piano, later building in mood and emotion to the instrumental solo, the most dynamically intense (both emotionally and musically) section of the piece. There is another dynamic retreat in the A4 section, leading to a second building of dynamics and mood in the final chorus. There is a Western classical influence to the arrangement, evidenced by the acoustic guitar’s harp-like arpeggios and the staccato background vocals (‘la la la’). Sakurai, the bassist, takes the vocal lead with his clear tenor while the other two provide background vocal harmonies. The electric guitarist is also featured at different times in the video as pianist, showing his range of ability. The drummer and keyboard player, reflecting their subordinate status as ‘support musicians’ and not full band members, do not appear in the video. The video setting has a romanesque architectural style. The band members are dressed in white, as are the female models (one adult, one child) who appear
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Table 8.1 ‘Love Never Dies’ song structure Structure
Instrumentation
Vocals —
Lyric imagery
Introduction1
Full instrumentation
A1
Acoustic piano and bell Solo
Love, tears
A2
Add drums, synthesiser (strings) and electric guitar
Solo
Miracle, light from darkness, sorrow, promise to relieve lover’s worries
B1
Add acoustic guitar solo and organ flourish
Solo
Only one love in vocalist’s life
Chorus1
Full instrumentation
Main vocal sung in The promise of unison and harmony, protection, a love in Japanese and English that will not be defeated; ‘my love will never die’
Introduction2
As in I1
—
—
A3
As in A2
Solo
Winter imagery: her slender [shoulders] as ‘frozen’ wings
B2
As in B2 but with more pronounced drums
Solo
‘rest on my shoulder if you are tired’
Chorus2
As in C1
As in C1
As in C1, plus ‘I’ll make your dreams come true’
Instrumental
Full instrumentation, Background vocals featuring electric guitar during acoustic guitar solo and acoustic guitar solo solo (harp-like arpeggios)
Introduction3
As in I2 but with intricate drum fills
—
—
A4
Acoustic guitar and synthesiser (strings) only
Solo
Love, death, eternity ‘I would not let go of your hand’
Chorus to fade (repeat 3+ times)
As in C1; electric guitar slide precedes key change for second repetition
As in C1
As in C1 plus love, the adversity of rough winds and long roads
—
throughout the video. Other objects within view during the video include a white piano, white roses and white sheet music. The white imagery reflects the lyrical winter atmosphere (coinciding with the single’s January release). No other colours intrude on the dual scheme of white against a sky-blue background. The acoustic guitarist sits on a white bench, reminiscent of a church pew, as he placidly strums his guitar. The models and band members are primarily photographed looking up, to a source of light. The young woman, who weeps at the start of the video, soon smiles
134 Carolyn S. Stevens as she contemplates the light above her. A child, with similar features and dress to the adult model, appears sporadically. She holds a white balloon that also eventually takes our gaze upwards as it floats above her. During the course of the video, as emotions intensify, objects in the video are either upset or literally blown across the set: we see rose petals, water and sheet music scattered. The lyrics also employ religious images that emphasise the singer’s devotion. 6 In the first verse, he equates his love with ‘a miracle’ (kiseki), and claims that his love will fix everything in his beloved’s world, allowing her peace. Furthermore, his love, like that of Christ, transcends life itself: ‘if you were to sleep for eternity / my love would not die’ (eien no nemuri ni tsuko¯ tomo / boku no ai wa shinanai).7 The constant devotion of this man represents a romantic ideal, especially for those who have been hurt by the instability of real relationships. Several issues trouble the woman in the song: insomnia, an uncertain future and the rough road ahead of her. Yet the vocalist promises to shield her from these adversities. The lover acts as a buffer between the woman and a harsh world of reality, much like one of the psychological functions of Christianity, as a comfort to those in distress or pain. The centrepiece of the video is the virgin guitar, played by an androgynous man, dressed in vaguely old-fashioned, European-style clothing. He is also the only band member pictured in a non-musical performing role. He displayed as a romantic object as his image is repeatedly shown during the phrase, ‘my love will never die’. Takamizawa plays two guitars: the first the ‘virgin’ guitar with its neck formed in a cross; the other is designed after his ‘Flying A’ series, decorated in the style of an Austrian pipe organ. Both guitars are made by the manufacturing company ESP, with whom the lead guitarist has a contract to produce his own line of regular and speciality electric guitars. The virgin guitar becomes a metaphor for the woman’s hope for the future; the faults of her past relationships are excised, cleansed by the flowing water. She is given the prospect for a new romantic future as a virgin, ready to meet a new prince (probably in the shape of the lead guitarist). This message is further reiterated in the appearance of the child version of the model; the adult is returned to an unsullied state, but lets go of her childlike concerns (symbolised by the balloon that she releases). The inclusion of the child model is not necessarily a device to sexualise her; rather, the presence of the child ‘de-ages’ the adult model, making her more attractive not just to male viewers but also to female viewers. Since the 1970s, femininity in Japanese popular culture has been expressed in ideal forms as adolescent, or kawaii (cute). This follows the debate on sho¯joron, or theories regarding Japanese ‘young girls’ (who are young in body and/or in spirit only; see Kinsella 1995, and Treat 1996). Treat summarises the sho¯jo as attractive, and thus valorized, but [she] lacks libidinal agency of her own. While others may sexually desire the sho¯jo . . . the sho¯jo’s own sexual energy . . . is an energy not yet deployable in the heterosexual economy of adult life in Japan. But as a master sign for mass consumption, the sho¯jo is indeed of immediate and profitable use. (Treat 1996: 281)
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The child/adult heroine in the video is not only consumed by the viewers, but also represents consumption, making it even easier for the audience to identify with her as they share the same role in society.8 The use of the Virgin Mary guitar contrasts with other cases of Christian symbolism in Western pop/rock music, the most notable case being Madonna’s mid1980s personage as seen in the album and videos of Like a Virgin (Bradby 1992: 90) where Madonna, as the Virgin herself, is presented as traditional discourse to be interpreted and reinterpreted.9 The Virgin is still a symbol of femininity, as traditionally noted, but with a twist: women today can choose to be neither virgins nor mothers . . . Without reverting to the traditional constrictions that virginity and motherhood placed on women’s lives, it seems important not to give up the strength of these positions . . . What Madonna’s work in Like a Virgin shows is that these strengths are available and can be appropriated at the level of discourse . . . Visual meaning certainly enters in here. How could it not, when one considers the whole history of the Madonna as a silent visual representation? . . . In sexualizing the Virgin, Madonna has also allowed her to speak. (Bradby 1992: 94, emphasis original) The Alfee’s Virgin is, however, silent. She does not speak, nor is she empowered to free herself from her demons. She relies on a man to shelter her and bring her peace. The Alfee video text allows us to comment on theories of modernity in a nonWestern context. Miller’s concise treatise on Hegel, Habermas, Simmel Berman and others sets out an ethnographic approach to these theories (1994: 58–81). Miller notes certain characteristics of modernity: the ‘new concept of presentness, one which takes its sense from an opposition to the past and the future’ (1994: 61). Furthermore, he notes the rising romanticism in Europe during the emerging modern period as an anecdote to the anomie and disenchantment felt when modern society, following the route of rationality, rejects tradition and custom (64). In the Alfee video, the opposing of past and future is collapsed and the future is seen as Westernised, while the pastness of the European symbols romanticises meaning. However, the disenchantment with the world is not merely a rejection of capitalism and bureaucracy; more precisely, it is a disillusionment with the way women are treated in the public sphere. This song concentrates on women’s emotional reaction to the world and their need for comfort (‘No matter how hard the wind blows, I’ll shield you with my hand / . . . No matter how faraway tomorrow seems, or how rough the road may be’ (donna ni hageshii kaze ga yuku te saigiro¯ to . . . / donna ni ashita ga to¯ku tsurai michinori de mo). The singer proclaims that he will ‘protect only you with an unshakeable love’ (dare ni mo makenai ai de kimi dake o mamoro¯). These lyrics are rather conservative: women out in the ‘real world’ need and want consolation from a male protector. Traditional male patriarchy clothed in Western raiment appears modern (one can imagine that the impact of the band dressed in kimono, playing a guitar shaped like a bodhisattva, would be quite different!) but the message is essentially the same: romance is firmly rooted in a patriarchal system, located in the past. The
136 Carolyn S. Stevens avoidance of traditional Japanese symbolism allows the concept to free itself from negative stereotypes of patriarchal oppression; the Western symbolism allows it to move forward as moral. Romance gives women the best of both worlds: access to the public sphere and comfort when this environment is too harsh.
Behind-the-scenes analysis Despite the abundance of religious symbols, the video’s message is primarily emotional: despite one’s unluckiness in love, belief in the Alfee will take away one’s sadness and give one hope for a new future. In interviews with a manager of the Alfee in 1997, their production views are expressed: [The video] reflects the ideas of [the songwriter and leader of] the band, Takamizawa. Anyway, the lyrics . . . love . . . never giving up on one’s dreams . . . never dying . . . and then, that guitar, ESP’s masterpiece. They built it at the request of Takamizawa who is interested in European art. In Japan, [this kind of video] could be seen as religious, and people could have criticized us, so precautions were necessary. I guess in a Western country this would have been even more so. The guitar as the main image in the video . . . [The camera passing from] the girl to the woman, from one member to another, shows images changing one by one (there aren’t any shots of the three members together). [We did that to show] even though time passes, the love between people and their dreams don’t change – all the regular stuff! From the technical viewpoint, to get the full contrast between the true hues of blue and white, we shot it using 35 mm film, and I think the colors really came out well. Even though it is a low-key video, it was unexpectedly expensive to make! [When asked about ‘precautions’] Anything the Alfee produce that has to do with religion could be misunderstood. That’s because in a country like Japan, there are great differences in individual religious opinions, and there is a high possibility that we could become targets of criticism. This is especially true in recent years, because of the proliferation of new religions, and this developed because of ‘that incident’ [the 1995 Aum Supreme Truth Cult’s sarin gas attack]. [Because] Christianity is so embedded in Japanese popular culture (as fashionable), I believe it is unlikely that [the Alfee] would be criticized for using a cross. Even though there may be strange Christian sects abroad, I think it’s just a case of Japanese people longing after things western? There’s an old saying: seiyo¯ kabure [anything Western is good]. Well, that’s all it is. The above quotation is a composite of three consecutive e-mail messages from the manager. Interesting is the flow of ideas. When first asked about the video’s production, he was more concerned with articulating the aesthetics and the technology
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involved. The potential for religious meaning was ruled out, as ‘Japanese people view religion differently than Christians: except for funerals and New Year’s, we don’t attend religious functions regularly’. The focus is on love and hope, which, when pressed, he later admitted to be ‘Christian-like’. He did not see those concepts as integrally opposed to any other love song produced by other Japanese artists. Only later did he admit that there were other meanings attached to those symbols, and he then attributed the distancing of meaning to a developing distrust in the Japanese religious sphere, as illustrated by public reaction to the Aum case. There appears to be a demarcation between Japanese religions (which might be dangerous) and Christianity (which is exotic, but established and ‘safe’). This is particularly interesting when juxtaposed against ideas of past, present and future. Japanese religions do not address the troubled woman’s needs. Instead they represent, and, in light of the Aum incident, even accentuate, the instability of postmodern life. The placing of Christian symbols in the past further neutralises them, stressing the romantic image and playing down the normative aspects of organized religion.
Orientalism and Occidentalism In the past, Westerners have found Asian expressions of art and music exotic, and translated them as Orientalist elements in their own traditions. In this video there is a borrowing of European symbols to conjure up an emotional atmosphere that is far removed from the immediate world of the viewers. After Japan’s self-imposed (but only semi-complete) isolation from international exchange from the 1600s to the mid-1880s, anything from the West was seen as ‘modern’. Though Japan has been steadily importing ideas, technology and objects from the outside world, one may argue that the long period of isolation contributed to the nineteenth-century notion that accompanied seiyo¯ kabure: ‘Japanese = traditional; Western = new’. However, in this video the western symbols are not contemporary, removing the milieu from the present. Historical and foreign elements here serve the function of distancing the video from current society, making it a more accessible fantasy for viewers. Marilyn Ivy seeks to find ‘remainders of modernity within contemporary Japan’ (Ivy 1995: 8), and notes that this exercise contains a ‘recognition of continuity that is coterminous with its negation’ (Ivy 1995: 10). In other words, the search for modernity automatically brings out concepts of tradition. Interestingly, this video makes use of tradition to convey ideal romantic fantasy, yet it is not a Japanese tradition. The European tradition represented in the video is equally powerful in defining Japanese modernity, as it not only juxtaposes past with present but also the ‘Occident’ with the ‘Orient’. Viewers of this video not only take a step back from reality in penetrating another culture but they also transverse epochs, symbolising the ultimate in modern escapism: travel both through space and time. To explain the utilisation of Occidentalist symbols using the argument that rock and pop music are Western traditions, and therefore the association with European symbols is appropriate, is too simplistic.10 There are more subtle combinations of meaning to consider. For example, one highlight of the Alfee fan’s cultural calendar is their three-day concert series held at the Budo¯kan, on 22, 23 and 24 December –
138 Carolyn S. Stevens Christmas Eve. The concert on the 24th is rife with Western Christmas tropes such as angels and Santas; one year the Little Match Girl made an appearance. The choice of venue, however, is always the same. The Budo¯kan, traditionally an arena for martial arts, is commonly used for popular music acts, both from Japan and abroad – another interesting juxtaposition of past and present, and East and West. What accounts for Christianity’s success in penetrating the Japanese market? Christian-styled romance as business has proved a success, as the bridal market is currently valued at five trillion yen (Minami 1996: 9). It can be argued that it is merely fashion that has spurred the trend, but one may also read this choice as an expression of partial if not total liberation from patriarchal, collective models reflected in Japanese traditional ceremonies, if even only for one day. The focus is, arguably, more on the individual. The Western observer may scoff at this interpretation, when viewing the ceremony from the perspective of Western feminism, but a Christian wedding is a radical change from the Shinto wedding, where words such as love are not uttered; furthermore, the Shinto pledge unites two families, not two individuals. While the groom does read aloud from a ‘prepared text’, the bride simply ‘speaks her own name’ (Japan 1993: 1694). The more active role of the bride in the Christian ceremony had an impact on the creative imagination of young Japanese couples. This reprises Hegel’s characterisation of the rise of modernity as a ‘quest for freedom’, but Miller notes that there is a complex struggle between ‘freedom from’ something and ‘freedom to’ do something else (Miller 1994: 72). The ‘modern’ Japanese bride may be ‘free from’ certain traditional rites of collective expression, but Edwards notes that despite the postwar legal changes that theoretically allow the Japanese to consider themselves more autonomous and individuated, concepts of gender inequality have not been completely erased from the ritual vocabulary (Edwards 1989: 144–5). Another desirable aspect is display: the bride’s act of walking down the aisle was appealing to many young women. Though display is part of the Japanese wedding reception, the actual ceremony is performed in private, with only the family members of the bride and groom present. A public audience is appealing to those who are looking for external recognition of their new roles as married adults. Previously, display in the Japanese wedding had to do with community presentation of family resources; today’s wedding still consumes publicly, but this time, with narcissism, in line with hyper-consumptive patterns in Japan that are concerned with the body and the self. However deeply the Western concept of the white wedding has penetrated Japanese popular culture, the idea that it is a comparatively foreign practice still remains. Edwards notes that he was warned by an informant: ‘“What you should do”, he said, on hearing my plan to study weddings, “is find some remote rural village where they still have the real wedding . . .”’ (Edwards 1989: 143, emphasis original). However, I would argue, this idea does not prevent the Christianised wedding in Japan from further permeating Japanese culture; instead, I would suggest it allows it to co-exist without threatening tradition. Its existence reifies traditional customs by serving as ‘other’.
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Nostalgic Christianity in Japan Nostalgia can also trigger romantic feelings. Marilyn Ivy’s statement (1995: 26) that modernity in Japan rests on a recognition that ‘we Japanese are modern but we have kept our tradition’ is important to understanding the function of the emotion of nostalgia in Japanese culture. It is vital to the construction of continuity between and within generations during a time of tumultuous social and technological changes. It maintains a status quo, if only in people’s memories and not in reality, which is of comfort to those troubled by alienation in an urban, industrialised society. Not surprisingly, sentimentality about the past is a common theme in Japanese popular music. Christine Yano (1995: 20) has discussed at length the role of nostalgia in the Japanese musical genre of enka, and claims that nostalgia has been used in popular culture as ‘an affective shaping of nationhood in Japan in the 1990s’. Boundaries are put on the past by both spatial and temporal means in the name of furusato, or one’s home village. In doing so, furusato becomes a safe locus for pastness, with nostalgia the buffer between then and now, between there and here. (Yano 1994: 77) To the Alfee, furusato means Meiji Gakuin University, the institution all the band members attended in the early to mid-1970s. This university is one of the oldest Christian universities in Japan. Its campus contains several Western-style nineteenth-century structures that have recently been designated as national trust buildings. Though Christian imagery continues to dominate the campus landscape through chapel towers and daily lunchtime sermons, the university has dropped its requirement that academic staff profess to be Christian, and currently about 1–3 per cent of the Meiji Gakuin students proclaim to be Christian (in line with national averages). Meiji Gakuin retains its Christian heritage without transferring it to its community. Yet its advertisements in the local subway and train stations quote the Bible as an appropriate slogan for the institution (the English phrase ‘and the truth shall set you free’ is set against the background of the college chapel spire). Christianity is part of the school’s marketing appeal. Romanticised memories of the Alfee furusato, Meiji Gakuin, make up much of the symbolism in their self-penned lyrics. Longing for the past, the idealism of youth and a lost love: these are themes reminiscent of indigenous Japanese music, plus the purity of devotion that characterises Christian movements. The Christian university in Japan becomes a locus for intersecting images of youth’s expansion of intellect and consciousness, self-reflection and first love. Further examples of explicit references to the emotions of schooldays can be found in Alfee compositions such as ‘Kaze ni Fukarete – Rockdom’ (Blown by the Wind – Rockdom, 1986). Other songs such as ‘Swinging Generation’ (1986), ‘Owari-naki no Message’ (Endless Message, 1987), and ‘Sprechchor ni Mimi o Fusaide’ (I Close My Ears to Sprechchor, 1992) make explicit references to campus life. In general, sad memories of lost teenage lovers tend to outweigh happy recollections in these songs, but youth is not wasted.
140 Carolyn S. Stevens The composer treasures this part of his life for its purity of feeling and freedom of expression. Youth, not yet bound by the social obligations of adulthood, are told to make the most of this special time, and to remember it always as the one period when a Japanese person is unfettered enough to be ‘blown by the wind’. Marilyn Ivy (1995: 56–7) contrasts certain forms of nostalgia in Japanese popular culture as having no ‘explicit appeal to return, no acute sense of loss, and no reference to embodied memory’ with a Jamesonian ‘properly modernist nostalgia’, with its associated intimation of loss and the desire to recover what has been lost. What are the Alfee mourning in their treatises on nostalgia? Adolescence is painful, thus not an emotional state that should be prolonged; yet youth is the one period in an individual’s life where intellectual, moral and ethical issues are addressed with vigour and sincerity. It is valued for its lessons learned but the future calls one forward. Purity is lost, but the dulling of the senses in maturity (and modernity) makes for an easier transition into adulthood. The video addresses nostalgia in this way. The return of the woman to virginity is one device that brings her back to the pure state as created and maintained through nostalgia. But the lover who will protect her from harm manages any lingering dangers of adolescence. Like a Christian convert, all the woman has to do is believe in her lover’s power to make every thing right. If Meiji Gakuin represents nostalgia and romance to the band and their followers, Christianity as a theological tradition plays a small part in the creation and consumption of the Alfee’s metaphors – as small a part as the practice of Christianity plays in the lives of the majority of Meiji Gakuin students. In both cases, Christian symbols and ideas are presented to the public but consumers are not enjoined to internalise them. If this is the case, then how is Christianity in Japan viewed by nonChristian Japanese? Christianity can be seen as romantic in many ways. One of the most romantic images is a legend from Aomori Prefecture, where after the Crucifixion, Jesus came to Japan, ‘married, died and was buried’ on a grassy knoll (Picken 1983: 19). Another such image of Christianity is ironically rooted in an unromantic history of martyrdom.11 More than 3,000 Japanese Christians are believed to have been martyred in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (Japan 1993: 199) and this is passionately recounted in modern literature such as Chinmoku (Silence) and ‘Unzen’ by Christian novelist Endo¯ Shusaku. In the short story, Endo¯ relates a contemporary tourist’s visit to Nagasaki (where many Japanese were martyred). The reader is moved by the narrator’s impression of the 1629–31 torture of Japanese Christians by the city magistrate. The tourist’s own faith is tested as he imagines those who had to choose between death and apostasy. Explicit in the author’s accounts is the admiration for the historical figures’ purity of spirit and devotion, perhaps unattainable in the postmodern age where opportunities to prove one’s spiritual worth are not so easily come by. This notion was echoed in my own experience visiting the site. In 1991, I found the souvenir shops next door to a memorial to the 26 Japanese Christians (martyred in 1597 by order of Toyotomi Hideyoshi). They sold salt and pepper shakers and toothpick holders shaped like smiling nuns in pastel-coloured habits: Christianity on sale. One’s faith is not only tested but also decorates the home.
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In the late nineteenth century, Christianity was at first celebrated, and then discouraged and persecuted. Conversion in the Meiji period occurred mainly in the elite classes: those who had contact with Western diplomats, educators, industrialists and financiers. Christian institutions of higher education established after this period include: To¯hoku Gakuin, Meiji Gakuin, Aoyama Gakuin, Kanto¯ Gakuin, Kwansei Gakuin, Doshisha, and Jo¯chi Daigaku (Sophia University), among others. Christianity developed an artistic and intellectual image: almost all literature in the Meiji period was published by Christian publications, including books, magazines and periodicals (Kishimoto 1956: 293). This subtle and erudite image is supported by the claim that ‘at present, Christianity in Japan is characterized by unobtrusive activity, with an emphasis on education’ (Japan 1993: 200).12 Politically, Christian churches in Japan traditionally opposed the ‘cultural hegemony’ of the imperial system and the Shinto nationalist religion (Powles 1987: 10). This is not unimportant to the discussion of interpersonal relationships, as the traditional ethical system, based on Confucianism and patriarchal modes, was firmly rooted in this ‘cultural hegemony’. However, there were similarities between the church and the Japanese state, as both were ‘authoritarian, paternalistic and male-dominated’ (ibid.). Yet somehow this new set of ethical rules was thought to be less repressive than the old, perhaps for the only reason that they were ‘new’, giving a new twist to the concept of tradition and modernity: even the same ideology, clothed in foreign dress, could be seen as ‘modern’. Japanese Christianity in contemporary popular culture has incorporated some aspects of the religious tradition (art, music, and concepts of love and hope), while omitting expressions of political identity and self-reflection. These social and politic issues are not completely disassociated with the image; the morality behind the image reinforces its romantic power.
Conclusion The Alfee and their fans may be interested in modernity, but they are not modernists. This video does not present a conscious creation of a modernist fantasy. Rather, traditional Japanese views, encased in traditional Western guise, become a comforting, ill-defined and vague modernity promising hope for a brighter future, as characterised in Miller’s statement: ‘Modernity is more often evoked than described’ (1994: 291). We can surmise that romance is, more often than not, first experienced as a student. For some Japanese, including the performers of this video, the campus was a Christian one. This leads to a conflation of images and emotions: nostalgia for one’s youth, the campus chapel inevitably calling forth the image of a wedding – using these images makes for the construction of a powerful message. But if Christian symbols are used to convey a perceived ‘Western’ or ‘modern’ version of romance, what is this ‘Western definition’ of romance? It is a protective, forgiving love, for those that have been hurt or damaged in some way. It is for those who do not fit into the mainstream: like Japanese Christians, they are ‘off the beaten track’. They may be ‘old-fashioned’, unable to keep up with changing cyberspace trends.13
142 Carolyn S. Stevens Or they may just be unable to sustain or establish a relationship. Either way, there is something in going backwards in time that resolves conflict in the present. Romance remains something distant from the present but it is something desirable today. It is a conflation of both tradition (but not one’s own) and modernity (anyone’s). There is hope for the future in romance with someone who looks like a foreigner, but who sings in Japanese. This represents an escape from a disappointing Japanese society, yet it is a safe one. It is pure, unsophisticated and you do not have to speak a foreign language to go. Fiske writes that most music videos are made with no meaningful connection to the words of the lyric, but are cut to the beat of the music . . . Style is a recycling of images that wrenches them out of the original context that enabled them to make sense and reduces them to free-floating signifiers whose only signification is that they are free . . . Of course, their images are images of patriarchal capitalism, but they are also signifiers distanced from their ideological signifieds. (Fiske 1987: 250) Christianity’s specific contributions to the educational system and its teaching of social equality are two historical reasons which allow its symbols to be manipulated. Japanese Christian history is viewed romantically for its past persecutions and as exotic for its association with technologically and artistically advanced societies. Its affinity with the past (a ‘golden era’ over 400 years ago), with the West and with freedom, and with the difficulties and rewards of youth, not surprisingly makes Christianity a workable ingredient in a pop song recipe. And it worked: this single reached number four on the national charts in February 1996, and was the Alfee’s twenty-eighth single in the top ten since they first hit the charts in 1983 (Oricon 1996).
Notes I gratefully acknowledge the helpful comments of Ned Rossiter, Allen Chun, Shu¯hei Hosokawa, A. Kimi Coaldrake and Christine R. Yano. I also thank former and current staff at Project III Co. Ltd for their cooperation. Lastly, I am grateful to Takamizawa Toshihiko for giving his permission to reproduce his lyrics and images of the Alfee, and for arranging copyright permission from Mr. Yo¯suke Miyake of Pony Canyon. 1 Sakai argues for the possibility that non-Western modernity may differ in its expression and tone without falling into the trap of Nihonjinron-style Japanese uniqueness. Historical context is utilised to illuminate the ‘geopolitical configuration’ which permeates definitions of modernity (Sakai 1989: 93). 2 See Stevens (1999) for further investigations of the Alfee’s manipulation of symbolic images. 3 For a detailed history and analysis of Japanese music television, see Stevens and Hosokawa (2001). 4 Names are given in the Japanese style: family name first, given name second. 5 This structural analysis is adapted from Bradby (1992: 80–1). 6 Words and music by Takamizawa Toshihiko.
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7 All translations are by the author. 8 While Treat believes the sho¯jo’s sexual energy cannot yet be ‘deployed’ and it is therefore redirected into capitalist consumption, empirical research shows that some are already ‘deploying’. Merry White (1994: 170) notes that about 60 per cent of Japanese teenagers are sexually active by the age of fifteen; therefore high school or college students are, more often than not, involved in romantic and sexual relationships. The success of television dramas such as Ko¯ko¯kyo¯shi (High School Teacher, TBS, 1993) further highlights the sexualisation of students, suggesting that Treat’s perceived non-sexuality of the sho¯jo is a larger societal ideal. Meanwhile, the active pursuit of romance and sexual relationships by Japanese youth represents an ‘on-the-ground’ phenomenon, not necessarily condoned by mainstream society. Though it has been argued that sexuality in Japan may be deemed unconnected to ‘romantic’ relationships, this kind of emotional separation is increasingly irrelevant to young people: the close association of sexuality (sometimes hetero-, sometimes homo-) with romance seen in ‘girls’ comics’ or sho¯jo manga, shows this is no longer the case for young women. 9 Fiske is more cynical regarding Madonna’s early image: ‘Postmodern style asserts its ownership of all images. As Madonna steals lacy gloves and crucifixes, so postmodernism “plunders the image-bank”’ (1987: 254). 10 Christian symbolism is seen most often in Japanese popular culture on two occasions: at Christmas and at weddings. Though the practice of a family Christmas (focused on giftgiving to children) does exist, for the most part popular focus is on the romantic Christmas, where presents are exchanged between lovers on Christmas Eve. Apart from the date, few sacred symbols find their way into the Japanese Christmas vernacular. Christmas trees and Santa Clauses far outnumber creches and crucifixes in Japanese department store displays. 11 In 1600 Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first shogun, prohibited Christianity. To consolidate his power he used religious themes borrowed from Buddhism, Confucianism and other indigenous religious traditions to enshrine his own dynasty alongside the imperial line as natural leaders of Japan. The second period of persecution of Japanese Christians occurred in imperial Japan. Christians were persecuted for their quiet but steady criticism of Japan’s role in the Pacific War, the imperial system and their potential ties with the ‘enemy’. Despite the fact that the other two Axis powers were also Christian nations, many of the missionaries and Christian activists in Japan at that time were North American and British. The postwar ‘de-deification’ of the Japanese emperor and the constitutional separation of church and state were major steps forward in allowing free expression to Japanese Christians. 12 For a more detailed contemporary overview of Japanese churches, see Kumazawa and Swain (1992). 13 This is not so incongruous with public images of Alfee fans. They are seen as consumers who cling to a pop group that has seen better days. For a less than flattering picture of ageing Alfee fans, see Arashiyama (1998).
9
Japanese popular music in Hong Kong What does TK present? Masashi Ogawa
With the rise of a popular music industry in Hong Kong, the influx of popular music from elsewhere has had a significant role in Hong Kong’s popular music scene. Similarly, Japanese popular music has had a dominant effect since the 1980s. However, there has been considerable variation in the extent to which such transnational flows have occurred over the past few decades. This chapter examines contemporary representations of Japanese songs and singers in terms of differences in reception and production between Hong Kong listeners and those Japanese music-makers who attempt to promote their music in a Hong Kong market. Initially this chapter will review the history of popular music in Hong Kong, focusing on processes of flow and how the image of Japanese popular music was presented and created precisely through such transnational flows. I will then discuss the kind of characteristics that have defined the Hong Kong popular music industry in recent decades. Following this, I examine the marketing strategies of Testuya Komuro, who is one of a few Japanese music-makers trying to promote their music to the pan-Asian market. To do so, the chapter considers his first concert to the public in Hong Kong in 1997 and some of the effects it had. In so doing, the differences between what he tried to offer to Hong Kong audiences and what they were expecting from his performance are highlighted. Finally, the chapter seeks to determine the central factors contributing to differences between producers and audiences.
Hong Kong’s popular music history The roots of popular music in Hong Kong The development of the Chinese popular music industry can be traced back as far as the 1920s in Shanghai. In that time and place one was able to identify composers and lyricists producing music for primarily commercial purposes; hence their work constitutes a form of popular music. The typical music style of Chinese pop songs in this period is now called Si Doi Kuk in Cantonese. Many scholars and critics see the typical music style of Chinese pop songs in this period as the root or prototype of the Chinese pop song (Wong 1997: 18). The songs in this style were sung in Mandarin in a traditional Chinese minor key. Furthermore, these songs drew on aspects of Western music, influenced as they were by concession culture in Shanghai at the
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time. This hybrid genre was a very popular one in the 1940s. Distribution was helped considerably by the early establishment of a record industry, enabling the widespread sale of Shanghai pop songs throughout China. The Baak Doi record company (now Hong Kong EMI) was established by a British merchant in the 1930s in Shanghai. It held about 90 per cent of the market share of Mandarin pop song records from the late 1930s to the early 1940s in China (Wong 1997: 21). Hong Kong popular music scene, 1950s to 1960s The political turmoil in China at the end of the 1940s defined an epoch in Hong Kong’s popular music industry. In response to the turmoil, the main centre of production for these types of songs shifted to Hong Kong, with Baak Doi moving their operations from Shanghai in 1952. Large numbers of refugees from mainland China were active listeners to these styles of songs. As a result, Shanghai-style popular music was mainstream in the Hong Kong popular music scene until the mid1960s. At the time, the tunes from Cantonese opera (traditional opera from the Gungdong region of China) were popular as well. With the cultural influence of British colonialism and the development of radio broadcasting, Western music was also popular, particularly amongst Hong Kong youth. Some locally produced pop songs which were sung in Cantonese (the regional Chinese language spoken in Hong Kong) also emerged during this period. However, even in the 1960s, the quality of these songs was considered very low, and lower-class local Chinese were the main listeners to these songs. Thus the image of locally made Cantonese pop songs was constructed as low-quality music best suited for entertaining the poorer masses (Wong 1997: 23). In the late 1960s refugees from the mainland became used to living in Hong Kong and they began to regard Hong Kong as a living place rather than a place for temporary refuge. They started perceiving urban Hong Kong as a cultural centre and their idea of the mainland as a nostalgic cultural centre started to fade. As these refugees were the primary listeners to the Shanghai-style pop songs, the songs lost much of their attraction (Wong 1997: 26–7). In this period many local bands such as the Lotus and Roman and the Four Steps became popular. They are noteworthy for the extent to which they copied Western music, mainly British and American songs, and for singing in English. This was the first time that local Hong Kong musicians dominated the Hong Kong hit chart. The reasons why this happened can be related to the shift in the perception of Hong Kong, as described above. The youth generation who were growing up in Hong Kong at the time, and in particular those who received their higher education under the colonial system, were not attracted to Shanghai-style pop songs like previous generations. They needed other types of music that they could identify with. Therefore they were attracted to Western music which was widespread at the time. For instance, in 1964 the Beatles had a concert in Hong Kong. Although Hong Kong performers copied Western songs and sang in English, this boom can be seen as preparing the foundation for the rise of locally made Cantonese pop songs in Hong Kong’s popular music scene in the period that followed.
146 Masashi Ogawa The 1970s The 1970s was the period in which Hong Kong people recognised the presence of locally made Cantonese popular music. Prior to this, as I have discussed, there were Mandarin songs and English songs covered by local Hong Kong singers. But no locally made Cantonese pop song (that is, one that did not cover other songs and was sung by a local Hong Kong singer) made a significant impact on the Hong Kong popular music scene. The song ‘Tai Siu Yan Yun’ sung by Sindra as the first TV drama theme song in Cantonese was the first smash hit of a locally made Cantonese song in 1973. This was followed by Samuel Hui’s ‘Gwai Ma Seung Sing’ and ‘Seung Sing Ching Go’; the former was the main theme song of the movie produced by Samuel’s brother Michel Hui, and the latter featured in the movie as well. The success of these songs prompted an altering of people’s ideas about locally made Cantonese songs. In particular, the success of Samuel Hui’s songs was the most significant in shifting people’s recognition of locally made popular culture in Hong Kong. The Cantonese song which had been deemed as lower-class entertainment was sung by Samuel Hui, a graduate of the University of Hong Kong, one of the most prestigious universities in Hong Kong at the time. The movie was directed by his brother Michael Hui, who is a graduate of another prestigious university in Hong Kong, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Furthermore, their family moved from mainland China in the early 1950s and they became successful in the entertainment world following hardship in their youth. Samuel Hui sang about the hardships of life for ordinary people in a humorous way. This attention to a broader collective experience was welcomed by listeners at a time when Hong Kong’s local identity was burgeoning. These cultural aspects helped elevate the image of Cantonese songs, which had been deemed as lower-class entertainment in contrast with English or Mandarin songs in the 1960s. This shift also corresponded to wider social movements at the time. In the early 1970s the movement to make Cantonese an official language gained momentum. In 1974 Cantonese became one of two official languages in Hong Kong. From this period Canto-pop – locally made Cantonese pop songs – started making inroads into the mainstream of Hong Kong’s popular music scene (Ogawa 2001: 123). In this period many of the theme songs of TV dramas were smash hits too. This was the period when many Japanese TV dramas, dubbed in Cantonese, were broadcast. This was due to the lack of production capability in the Hong Kong TV industry, which started broadcasting in 1967. They tended to buy more Japanese dramas than Western ones as the former were relatively cheap and their settings were more familiar to viewers in Hong Kong. Some of the theme songs for these Japanese dramas were packaged as Cantonese cover versions and became hits. This in turn influenced a boom in Japanese pop music in the 1980s, which will be described in the next section (Ogawa 2001: 123). The 1980s During this period Japanese songs, both in their original form and in cover versions, started playing a significant role in Hong Kong’s popular music scene. In particular,
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the presence of original Japanese songs had become very prominent by the mid1980s. Several radio programmes playing only Japanese pop songs in their original version were broadcast. Many Japanese singers became very popular in Hong Kong. Even today I come across the people of this generation who listened to these Japanese pop songs in their youth, and they speak about Japanese popular culture at that time with a great sense of nostalgia. Many cover versions of Japanese songs were produced. For instance, ‘Yuyake no Uta’, originally sung by Masahiko Kondo, was covered by four different singers at the same time in 1989 (Ogawa 2001: 124) Several factors contributed to this rise in the popularity of Japanese songs. First, the fact that the listeners had already become familiar with Japanese songs through viewing Japanese TV dramas helped foster their interest. Second, Hong Kong listeners to popular music at the time were tired of the musical style of Canto-pop, which was pretty formulaic. Third, the human resources – creativity in particular – of the industry in Hong Kong did not catch up with advances in production technology and the direction of consumers’ tastes. Despite the fact that the technology and patterns of consumption allowed the industry to make a lot more records and CDs than in previous periods, the creative capacity of the industry was not enough to meet the demand. In addition, during this period the commercial music industry shifted its sales strategy from a ‘single record-centred’ to an ‘album-centred’ approach. This meant that they needed to produce a higher quantity of musical pieces than before for one record or CD production. Originally Japanese cover versions were used to fill this gap, though they never featured as the main song of an album. Despite this, listeners found the Japanese covers more appealing, and this led to a rise in their popularity. Responding to this demand, the industry treated Japanese cover versions as a centrepiece. This led to the listeners developing a greater interest in the original versions and the singers (Ogawa 2001: 124). A number of music critics point out that the typical Japanese pop song melody line is well suited to Asian listeners, particularly to Chinese listeners. They argue that the typical melody line of Japanese pop songs employs a kind of pentatonic tone similar to the melody line in Canto-pop compared with the melody line of Western counterparts. Often the popularity of a piece of popular music is explained in terms of it achieving the right balance of newness, or strangeness, and familiarity. If it is too different from the familiar style of music, it will not attract listeners. On the other hand, if it is too similar to the familiar style, it will not provide enough stimulus for listeners. Rather, it will make them bored. In this sense, although the listeners to Canto-pop at this period were tired of the pattern of Canto-pop’s melody lines, Western melody lines were perceived as being too different or strange. By comparison, a Japanese melody line offered the right balance of newness and familiarity. For instance, critics point out that the Japanese song ‘Ru Ju’, a song covered in China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Indonesia, Burma, Vietnam, Thailand and even in Turkey, has a melody line typical of this blend of the new with the familiar (Ogawa 2001: 124). Several media magazines, such as City Magazine, heavily promoted the Japanese lifestyle as the lifestyle of the middle class, which was expanding in Hong Kong at the time. This appropriation of the Japanese lifestyle as the desired middle-class lifestyle enhanced people’s interest in Japanese popular culture in general.
148 Masashi Ogawa For a short period in the latter half of the 1980s, local bands, such as Beyond Taichi and Grass Hopper, became very popular. They were distinctive from others at the time in the sense that they played their own originally produced music. Curiously, they tried to tag a social message to their music. This was a particularly distinctive change, as the music scene at the time was heavily emphasising love songs and ballads. This could be seen as the burgeoning of the backlash against an overemphasis on cover versions, particularly cover versions of Japanese songs, which occurred in next period. The 1990s In the first half of the 1990s original songs became a trend. This can be seen as a backlash to too much of an emphasis on cover versions. In 1995, Chet Chat 903, a very popular music radio programme in Hong Kong, announced that it would broadcast only original songs as a change from the previous trend that overemphasised cover versions. This was indirectly triggered by the death of Wong Ga Kway in 1993, who was the lead singer of the Beyond. This band was tired of Hong Kong’s popular music scene and they started working in the Japanese popular music scene. Wong died in a TV studio accident in Japan. Many fans of the band and people concerned with the Hong Kong popular music scene viewed the death as being indirectly triggered by an overemphasis on commercialism in Hong Kong music at the time. They blamed the Hong Kong popular music industry for not trying to provide the sort of supportive environment where young talent could grow. Rather, for the purpose of seeking fast financial returns, the industry had relied on the production of cover versions. After this incident various kinds of campaigns to promote young talent in Hong Kong were run. This resulted in a huge decline in the number of CD releases of cover songs in 1995 (Hara 1996: 152–7). In the latter half of this period, the production of cover versions of Japanese pop songs was not as large as the 1980s. However, the percentage of cover versions in the total number of CDs released in Hong Kong is fairly high in comparison to markets elsewhere in the world. At the same time, many Japanese singers and their original songs became popular in Hong Kong. These singers and their songs became popular more or less simultaneously in Hong Kong and in Japan. For instance, until recently most CDs of Japanese original music sold in retail outlets were imported ones and were more expensive than locally made ones. But nowadays many CDs which become popular in Japan are locally pressed two weeks to a month after release in Tokyo. Surprisingly there are a few people who prefer buying imported CDs to locally pressed ones, despite the fact that the former are more expensive. Several of my informants suggested some of the reasons why: Japanese CDs are perceived to be of better sound quality; these listeners want a CD as soon as it has been released (suggesting a correlation between a perceived ‘authenticity’ and a diminished temporal proximity accompanied with a spatio-cultural exteriority in terms of the purchase of the commodity object); jacket designs in ‘original’ versions are
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supposedly better; and a bonus version of the originals are understood as more worthwhile to listen to. So original Japanese songs are maintaining a firm position in the popular music hit charts in Hong Kong. Along with the reasons given for the popularity of Japanese pop songs in the 1980s, the following points can explain their popularity in the 1990s. First of all, at this time the industry did not initiate the flow of originals, as was the case in earlier periods. This can be partially explained by the widespread practice of pirate VCDs (video compact discs) of Japanese drama series. Aided by technological advances, pirate VCDs started being distributed in the Hong Kong market three to four days after the programme was broadcast in Japan. Even after the government started seriously trying to crack down on this kind of piracy, these VCDs, both legal and illegal, were items of popular consumption among Hong Kong youth. In the Japanese popular music scene these days, many CD singles sales try to make ‘tie-ups’ or links with drama series. Often half of the songs in the top ten charts are dual packaged as tie-up songs. Thus, in viewing Japanese TV drama series, Hong Kong listeners have become familiar with many of the original Japanese hit songs. With the widespread use of advanced media technologies such as cable TV and the internet, Japanese popular music has become much more widely available for listeners in Hong Kong. With the advent of these technologies, consumer choice for listeners has become much wider. As the consumer market in Hong Kong is smaller than Japan, the industry in Hong Kong cannot afford to diversify the supply. This presents a paradox between industry and audiences in that consumers tend to look for commodities, such as Japanese songs, in a more diverse market and will willingly purchase such products at the expense of local industries. Summary of Hong Kong’s popular music history The trend of popular music in Hong Kong has been flowing within twin frameworks. One aspect of these frameworks is whether the song was a cover version or not. The other is whether the lyrics were in Cantonese or not. For instance, in the early 1980s the Cantonese cover versions of Japanese pop songs were popular in a local market. However, in the late 1990s, the original versions of Japanese songs, which were not cover versions and not sung in Cantonese, became popular. In the early 1990s, Hong Kong Canto-pop, which is original and Cantonese, became popular as the backlash against the trend of the previous period. These frameworks are directly connected with the listener’s image of Hong Kong-produced Cantonese songs as locally made culture. Until the 1970s popular songs were looked down upon as lower-class entertainment. However, in the 1970s they became the mainstream. In the 1980s, because the listeners became tired of the stagnant music patterns of Canto-pop, they again looked down on Canto-pop and preferred Japanese pop songs to their cover versions. After that, original Canto-pop songs became popular again. In other words, the trend has been one characterised by an oscillation between stigma and pride in original Cantonese songs as representative of locally made culture (Ogawa 2001: 126).
150 Masashi Ogawa
Characteristics of the recent Hong Kong popular music industry In this section I will describe the characteristics of the industry and relate them to the peculiarity of cultural flows of Japanese popular music into Hong Kong. Lack of creative human resources Political turmoil at the end of 1940s in mainland China brought on a sudden change of what Arjun Appadurai (1990) terms ‘ethnoscapes’, ‘technoscapes’, and ‘financescapes’ in Hong Kong’s popular music industry. As discussed earlier, many people who were involved in the popular music industry in Shanghai, which was deemed the centre of Chinese popular music production at the time, fled to Hong Kong. This change altered Hong Kong’s popular music industry; from its previous position as periphery, it came to occupy the centre of Chinese popular music production. However, as their creative capability was not able to meet market demands, the industry was forced to be on the constant lookout for other creative centres in music production, and to import music which could then be covered. Initially, the centres they linked with were Shanghai and Britain, with interest shifting to Japan in later periods. The trends of popular music in Hong Kong were thus moulded by cultural flows expressed in terms of popularity or rejection of the cover versions. This is one of the key reasons why the cover songs are so visible in the Hong Kong popular music scene. Small markets demand constant hits As the population of Hong Kong is small, it follows that the consumer market of Hong Kong is small as well. Despite the potential of a vast market in globally dispersed Chinese communities, the global success of a song or singer is dependent on success first being obtained in Hong Kong. And in order for pop music to be successful in Hong Kong, it is necessary to constantly produce smash hits in a short cycle. It is often said that ‘one hit in three songs is not enough in Hong Kong. There must be hits every three months’! For instance, Thomas Chow, one of the prominent lyric writers in Hong Kong, estimates the number of core consumers of the popular music market in Hong Kong to be about 200–300,000. In order to make a profit from CD sales, it is necessary to attract the majority of these consumers, claims Chow (see Uchida 1996: 134–5). In other words, within Hong Kong the market for local popular music is a small cake to share, and intensely competitive. Because of this, record companies tend to release CDs of popular singers at short intervals. Often the marketing and production of a new CD occur simultaneously. A condition for this fast and constant production involves writing many of the music pieces in a very short time. In turn this leads the industry to rely even more on cover versions. Conservative attitudes in music production The industry tends not to take risks by being adventurous or by promoting new trends in pop music. Rather, they tend to be conservative, preferring to stick with
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the old pattern of Canto-pop ballad styles (Uchida 1996: 134–5). In other words, they cannot afford to fragment the market by offering different types of musical forms. However, consumer taste for popular culture in particular demands the right balance of familiarity and novelty. Yet the industry cannot risk investing in nurturing creative new and young talents which ensure new trends and market development. Therefore, the industry is characterised by a dependence on music trends developed elsewhere. Japanese pop music, either as cover versions or originals, has proven to be particularly suitable for adaptation into Chinese musical structures and cultural tastes. Record companies with foreign capital Most record companies in Hong Kong are subsidiary companies with foreign capital. This fact contributes to an industry orientated more towards profit than creative innovation. Although no popular music industry in the world can ever be only creativity orientated, the Hong Kong industry puts a great deal of emphasis on short-term capital gain. One key reason for this is that most of the companies are given a sales target to reach each year by the headquarters of their companies. This conditions the tendencies described above. On the whole, the industry tends to conveniently employ music pieces from elsewhere, most of the time as cover songs, in order to fill the gap between their creative and production capabilities and the demands of the market. This constitutes an industry-led demand rather than listeners’ demand for the importation of pop music.
Image of Japanese pop songs and singers in Hong Kong As I stated in the previous section, until very recently the main in-flow of Japanese popular music was initiated by the Hong Kong industry for use as cover versions. Interestingly, the Japanese industry has not made many serious and active attempts to market its music to Hong Kong. Although there are several artists who have performed concerts in Hong Kong and visit Hong Kong to promote their music, there has been no consistency or sustained effort in this respect. As the Japanese industry was not serious in promoting their music in Hong Kong and the Hong Kong industry is mainly concerned with ensuring a quick supply of music by importing Japanese music, the process of constructing an image of Japanese music and singers has been left to a great extent to listeners. It appears from my interviews that many listeners to Japanese pop songs, in their original versions, consider them to be representative of a Japanese ‘neatness’ and ‘perfectionism’ in producing pop songs. Such impressions are vastly different from the actual circumstances of their production. For instance, numerous respondents perceive these songs to hold an authenticity, in that they do not lip-synch the prerecorded tape of the song. However, the reality is very different. I have asked several backing musicians who have worked with both Hong Kong and Japanese singers about this. All said that unless there are unavoidable technical problems (such as if most of the
152 Masashi Ogawa instruments for backing somehow cannot be used and there is only pre-recorded tape with voice), most Hong Kong singers, at least those who are known by name to the listeners, sing live. Furthermore, some Japanese singers sometimes lip-synch to pre-recorded tape in concerts. This suggests how the image of Japanese neatness and perfectionism has a strong role in shaping the image of Japanese singers and songs (Ogawa 2001: 125–6). Thus the image of Japanese songs and singers in general among the listeners is a fairly positive one. However, we need to pay attention to the fact that these types of listeners did not start listening to Japanese songs just because they were Japanese. Different reasons prompted them to start listening to them. But when they rationalise why they tend to listen to Japanese songs, this sort of cultural rather than political image of Japaneseness comes to the fore. However, when we examine the images of Japanese singers and songs held by Hong Kong listeners compared with Japanese listeners, we can sometimes find interesting distinctions between the two. I will describe one of the incidents that illustrates such a gap, and the factors that contribute towards making it. Most listeners to original Japanese songs first listened to the cover versions. It was only later that they became interested in the original versions and singers. Thus their images are to a certain extent influenced by the ways in which cover songs and singers are packaged and marketed. As I explained previously, until recently most of the Japanese songs that are imported are used for cover versions by local singers. The lyrics, of course, are changed into Cantonese. Cantonese is a tonal language and its tones are pleasant. It is very hard to directly translate the original lyrics into Cantonese and, at the same time, make the tones of the words fit with the melody line. Therefore it is common for completely different lyrics to be created from the original version. Sometimes the original lyrics that describe the feeling of a macho man are changed to words describing the broken heart of a woman. Due to the tonal nature of the Cantonese language, even in the production of original Cantonese songs, the melody is made first of all. Lyrics are then designed to fit in with the melody. Furthermore, as the industry’s primary objective with cover songs is to produce musical commodities in a short period of time, there is no concern with whether the image of cover song and singer correlates with the image of the original singer and song. This creates a vastly different idea of the original songs for the listeners of cover songs. Second, Hong Kong journalism has peculiar ways of informing the public about the Japanese entertainment world, and this also contributes to this gap between Hong Kong and Japanese listeners. The entertainment pages of Hong Kong newspapers are often divided into Hong Kong and world entertainment. About half of the world entertainment pages are occupied with gossip about the Japanese entertainment scene. However, most of the information is simply second-hand, or a direct translation from articles in Japanese paparazzi magazines, such as Focus and Flash, or gossip magazines of the entertainment world, such as Myojo and Heibon. Whereas in Japan, although information in these gossip magazines plays a significant role in constructing the images of singers and actors, they are only partial factors in the moulding of images. While a record company and a talent agency are
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trying to present his/her ‘hard official image’, these gossip magazines give it some ‘personal touches’. Although the information in gossip magazines can debilitate the life of the person as an entertainer, usually their images are placed somewhere between these two extremes. However, in this respect, the images of Japanese singers in Hong Kong are constructed with a heavy reliance on the images the gossip magazines present. This type of gap in the image of a Japanese singer between Japan and Hong Kong has sometimes resulted in clashes between Japanese singers and Hong Kong’s entertainment journalists. For instance, Masahiko Kondo visited Hong Kong in 1985. He refused to take off his sunglasses or to be given a welcoming kiss by a female Hong Kong actress at his press conference. Hong Kong entertainment journalists were annoyed to say the least and made pretty bad reports of the incident. At the time Kondo was trying to change his ‘official image’ from a young teeny bopper’s idol to a sort of rebellious macho guy. As his song was popular in Hong Kong, he tried to live up to the image he was presenting in Japan at the time. However, the image that was projected in Hong Kong was still of his earlier incarnation mixed with information from his private life that was generated by Japanese gossip magazines. In short, the image Kondo tried to present and that which local Hong Kong journalists expected were vastly different. This type of clash between Japanese singers and Hong Kong journalists has happened on several occasions. Such cultural tensions are also due to a difference in the professional relationship between journalists and entertainers in Hong Kong and Japan. In Hong Kong, generally speaking, entertainers are much more journalist-friendly than in Japan. It has been suggested that this is due to the fact that the Hong Kong market is small, so the competition to attract public interest is harder. Therefore the entertainers tend to be more ready to attend to the expectations of journalists than in Japan. On the whole, the image of Japanese singers and music in Hong Kong is primarily shaped by the following factors. 1 2 3 4
the image of Japan; the image of cover songs; listener impressions of melody lines; gossip-oriented information of Hong Kong entertainment journalism.
When a Japanese singer takes on a strategy that stops him/her exposing their privacy through this image construction, Hong Kong listeners tend to choose Japanese singers or songs which can be a variant within mainstream music of their taste.
What does TK present in Hong Kong? In this section we will look at Tetsuya Komuro’s first concert in Hong Kong in order to examine the gap between what he tried to present and what the audience expectations of the concert were.
154 Masashi Ogawa Who is TK? Tetuya Komuro, who uses TK as his trademark, was born in 1958 in Tokyo. He was a member of the TM Network formed in 1983. The band itself was not remarkably successful, although they made several smash hits. However, before the band was disbanded in 1993 Komuro started working as a composer of pop songs. He wrote many hit songs and was considered more as a hit melody maker than as a member of TM Network. Since 1994 he has been working as a music producer doing total management for a singer or a piece of music, such as talent-spotting, training potential singers, composing music for them, doing music direction for them, deciding the best form of presentation for them and making tie-ups with drama series or commercial films. The singers and bands he has produced, such as Namie Amuro, Tomomi Kahara, globe (of which he is a member) and TRF, are constantly making hits. They are popular in Asian countries such as Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore. He was deemed to be the most prominent pop music producer/composer/performer in Japan until 1997. Although recently his influence in the Japanese popular music scene has not been as great, he is still one of most popular ‘hitmakers’ in Japan. It is said that one of the reasons for his success lies on the fact that he introduced the musical elements of dance music and club music – Euro-beat in particular – to pop songs. In 1996 he established the joint corporation ‘TK News’ in Hong Kong with News Corporation’s ‘media king’, Rupert Murdoch. The corporation is aiming to produce musical talent in Asia. He is supposed to be in charge of finding talent and producing singer’s entire music activities. He is notable as one of the few musicians who have started to market their own music in Asia. TK presents ‘Groove Museum’: TK’s concert in Hong Kong In 1997 Komuro and the ‘Komuro family’ – Japanese journalists call the singers and performers that he produces by this name – were invited by the Beijing government to be special music envoys. They performed concerts in Beijing and Shanghai. After these concerts they flew to Hong Kong to perform two concerts titled ‘Groove Museum’. In these concerts Hong Kong Chinese singer Grace Yip also made her debut. She was selected from a semi-private audition in Hong Kong to promote Asian talents in the Asian popular music market. This was the first concert to the public Komuro had produced and performed in Hong Kong. What does TK try to present? In his press conference in Hong Kong, as well as in magazine interviews, Komuro emphasises that he wanted to let the audience in Hong Kong be exposed to the newest and most advanced music he creates. In so doing, Komuro adopts a pedagogical persona, since he seeks to educate the Hong Kong audience who, in his estimation, are not fully fluent in the complexities of his music. Responding to my question in the conference, he said that ‘As I was invited as a special music envoy [to
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Beijing], this time I want to present the newest kind of concert that I have not presented even in Japan to an Asian audience.’ The concert consisted mainly of him playing his instruments with huge video clips and projected computer graphics, and with DJs playing dance music, as laser beams randomly carved out the performance space, rather than focusing on the performance of the singers of his ‘family’. Furthermore, for the concerts in Beijing and Shanghai the video clip that explains what groove music is was made on Komuro’s instructions. It was shown at the beginning of the concerts. The title of the concerts – ‘Groove Museum’ – which he invented indicates his idea clearly. The audience were to learn what groove was at the concert. The result of the Hong Kong concert: Groove Museum or station platform? One of my friends who attended the concert described the movement of the audience as resembling ‘a platform in a train station’, meaning that the movement of the audience towards the exits looked like people moving from a station platform. Members of the audience were constantly leaving the venue in the middle of the concert. His reception by the audience in general was not good. There was no true standing ovation or excitement. Rather the atmosphere in the audience in general was something like ‘What’s going on here?’ The ovation for the encore was so small that the performers were confused as to whether they should come out or not. While the Japanese media reported this concert as successful, the local media made some quite bitter comments. There may be several reasons for the bitter start of Komuro’s Asian promotion campaign. For instance, thee was a lack of advertising caused by poor coordination between the local promoter and the Japanese promoter. In fact, most of the audience who left at the beginning were passers-by who had been given free tickets at the door. (The ticket sales were not good.) Most of the advertisements were concentrated in the Japanese media in Hong Kong. A difference in the concept of the concert in Japan and Hong Kong seems to have contributed to the result. For instance, Chiu Tsang Hei, one of the most famous and active musical concert directors in Hong Kong, states that if a concert by a popular performer attracts only that performer’s enthusiastic fans, it does not cover the cost of a concert in Hong Kong Stadium, which is the biggest in-house concert venue in Hong Kong. To make a profit, the concert has to attract a substantial number of people who are not enthusiastic fans of the performer. Usually Canto-pop singers make a great deal of effort to entertain the audience so that even those who are not enthusiastic fans can also enjoy the concert (Gekkan Honkon Tsu¯shin 1996: 11, 34). Various items are used to encourage if not excite the audience: fluorescent ‘glow-sticks’ and fans printed with the face of the performer, for example, are distributed to the audience as they enter the venue. Sometimes the performers invite members of the audience up on the stage to chat with them; on other occasions, gifts are thrown from the stage. Consequently, the audience for pop music concerts in Hong Kong are very much spoon-fed with ‘pleasure’. They are not ready to be educated or learn about the music as intended by Komuro.
156 Masashi Ogawa The findings of the survey conducted with the audience before and after the concert suggest that the image of the singers that attracted the audience was rather different from that which appealed to Komuro. Like Kondo in the previous section, Komuro seems to have thought that the music, which he considered to be of superior quality at the time, would attract Hong Kong audiences because the singers he produced were popular in Hong Kong. However, the songs that were popular in Hong Kong were not exactly the same ones that gained popularity in Japan, although the singers were the same. Most of the songs that gained popularity in Hong Kong were slow ballads similar to the typical song style in the mainstream of Canto-pop, although they are not identical. It appears that the audience in Hong Kong were attracted to something ‘foreign but not too foreign’ in these Japanese singers. However, they did not seem willing to entirely change their music tastes by being educated by Komuro. Apparently the part of the concert that attracted most enthusiasm in the audience consisted of those instances when Tomomi Kahara sang songs with typical Japanese ‘cutie’ mannerisms. Thus Komuro’s efforts to educate the audience were not received enthusiastically. Furthermore, the main topic on the entertainment page in most of the local newspapers on the day after the concert was Kahara’s interview. And the main topic in the interview was that a blue mole was found on her finger (a typical gossip magazine topic)!
Conclusion In this chapter I have examined the key characteristics of Hong Kong’s popular music industry by reviewing its history. I have identified how these characteristics relate to particular influxes of Japanese music. Such cultural influxes have in many respects defined the industry, yet such shifts have not occurred independently of the media industry at large. The dynamic interrelationship between music, performers and the media is most apparent in the field of journalism, with gossip magazines in Hong Kong playing a substantial role in shaping the image of Japanese singers. This in turn affects how their songs are received by audiences. Finally, by examining Tetsuya Komuro’s first concert in Hong Kong, I have tried to illustrate the gulf between the audience-as-consumer demands in Komuro’s concert and the expectations of the audience assumed by Komuro. Additionally, I have tried to illustrate how such a distinction leads non-local performers, who have started becoming popular in Hong Kong, to employ unsuitable sales strategies to promote their music. This chapter is not attempting to try to prove that Tetsuya Komuro’s strategy was a failure. He is a very good market researcher and his first comment about the concert afterwards was that ‘we need to do serious market research here’. His efforts have been continuing and will continue. At the beginning of 1999 in Shanghai, he opened one of the largest-capacity discos in Asia, collaborating with Hong Kong capital. It is reported that he has tried to research the trends of youth in China, and at the same time he is trying to create and promote the trend of Hong Kong singers across Asia. It will be interesting to see how this will be received in Hong Kong and elsewhere in Asia.
Part IV
Colonial desire, social memory and popular sensuality as performance genres
10 Raising the ante of desire Foreign female singers in a Japanese pop music world Christine R. Yano
Let me begin with a puzzle whose pieces interlock seamlessly, yet fit only with great irony. The time is August 1992; the place is Tottori, Japan, a coastal city on the Sea of Japan; the event is a sunset concert by Korean and Japanese pop singers broadcast throughout Japan by NHK (Nihon Ho¯so¯ Kyo¯kai; Japan Public Broadcasting Corporation).1 With torches blazing and trumpets blaring, the announcer narrates: The Japan Sea. One ocean containing two countries which from times past had commingled, their emotions running even deeper than the seas. And now, from the shores of Tottori, voices go out in song, and two hearts become one. We present, The Japan–Korea Big Star Tottori Concert. What follows is a parade of singers, singing song after song in quick succession. They are led by two singers in duet: dashing Itsuki Hiroshi and Kim Yonja in a glittery evening gown. The only difference between this and countless other performances in Japan is that half the singers are from Japan and half from Korea. Their voices, however, do not mingle on equal terms. In not-so-subtle ways, the stage is not a neutral meeting ground, but a particularly Japanese one. For one, the language of the performance is Japanese, including all the introductions, voice-overs and dialogue. As singers perform in their respective languages, the lyrics of their songs – including Korean ones – are printed in only Japanese at the bottom of the screen. There is hardly a trace of hangul (Korean syllabary), except in the titles of songs and names of singers. Korean singers in interviews use an interpreter, while none of the Japanese singers do. Although many Koreans in Japan speak Japanese as a result of the colonial period (1910–45) when Japanese, not Korean, was the official language, the singers performing on the Tottori stage are generally too young to do so. Accordingly, these Korean singers are rendered mute, except when singing. Furthermore, some Korean singers perform only one verse of their songs, while Japanese singers more typically perform two verses. This chapter analyses this stage and others like it as negotiations of race/ethnicity, nationalism, emotionalism and gender in performances by Korean singers in Japan. Specifically, I analyse what Richard Dyer calls the ‘star image’ or what I prefer to call the ‘star text’ of one female singer, Kim Yonja.2 Following a trend in the Japanese music industry begun in the 1970s and increasing by the 1980s, Kim relocated from
160 Christine R. Yano Korea to Japan in 1988 to build a career in the more lucrative Japanese market.3 She has done so with great success, and remains a prominent figure in the Japanese popular music scene. In analysing the Tottori stage, as well as Kim’s ‘star text’ in Japan, I draw upon the following: (1) live and pre-recorded performances by Kim, 1992–3; (2) an interview with Kim and her manager in July 1993; (3) articles on Kim in fan magazines like Enka Jaanaru from 1989 to 2001 and Karaoke Fan 1992–3; (4) Kim’s fan club literature; and (5) website sources, including Kim’s official home page (www.senshu-kikaku.co.jp/) and other sites.
Puzzle pieces: reading the Tottori stage One part of this puzzle is the call by politicians and business leaders in Japan in the 1990s to ‘return to Asia’. Only a year after the Tottori concert, the Japanese government announced that its volume of trade with other Asian countries, including that of its popular culture products, surpassed that of trade with the United States. This chorus for a ‘return to Asia’ as economic turf harks back perilously to a different kind of prewar ‘return to Asia’ (dubbed nyu¯-A) on blatantly political turf. It comes amidst widespread insistence on a pan-Asian unity based in homologies of Confucian values, family structures, aesthetic tastes and other elements. One piece of evidence for this current version of pan-Asianism is said to lie in the popularity of Japanese mass culture throughout the region, including youth culture products such as magazines, fashion and ‘cute’ goods, as well as television dramas and older popular music.4 This version of millennial Asianism – in, through and around Japan – becomes both a ‘re-Asianisation’ (‘return to Asia’) of Japan and a ‘Japanisation’ of Asia. What becomes implicated in both of these is a double move that first assumes Japan’s separateness from Asian, then purposefully re-positions Japan in Asia’s midst, as a pivotal locus of power and control. This Japanese ‘return to Asia’ occurs as multifaceted nostalgia. In one sense, Japan’s Asia models premodern, pre-industrial rusticity. In another sense, Japan’s Asia marks a kind of indigenous modernity, an ascendant industrialising vigour reminiscent of Japan’s own earlier modern period (Iwabuchi 2002: 15–16). Both of these place Japan at the forefront of Asia, proud of its position, yet looking longingly back. Moreover, as Leo Ching argues, Japan has historically billed itself as Asia’s ‘whiter country’, creating a racial hierarchy based on degrees of ‘yellowness’.5 This complicated relationship between Japan and Asia, then, forms one puzzle piece of the Tottori stage that juxtaposes Japanese singers with Korean qua Asian ones. Another part of this puzzle situates this concert within a history of particularly rancorous relations between Korea and Japan. Korea was an early and geographically close target of Japanese imperialism, resulting in the establishment of colonial rule from 1910 to 1945. During this period, much of Korean culture was forced to go underground, including language, customs, and music. Bitterness toward Japan continues to be felt in Korea over 50 years later, in particular by those who lived through it. Evidence of that bitterness was a governmental ban in Korea on public presentations of things Japanese, including popular songs with Japanese lyrics, only lifted in 1999.
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A third part of this puzzle is the large number of Koreans resident in Japan for generations, a legacy of the colonial period. Japan’s myth of homogeneity has long effaced the presence of its minority populations, which include in the 1990s and 2000s, besides Koreans, burakumin (the traditional pariah class), Ainu, Okinawans, Chinese, Filipinos, Iranians and Brazilians. Within a nation-as-family ideology, Japanese citizens are said to constitute a single group whose very homogeneity becomes the source of its strength. Japan’s supposed monoethnicity, coined as tan’itsu minzoku kokka (nation-state built upon a single ethnicity), becomes an assumption in people’s everyday speech. The oft-heard expression ‘wareware Nipponjin . . .’ (‘we Japanese’) frames many racial/cultural explanations for traits and practices presumably shared throughout the population (Murphy-Shigematsu 1993: 65). The burgeoning narratives of nihonjinron (theories of Japaneseness) from the 1970s look beyond homogeneity to include Japan’s island ecology, wet rice agriculture, group model, psychology, language and ethos to sustain models of racial and cultural uniqueness and often implicit superiority (Befu 1993: 109–13). These provide the context for enka’s reconfiguration as national music with the implicit assumption of homogeneous peoples and tastes. Presently, over 670,000 resident Koreans make up the largest foreign minority population within a country which continues to espouse a myth of its own homogeneity. For the most part, these Koreans residing in Japan (zainichi ) remain resident aliens without citizen’s rights, even though the great majority of them were born in Japan, speak Japanese, and even assume Japanese names, in part to mask their Korean identity. In spite of changes in the law to make citizenship available to zainichi Koreans, the majority remain resident aliens, a testament to years of discrimination (see Kajimura 1998). Like minority populations elsewhere, a significant number of these zainichi Koreans have made a place for themselves in Japanese society by performing outside the mainstream work world, in particular in the realms of entertainment and sports. The Tottori stage included some of these, performing as ‘passing’ Japanese. To this day, the non-Japanese ethnicity of certain entertainers in Japan remains a hidden topic, subject to rumour and gossip. For example, when I have presented this material outside Japan, often at least one Japanese in the audience expresses privately to me their astonishment and/or disbelief that these entertainers are actually Korean. I have also met a number of Japanese in Japan who vehemently deny that these entertainers are Korean or half-Korean. This demonstrates the degree to which the subject is still a controversial issue. A fourth part of the puzzle lies in the music sung at this concert, which is enka, a popular ballad genre said to be expressive of ‘the heart/soul of the Japanese’ (nihonjin no kokoro), dubbed ‘the song of Japan’ (nihon no uta), and even the ‘sound of Japanese tradition’ (dento¯ no oto). With middle-aged and older men and women as its primary audience, enka makes a claim to national culture through them. These claims must be contextualised amidst precipitously declining record sales for enka in Japan (4 per cent at the time of the concert; less than 1 per cent by the end of the 1990s; Oricon 1993, 1999). Many youth and intellectuals actively dislike enka, denouncing it as overly sentimental, old-fashioned, even feudalistic, particularly in its treatment of women. According to its detractors, enka holds little claim to national culture
162 Christine R. Yano because it situates Japan staunchly in the past and on the periphery, not in the present or the future. In the meantime, karaoke, AM radio and state institutions such as NHK, the broadcaster of the Tottori concert, keep enka afloat. Debates surrounding enka’s origins and popularity constitute a fifth part of the puzzle. Japanese scholars and much of enka’s listening public view the genre as emphatically indigenous to Japan. They point to other Japanese musico-narrative genres with which enka shares a direct lineage. They embed enka within a longstanding tradition of poetic expressions of longing, as one of several past and present naki-bushi (songs/poems of crying). At the same time, many Korean scholars look to their own tradition of popular songs of sadness known as pongchak, and interpret enka as a genre which traversed the sea by way of Japanese resident in colonial Korea. Indeed, there is a great similarity between the ‘enka’ composed in Korea and that composed in Japan, both of which share the stage in Tottori. They use similar scales, melodies, instruments, textual themes and emotions. Besides the obvious contrast in language, they differ more subtly in vocal ornamentation. In particular, one former resident of Korea, Koga Masao (1904–78), was stationed in Korea during his early post-university days and, some would say, absorbed Korean elements into his musical language. Koga subsequently became a key figure in casting the genre in the 1920s and 1930s into what is now stereotypically called ‘Koga merodii’ (Koga melody) – minor scales, slow tempo, mandolin or guitar and dark gloom. Enka’s popularity throughout East and Southeast Asia attests to the legacy of Japan’s colonial period in the musical tastes of the formerly colonised peoples. In each of these former colonies, enka has been popularised as ‘people’s music’. Korean singers on the Tottori stage sing their own ‘enka’, pongchak, in the Korean language, claiming the genre to be theirs as much as Japan’s. The sense of indigeneity of the genre felt strongly by those on both sides of this fence lays bare one of the mismatched puzzle pieces. The sixth and final part of the puzzle is the focus of the remainder of this chapter: the importation of singers from Korea and Taiwan to sing enka by the Japanese music industry. Although both male and female foreign singers have been recruited, females outnumbered males by 6:1 in 1993, disproportionately higher than the female-to-male ratio of established singers, which is about 2:1.6 These singers perform not as hidden Koreans or Taiwanese, but as specifically non-Japanese, ‘Asian’ singers. These include Taiwanese female singer Teresa Teng, who debuted in Taiwan in 1974, built a highly successful career in Japan in the 1980s, and whose tragic death in 1995 was greatly mourned in Japan. Teng, born in 1953, has been quoted as saying, ‘I grew up in Taiwan listening to Japanese songs, so I cannot think of Japanese songs as being foreign music. Japan’s music is Asia’s music.’7 This very notion of Japan’s music as Asia’s music is the ground upon which this chapter treads. Other established foreign enka singers include Korean male singer Cho¯ Yonpiru (who debuted in 1982) and Korean female singer Kye Unsook (who debuted 1985). These pieces of the puzzle form a necessary lens through which one must view the performances on the Tottori stage. Among its many performers is one whose interactions on that stage and others that I now turn to.
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Kim as star text: performing Korean Kim Yonja is emphatically not a hidden Korean in Japan, but has always been a Korean in Japan. Her hybridity, her Koreanness-out-of-place, in fact, inevitably becomes part of the spectacle of her performances, both from the stage and audience. She has a Korean name of course, but more than that she performs Koreanness as a central component of her star text. In concert, she often includes Korean songs, wears Korean dress and mentions being Korean in her stage patter. At one performance I attended in Tokyo in 1993, members of the audience seated in the front row carried small Korean flags, and theatre-goers who purchased Kim’s CD were given a fan printed with the Korean flag. Articles on Kim in enka fan magazines unfailingly mention Korea or her being Korean in them. When a fan asked her how she reduces stress, she answered that she turns to things Korean by taking a Korean-style sauna and talking in Korean with friends.8 She names kimchi (Korean spicy pickles) as both her favourite food made by her mother, as well as the source of her power.9 Furthermore, she takes her fans on tours to Korea. In interviews she herself brings up her Koreanness, her foreignness, as if it is a constant supratext. Often, this Koreanness takes the form of being unfamiliar with the Japanese language. A 1992 article comments on her singing in Japanese: ‘It is easy enough to understand her, because she takes care in her pronunciation of Japanese lyrics with which she is not yet familiar.’10 Cleverly, she comments upon her inadequacies with self-deprecating humour. At the concert I attended in 1993, she joked about one of her early linguistic mistakes when she mistook the word oshinko ( Japanese pickles) for oshikko (urine). In a 1993 published interview, Kim again freely joked about her linguistic faux pas: ‘When we were recording my most recent song, I made a big blunder. In the second verse there’s a phrase “muko¯mizu” [foolhardiness, recklessness], but I made the mistake of thinking that it meant “the water over on the other side” [literally, muko¯, far side + mizu, water]’.11 In turning these linguistic difficulties into jokes, however, not only does she avert the critique possibly laid against her, she turns these mistakes into assets of charm. The charm lies in the ways in which she positions herself as one in need of the assistance of those around her. In a performance I attended at a mid-sized venue in Tokyo, audience members called out their corrections to her linguistic mistakes. In an interview on the Tottori stage, she tripped occasionally on more complicated Japanese verb forms, slowing down as though she was still a student of the language in order to get it right. In an interview with top composer Yoshioka Osamu, Kim explained the special needs of a Korean/foreigner: ‘Being a foreigner, I don’t always understand the exact meaning of songs, but somehow I feel something like the meaning. However, I think that it would improve the recording if I could sing with a better grasp of the composer’s intentions.’12 She gives credit to those around her – including her staff, her producer and her composers – and in so doing exactly fulfils the model of Japanese interdependence. I was trying hard to understand the Japanese, but when I was recording ‘Shikatte Ageru’ [Reprimanding], I ended up making another mistake. Because
164 Christine R. Yano of the word ‘shikatte’ [reprimand, scold], I interpreted the character as becoming more and more furious, and I ended up singing the passage with great fury. But my staff said, ‘Try and sing it more gently, with a kind of maternal instinct’. Unfortunately, I laughed and said, I don’t really understand this ‘maternal instinct’.13 Later in the same interview she credits producer (and then-retired enka singer) Miyako Harumi with helping her avoid similar kinds of mistakes in her most recent song. ‘After all’, she explains, ‘if you don’t sing with a proper grasp of the words, it’s difficult to really strike a chord in people’s hearts’.14 Kim thus gives great credit to those around her, who help her understand the words to Japanese songs. These intermediaries – staff, producer, composer, audience – become buffers and interpreters for Kim, the interloper. While I am not suggesting that Kim’s mistakes are deliberate, she places herself and is placed in situations that foreground her neediness derived from her position of non-nativeness. She performs Koreanness through her linguistic stumbling. And because she must always perform Koreanness, linguistic stumbling must always be a part of her star text. Her mistakes call upon an amae (dependency) relationship between Kim as one who amaeru (displays their dependency) and her buffers/interpreters as those who amayakasu (give the dependant service) (see Doi 1971; Lebra 1976: 54–5). This relationship is gendered as well. Observers of the few foreign male singers of enka suggest that these men do not speak much Japanese in public, as a deliberate attempt to avoid displaying either their mistakes or their linguistic competence. Foreign men, in other words, have a more difficult time positioning themselves appropriately vis-à-vis Japanese. Too many mistakes emasculate them; too few mistakes threaten their position as foreigners. The best option for them, then, is to not speak at all. Kim’s position as interloper both enables and disables. In a 1993 performance I attended, Kim admitted to appearing in kimono – the most typical dress for female enka singers – on stage for the first time. However, instead of downplaying this fact, she placed it centre stage in her performance. She talked about feeling confined and trapped. She worried aloud about tripping in the floor-length, narrow garment. She stood awkwardly, looking uncomfortable. After singing her song, she joked, ‘Can I really step forward in this?’ The kimono became a centrepiece of Kim’s performance, as well as emblematic of her position in Japan. The kimono is a vessel into which one gets poured, yet Kim never becomes the container; instead she always holds the container at a distance from herself. Or, as it might be said, she is always made to hold the container at a distance from herself. She at once adopts and extends the gaze of her audience in Japan. Kim and kimono do not blend, but hold one another in suspension like oil and water. In fact Kim replicates many young Japanese people’s engagement with things defined as ‘traditionally Japanese’, from kimono to keigo ( Japanese honorific speech) to Yamato-damashii (the spirit of ancient Japan). The racial divide she brings to the enka stage parallels the generational divide many older people in Japan lament. Japanese youth are often decried by older generations as awkward and unfamiliar
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– as foreign from what has been defined as Japan, some might say, as Kim appears to be. This includes enka itself. Unlike Kim, however, who actively pursues these elements of her new home – singing enka, wearing a kimono, speaking Japanese respectfully – younger Japanese, according to this critique, neglect or reject these matters. At the same time, young Japanese may come to ‘things Japanese’ with a sense of entitlement (even as some may reject this); Kim must come to ‘things Japanese’ as a perennial student. When asked by a fan which language she writes in her diary, Korean hangul (syllabary) or Japanese, she answers that she writes in both languages, but that she tries hard to write in Japanese because it is good for her studying (‘benkyo¯ no tame’).15 Japan for her is a constant benkyo¯ (study). Being a constant student of Japan, she works hard at the practices of being Japanese. She never takes these for granted; instead, each practice becomes an achievement. And in many ways she succeeds. The announcer at one of her performances that I attended in 1993 introduced her by saying, ‘She is more Japanese than the Japanese.’ The model minority, she outdoes the ‘natives’ in practising their culture. Furthermore, she is taken as not only quintessentially Japanese, but also as the embodiment of past ideals of Japanese femininity. One article states, ‘Kim Yonja epitomises the shyness and modesty of Japanese women in the past’ (Tajima 1997: 29). In these ways, Kim’s star text is not only exoticised, but also feminised, by her very in betweenness. Fan literature, promotional material and Kim herself take this position as interloper – between countries, languages, cultures – as an asset. Her 1993 fan club calendar pictures her six times in Western dress, five times in a Korean gown and twice in a Japanese kimono. Her position in between allows her to claim what Aihwa Ong has called ‘flexible citizenship’, based upon ‘the cultural logics of capitalist accumulation, travel, and displacement that induce subjects to respond fluidly and opportunistically to changing political-economic conditions’ (Ong 1999: 6). She thus traverses terrain that Japanese people themselves may not broach so easily. According to her professional profile, even before her re-debut in Japan in 1988, she had performed in the United States and Canada (1984, 1987), Brazil (1986), and Libya, England, Switzerland and France (1987). Early promotional articles mention these multinational performances: ‘Kim is one who has been actively performing in various countries of the world.’16 She is dubbed ‘Korea’s goodwill ambassador of song’ (Kankoku no ‘uta no shinzentaishi’),17 and, more to the point, ‘a songstress who binds Japan and Korea’ (Nihon to Kankoku o musubu utahime).18 An article discussing Kim’s 1996 performance in Cuba proclaims, ‘Yonja’s voice is once again going to cross the ocean! [Yonja no kasei ga mata hitotsu umi o koeru! ]’.19 In its tone of amazement, this article and others express awe (and possibly envy) at Kim’s fluidity: she crosses more frequently and with greater success than island-bound Japanese. The spearhead of her ambassadorship is song – ‘the power of song to cross national borders’ (kokkai o koeta uta no pawaa).20 The phrase, ‘crossing national borders’, has become a catch phrase of Kim’s reputation. More specifically, Kim crosses by way of enka, the ‘song of Japan’. Magazine articles point out that she is the first to bring enka to the stage in these countries distant from Japan, both geographically and culturally, such as Cuba, Brazil and Vietnam. In other words,
166 Christine R. Yano not only does she cross borders, but in doing so she extends the reach of enka, Japan’s national popular music. She becomes enka’s worldwide advocate. In 1990, she performed in Sakhalin to a mixed audience of Soviets, Koreans and Japanese in two performances attended by full houses of 5,000 each. According to a magazine account, ‘the house was packed with the people of these three countries mixed together’ (mikka kuni no hitotachi ga hairi konjitte gisshiri man’in) . . . listening from beginning to end ‘in a huge fevered pitch’ (dai fibaa to natta).21 Photos show Kim performing in Korean costume and a Western evening gown to an audience of primarily older women. Singing a combination of Korean and Japanese songs, Kim sings pointedly to the generations of Japanese and Koreans long resident in Sakhalin: ‘Kim cried and cried on stage, saying “I’m happy beyond words to see the joy that these people – Koreans who cannot return to Korea, Japanese who cannot return to Japan, and those who have never stepped foot in their mother country . . . find simply in hearing these songs”’.22 The article reports that in singing Japanese songs Kim incited strong feelings of longing amongst the Japanese expatriate population: In the words of a 60-year old Japanese woman, ‘I finally got to hear Japanese songs! While I am alive, I would like to see my furusato [hometown, homeland] in Hokkaido’ . . . That night, Mrs M, a Japanese woman who is married to a Korean man, burst into tears, saying ‘I want to return to Japan soon!’ [hayaku Nihon ni kaeritai! ], only to be comforted by Kim.23 Kim, the native Korean now with, in her own words, ‘Japan as my second furusato [homeland, hometown]’, becomes the pin-up girl for displaced Japanese (Tajima 1997: 29). In her own border crossing, Kim incites emotions that reconnect overseas Japanese to Japan. The fact that the source of this reconnection is not Japanese, but Korean, is discretely ignored. In defence of her position, some would say that it is Kim’s non-Japaneseness that paves the way for her crossing national borders in the first place. As a Korean in Japan, her very career is built upon the processes of border crossings. Performing overseas, then, is but an extension of her career in Japan. With the recording of her first album in the United States, ‘Heartful Soul in New York’,24 Kim is spoken of as one ‘who is one step closer to taking on the world’ (sekai ni mata ippo¯ chikazuita kanojo).25 The stepping stones of her career are as follows: first Korea, then Japan, next, the world (sekai ). No other singer in the enka world garners such a reputation. She alone is allowed the world as her stage. Moreover, her performances overseas can take on overtly political significance, as was the case with her concert in Korea in 1999. This concert marked an historical moment: the first large-scale performance of Japanese popular songs following a lifting of the ban earlier that year. According to one article, ‘this concert granted Kim’s wish, which was to be the very first to sing Japanese songs in Korea with the lifting of the long-standing ban’.26 In an interview, Kim calls Japanese and Koreans brothers (do¯ho¯), saying, ‘If there are songs that we both know, then let us please sing them together’ (Oh 2000). This event gained significant prominence in fan magazines, published with a colour photo spread on the second page of Enka Jaanaru.
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A quote from Kim reaffirms her place as border crosser and ambassador of song: ‘I felt deeply that song knows no national borders’ (uta ni wa, kokkai wa nai to iu koto o, shimijimi omoimashita).27 Another case in point is an April 2001 concert in Pyongyang, North Korea, performing songs in Korean, Japanese and English. In a zainichi website article on this event, Kim is called a ‘bridge of rainbows which spans north–south [Korean] exchange’ [namboku ko¯ryu¯ no niji no kakebashi ].28 Since her career has been built upon constant exchange, she is now called upon to broker the political conflicts which have divided her home country. What allows Kim to cross these national and cultural borders so easily is, according to the magazine articles, emotion. One article describes Kim as ‘a songstress who was raised in Asia and whose voice crosses national boundaries and oceans with its emotion’.29 Another article poses the question, How is it that even without understanding the words, one’s heart can be moved [kotoba ga wakaranakute mo, mune ni jiin to kuru]? Listening to Kim Yonja’s voice, this question comes to mind . . . Kim’s voice has great strength of feeling [kokimi no yoi panchi chikara ga aru] . . . She sings with a voice from the depths of her heart, and transmits a white-hot heat to us all [mune no okusoku kara koe o dasu koto ni yotte, sono nekki ga wareware ni tsutawatte kuru no da].30 In the end, the author concludes that the answer to his question lies in kokoro (heart, spirit, soul) and the depth of emotions therein. ‘“She sings with her heart [kokoro de utau],” is the answer that comes to mind addressing the mystery of being moved even without understanding the language.’31 In an interview, Kim says, ‘I’d like to create the kind of stage where I link up with the audience, heart to heart.’32 Singing with her heart gives Kim’s performances an incandescence, an intensity, described as ‘boiling over with true emotion’ (jikkan waku): ‘I think that people who have seen Kim Yonja on stage even once . . . cannot help but be overwhelmed by her intensity [sono hakuryoku ni atto¯ sareru]’.33 Emotion and tears, in fact, become not only the tools of ambassadorship, but also Kim’s trademark. At the Tottori concert, Kim sings ‘Dancho¯ no Miari Koge’ [ Japanese title], a well-known Korean ‘enka’ song in Korean dress. She sings the first verse in Korean and the second verse in Japanese. At the end of the song, with trumpets blaring in a crescendo of music and emotion, she calls out to her lover, dropping melodramatically to the ground, fists punching the air, tears flowing. When I have shown this video clip to Japanese and Koreans alike, they comment that this kind of performance crosses the boundaries of Japaneseness and becomes stereotypically, even exaggeratedly, Korean. The stereotype creates a racial divide around tears: whereas Japanese tears fall in a controlled, aestheticised manner, Korean tears fall uncontrollably, in profusion, in excess. As one Japanese woman in her sixties comments, ‘She sings with too much passion! She’s overdoing it. But that’s because she’s not really Japanese.’ One zainichi Korean woman in her thirties criticises Kim for just this type of performative excess, agreeing that Kim overdoes it. She faults Kim for playing right into the stereotype by which Koreans are denigrated
168 Christine R. Yano in Japan. This use of emotion to create a divide between self and other finds parallel in terms of race and gender elsewhere (see Lutz 1988). In other performances I have watched, Kim does not emote quite so vociferously. Yet emotion plays a part in everything she does. She performs with her heart very much on her sleeve, a thoroughly gendered and here racialised production. Tears, it seems, becomes her. I have watched her cry before, during and after songs, at times steering the timing of the performance to accommodate the control of tears. The advertisement for her 1993 Tokyo concert plays upon the theme of tears when it proclaims Kim’s performance as ‘songs which flow throughout my body’ (watashi no karada ni nagareru uta). Tears form a linkage with superstar Misora Hibari (1937–89), dubbed ‘queen of enka’ (Tansman 1996), whose Korean ethnicity has long been a subject of rumour and gossip in the entertainment world. In Korea, Kim is known as ‘Korea’s Misora Hibari’ (Tajima 1997: 28). When I interviewed Kim, she referred to Hibari as her ‘dai-senpai ’ (‘big’ senior, elder, superior). She refers to Hibari in performance. At a 1993 concert I attended, one half of the programme was devoted to Hibari songs. In 1996 she released two volumes of Misora Hibari songs.34 In fact, the two have much in common. Hibari, too was known for her tears, especially when singing particular songs. In Hibari’s case, however, her tears fell as Japanese tears, proof of her social embeddedness, her sensitivity, her very humanity. Over ten years after her death, Hibari’s tears now deify her. Kim’s tears fall inevitably as Korean tears, beyond enka’s bounds, out of kilter with Japanese. Tears give Kim a vulnerability, both on stage and backstage, which counterbalances the power ascribed to her. At times, it seems, her emotions overpower her. An air of unpredictability hovers around Kim’s performances. In concert I have watched as she either forgot the lyrics to a song or was overwhelmed by emotion to the point of not being able to continue singing mid-song. Her performance is full of extreme highs and gaps such as these (although some would not call these gaps). As a viewer, this unpredictability electrifies a concert with an on-the-edge-of-your-seat reality. Kim’s trademark – her tears and emotion – makes a performance riveting. Compared to other polished Japanese singers, she presents a rawer image, one no less practised perhaps, but one also performing from an untouched core. Furthermore, tears connect her to her fans in a highly gendered fashion. One journalist expressed amazement at witnessing Kim, in tears, running out of a radio studio midprogramme at the news of the death of one of her biggest fans (see Tajima 1997: 28). She makes herself more accessible to fans than other enka singers, who are typically insulated by layers of managers and staff.35 Tears humanise Kim, even while they racialise and feminise her. Kim’s border crossing includes the boundaries of song genres. Far more than other enka singers in Japan, Kim sings from a wide range of genres, including American jazz and popular standards. In fact, she claims to want to sing different types of songs as a challenge (kore kara mo iroiro na taipu no sakuhin ni charenji shite ikitai desu).36 This stands in contrast to Japanese enka singers who more commonly stay within enka’s bounds, even if only because the listening public demand it. The Japanese public have fewer expectations of Kim; she is free to sing any song she
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likes, interloping across genres as she has done across countries. Therefore she is often dubbed not an ‘enka singer’, but a ‘song stylist’. Border crossing also extends to Kim’s audience. According to her manager, women make up the majority of her fan club members, as is common with enka singers. However, one fascinating segment of fan club members consists of gay men. At the two live performances I attended, these 10–15 men in their twenties and thirties (young by enka standards) sat near the back of the audience, gesturing in unison during particular songs. According to Kim, they accompany her to different performances and form a highly responsive, performative audience wherever she goes. She considers them to be her close friends. Kim is one of a handful of female performers considered particularly appealing to gay male audiences in Japan. Although I have not interviewed any members of this sub-group of fans, Richard Dyer’s comments on the gay fandom in Euro-America surrounding Judy Garland provides an interesting comparison and contrast. Dyer considers three aspects of gay (Euro-American) culture which are consonant with aspects of Garland’s image: (1) ordinariness; (2) androgyny; and (3) camp (Dyer 1986: 156–86). Furthermore, he analyses Garland’s star image as one suffused with emotion. An important part of Kim’s star text which is explicitly not part of fan magazine articles and promotion is her connection with the zainichi Kankokujin (resident alien Korean) community. Her husband, the band leader of the Clear Tones Orchestra, heads the Zainichi Kankokujin Bunka Geijutsu Kyo¯kai (Zainichi Korean Cultural Arts Association).37 In fact, Kim’s official website is one shared by her zainichi husband, and includes links to various zainichi Korean sites and pieces of news.38 In this backstage facet of Kim’s star text, she sings directly to those not even mentioned in the frontstage text. In my perusal of enka magazines from 1999 to 2001, Kim’s name never gets linked to zainichi Koreans, only to Korea itself, and this nearly unfailingly. She is always positioned as a foreign singer who performs before audiences in Japan; but that audience never gets scrutinised as one composed in large part of zainichi Koreans. Zainichi Koreans, then, are erased from the Kim star text presented in enka magazines. They defy the categories of ‘Japan’ and ‘Korea’ by living in one while being of another. Theirs is not a hybrid existence, but a non-existence in terms of publicly sanctioned order. The border crossing Kim effects does not extend to their lives. In interviews published in zainichi newspapers, Kim speaks more frankly and critically of her life in Japan as a foreigner, as a Korean, than in interviews published in enka magazines. When asked about her success in the Japanese music world, she brings up her earlier failure twenty-one years previously. Even if I failed before when I came to Japan [in 1979], I think what helped this time is that I studied the Japanese language tirelessly and I worked hard to learn more about Japan. Furthermore, I think that the general knowledge of Korea and Koreans in Japan is now very much changed from previously. (Oh 2000) It is a fact, however, that Kim herself has played a large part in the Japanese public’s increased awareness of Korea. And it is said that Kim alone will appear on Japanese
170 Christine R. Yano television wearing Korean costume and promoting Korea by telling people that it is a fine place and people should come visit. Kim also talks about the difficulties of being a foreigner in Japan: It seems that even if one starts out at the same point, overcoming the handicap of being a foreigner in Japan is difficult . . . When people see you just once as a foreigner, forever after they will always think of you as a foreigner. They will not write your name in kanji [Chinese ideographs], but always spell it out in katakana [elementary syllabary used for foreign words].39 Kim’s critique derives from the special place of katakana within Japan’s writing systems. In general, katakana is used to separate and isolate, for example, words of foreign origin, as well as words given emphasis (e.g., in advertising). Kim interprets Japanese people’s writing of her name in katakana as a cultural slight, both in their ignoring of the Chinese ideographs, as well as in the special, separate status given her. In fact, what she says is borne out by a quick survey of magazine articles on Kim: before 1989 her name was written with Chinese ideographs (with furigana, explanatory pronunciation); however, by 1990, her name was written almost exclusively in katakana. The switch from Chinese ideographs to katakana reflects the intertwined practices of familiarisation and colonisation: the Japanese public has become increasingly familiar with Kim on their terms, in a writing system they do not have to translate, ignoring the ideographs that may give her name as much semantic meaning as theirs. This is not to indicate that Kim and her manager had no part in this, or that it does not work to their advantage. This only describes the structures by which Kim has become a more marketable, and thus profitable, commodity in Japan. Kim is not zainichi, of course, and never will be. In contrast with most zainichi, she at least retains a Korean name, speaks freely of being Korean, and travels easily back and forth to Korea. On the other hand, by becoming a touchstone for zainichi, she affords them a means to be frankly Korean in Japan. Attending a Kim concert, being a Kim fan, even travelling with Kim’s fan club to Korea, does not necessarily proclaim that one is Korean. One does not need to be Korean to participate in these activities. But at the very least Kim creates a Korean enclave within Japan by insisting upon performing the star text of Korea, even while singing Japanese enka, even while being introduced as ‘more Japanese than Japanese’. She plays to the zainichi audience as a family matter. Kim’s performances offer fans a space of intimacy within which one may sit side by side in a darkened concert hall watching tears fall from – better yet, crying with – an overtly Korean singer. For two hours and 15 minutes, one may sidle up to this bejewelled and bedecked version of Korea.
Return to the Tottori stage Let us return, in the end, to the Tottori stage to reiterate the ways in which the puzzle pieces fit and do not fit. The Tottori concert closed with these words: ‘We are so pleased to present tonight’s concert which binds together the hearts of Japan and
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Korea. This is indeed a first step in building a bridge to Asia’. All the performers returned to the stage to sing in unison a song created just for this concert, ‘Tabibito’ (Traveller), lyrics written by a Japanese, music written by a Korean. As a finale, Japanese and Korean performers alike sang this song, ostensibly a cooperative effort, but one sung only in Japanese on a Japanese stage broadcast to Japanese audiences. The ‘bridge’, then, which reputedly connects Japan to Asia is one built by and for Japan. The pieces of the Tottori stage fit neatly as an official presentation of shared bonds between Japan and Korea, voices of one mingling with the other. This stage shows Japan to be a good neighbour, meeting on the apolitical ground of song. However, these pieces clash as soon as they are juxtaposed with one another. The inequities of the stage hierarchise the neighbours back into colonial positions expressed in language and song. The apolitical ground of song quickly gives way to a performance of contested positions. Nowhere is this more clearly embodied than in one of the evening’s central stars, Kim Yonja. She opened the show, performing in duet with one of enka’s celebrated but hidden zainichi Koreans. She performed solos in both languages. She changed from Western dress to Korean costume and back again. She performed her own transnationality repeatedly and in several layers at once. Kim’s performance on this stage and others may be taken as simultaneously Korean, Korean in Japan (singing to, but not as zainichi ), Japanese (that is, particular to the context of Japan), and/or Asian (that is, the ‘Asia’ configured by Japan). The polysemy of her star text matches the puzzle pieces of this stage. As Ong notes, ‘transnational mobility and maneuvers mean that there is a new mode of constructing identity, as well as new modes of subjectification that cut across political borders’ (Ong 1999: 18). In Kim’s case, she uses those political borders to her advantage, building a career based upon crossing them. She becomes part of past and present circulations of popular culture in, through and around Asia. This concert brings together not simply one historical moment, but a panoply of such moments in this most recently configured ‘return to Asia’. I argue that these meanings come into play through performances that encompass these histories, tensions and politics – in other words, the various puzzle pieces – of intra-Asian popular culture flows. It is performances such as these that ignite this Japanese stage, lighting up ironies amidst the incandescence of tears.
Notes This chapter has previously been published in Hybridity: Journal of Cultures, Texts and Identities. I thank the editors for permission to reprint this slightly revised version. 1 The show was recorded on 1 August 1992, and broadcast 29 August 1992, 4:20–5:45 p.m. 2 Dyer includes within this image not only performances, but also promotion, fan response and critique, suggesting that these ‘are always extensive, multimedia, intertextual’ (1986: 3). 3 Kim’s move to Japan in 1988 was actually her second attempt to establish a career there. Her first attempt came 9 years earlier in 1979. In spite of performances at the prestigious NHK Hall in Tokyo in 1983 and 1984, Kim’s career in Japan floundered at that time. Her performance of the song ‘Asa no Kuni kara’ (From the Land of the Morning; Japanese translation of title) at the final ceremony of the Seoul Olympics in 1988 became the
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6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34
35
36 37 38 39
launching pad to her subsequent career in Japan. Subsequent concerts and recitals by Kim in Japan invariably include performance of her Olympic song. Pan-Asianism is not uniformly accepted. Chua Beng Huat (2000), for example, questions the pervasiveness of the influence of Japanese pop culture in Asia. Ching (1998: 65, 67–8) argues that the ‘globalized imperialist structure’ of hierarchy based upon epidermal distinctiveness – primarily black vs. white, but also yellow and brown – informed Japan’s self-positioning as ‘not white, not quite, yet alike’, that is, not white, but more white than other Asians, yet linked as a ‘whiter Asian’ among Asians. Oricon (1992). Kokiku (1995: 13). www.senshu-kikaku.co.jp/ (date accessed 24 May 2001). Ibid. Karaoke Fan (1992: 10–11). Enka Jaanaru (1993: 22). Enka Jaanaru (1990: 22). Enka Jaanaru (1993: 23). Enka Jaanaru (1993: 23). http://www.senshu-kikaku.co.jp (accessed 24 May 2001). Enka Jaanaru (1989: 34). Enka Jaanaru (1990: 16). Enka Jaanaru (1993: 20). Enka Jaanaru (1996: 35). Enka Jaanaru (1990: 16). Enka Jaanaru (1990: 16). Enka Jaanaru (1990: 16). Enka Jaanaru (1990: 16). Crown Records CRCP-20245, released 21 June 2000. Enka Jaanaru (2000: 8). Enka Jaanaru (1999b: 2). Enka Jaanaru (2000: 8). Enka News 2000. Http://enka-dayo.tvst.com/korea.html (accessed 24 May 2001). Enka Jaanaru (1997: 37). Karaoke Fan (1992: 10). Karaoke Fan (1992: 11). Enka Jaanaru (1992: 20). Karaoke Fan (1993: 68). ‘Misora Hibari o Utau, Vol. I and II’, Crown Records CRCN-20126, CRCN-20128. Kim is not the only singer to release albums of Hibari songs. Others include Tagawa Toshimi, Tendo¯ Yoshimi, Nakamura Mitsuko and Matsubara Nobue. During the period of my fieldwork in Japan from 1991 to 1993, Kim was the only enka singer to grant me an interview of longer than a few minutes. In fact her interview lasted three hours. Enka Jaanaru (1993: 23). This organization was founded in 1982. www.senshu-kikaku.co.jp/ Korea shares Chinese ideographs with China and Japan. Therefore, Kim’s name can easily and correctly be written out with the proper ideographs. However, the Japanese have also developed phonetic syllabaries considered to be more elementary forms of writing and of lower status.
11 Pop music as postcolonial nostalgia in Taiwan Jeremy E. Taylor
Taiwanese is trendy. Despite four decades of government policy designed to relegate the language to a position of cultural relic, Taiyu (‘Taiwanese’ – the local term for the Hokkien language in Taiwan) has become decidedly fashionable on the island since the early 1990s. The current trend has gone beyond a fad. County governments have introduced compulsory Taiwanese language courses into school curricula; government officials who once supported banning public broadcasting in Taiyu are now flocking to study it; and advertising companies are dubbing their commercials into it. In the space of just a few years, the Taiwanese language has shifted from a position of virtual invisibility to one of ubiquity. Nowhere has this trend been more evident than in the unprecedented rise in popularity of Taiyu ge, or Taiwanese-language songs. Different in sound, style and origin from the Gangpai (Hong Kong school) Mandarin-language pop for which Taiwan has become marginally (in)famous in recent years, Taiyu ge have a history dating back to the 1930s and the era of Japanese colonial rule. However, popular songs that were sung and performed in Taiwanese were hard hit during the years of political repression under the KMT (Nationalist Party). Government propaganda portrayed the ‘dialect’ as uncouth and, by association, so was the music which used it. For years, the KMT government tried in vain to convince the world that it was the only legitimate government of China. Even popular music was to reflect this. Mandarin songs (sung in Guoyu, or the ‘national language’ of the Chinese Republic) were promoted at the expense of Taiwanese, Hakka and songs in other languages. Broadcasting of any form of entertainment in Taiyu was persistently restricted by the authorities to one hour per day (Winckler 1994: 31–3), and the music was eventually forced underground. Until the early 1990s, Taiwanese-language pop could almost only be heard on illegal radio stations or at makeshift booths in the night markets. In contrast, numerous stars who once made their names as Mandarin singers are nowadays switching to recording in Taiwanese (Independence Evening News 29 March 1997). Others have given up on Mandarin altogether, using the Taiyu ge genre as a means by which to resurrect their careers. There is clearly more than enough financial incentive to do so. Yet the increased presence of the Taiwanese language in the electronic media, and the popular music which makes use of it, is part of a wider social trend. Since the
174 Jeremy E. Taylor death of President Jiang Jingguo in January 1988, and the subsequent ending of the Jiang family dynasty that had ruled the island under martial law for the better part of forty years, cultural and intellectual freedoms have been gradually restored. Local Taiwanese, once taught to embrace ‘Chineseness’, have begun to state their own, bentu or local, cultural identity. For many, this has involved coming to terms with the country’s recent past. Heightened concern for local Taiwanese history, for example, has meant that the once taboo subject of Japanese colonial rule on the island from 1895 to 1945 is now back on the agenda and open for reinterpretation (Matsunaga et al. 1995: 59–67). This has gone beyond the corridors of academic history departments. Consumer trends such as the renewed appreciation (and renovation) of Japanese-era architecture and the emulation of pre-war interior design styles, for instance, have become particularly noticeable in recent years. The success of contemporary Taiwanese-language pop stars such as Jiang Hui, Huang Yiling and Long Qianyu whom we shall discuss below, may seem a long way from the days of Taiwan’s place in the pre-war Japanese empire. Yet, as I shall explain, the birth, development and present state of this popular musical genre are all inextricably linked to the Japanese presence on the island over the last one hundred years. In this chapter, I would like to examine the role that this form of popular music has had in postcolonial Taiwan. Moreover, I will discuss how the sound of the foreign coloniser has come to be localised by Taiwanese musicians and record companies, and has in turn come to be appropriated as a symbol of Taiwanese identity at a time when questions of national and cultural identity have become increasingly politicised.
The Greater China myth In spite of the current popularity and commercial success of this music, the Taiyu ge genre has generally been overlooked or ignored by the majority of scholars outside Taiwan.1 One reason for this can perhaps be found in a general Adornean disdain shown by many scholars towards anything associated with commercialism (Horkheimer and Adorno 1944: 120–67). As French theorist Pierre Bourdieu (1993) has noted, there has traditionally been a tendency to see art that is commercially successful (i.e. rich in financial capital) as lacking in creative merit (and cultural capital). This has become the dominant logic for many studies of popular culture in Taiwan, as the focus has often been directed at more ‘artistic’ musical forms such as the campus folk movement of Taiwan’s universities in the 1970s (see, for example, Jaivin 1996). The huge increase in album sales that many Taiyu ge performers have enjoyed in recent times may have taken this music to new audiences around the island itself, but it has unfortunately also ensured its obscurity amongst Frankfurtorientated scholars abroad. There has also been a much more imposing hindrance to the study of this music, however. As in so many other fields, studies of Taiwanese popular culture are all too often overshadowed by the vastness of the island’s northern neighbour, China. Even in spite of encouraging trends which show that ‘Taiwan studies’ is emerging as an independent field of research (Murray and Hong 1994: 7–16; Xiao 1995),
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scholars of Chinese popular culture have been all too ready to examine Taiwanese pop for its worth as an agent of change in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) whilst failing to examine its context or significance for the country from which it originated (Barmé 1995; Jones 1992a: 15–18). With a limited following in the PRC, Taiyu ge are ignored or at best overlooked as irrelevant when compared to the ‘bigger’ issues of political liberalisation in China. The euphoric popularity with which the Australian, European and North American academies have taken up the ‘Greater China’ concept is emblematic of this. There are of course a number of differing definitions of ‘Greater China’ (Harding 1993), yet in the large majority of models, the PRC takes centre stage, and the societies of Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan and, in some instances, ‘overseas Chinese’ communities in South East Asia, orbit around the mother country like planets around a star. This theory owes much of its origin to the discipline of economics. East Asian economies and markets were seen to become increasingly integrated throughout the late 1980s and statistics pointing towards gargantuan levels of Taiwanese, Hong Kong and South East Asian investment in China were not only published in the pages of the financial press, but were soon used to support a perceived political and social rapprochement between the societies in question (Berger 1996: 106–7). At the same time, theorists such as Tu Wei-ming wrote of a ‘cultural China’ (1992: 286) which encompassed all peoples of ethnic Chinese descent within a single, homogeneous cultural bloc. Economic collaboration was explained as the result of Confucian cultural ties that bound the communities of the diaspora to each other and ultimately to their ancestral homeland. The ‘Greater China’ thesis has come to influence many fields of scholarship, and studies of popular culture are no exception. In Joseph Bosco’s article entitled ‘The Emergence of a Taiwanese Popular Culture’ (1994), for example, Taiwanese pop music is not even viewed in the context of its role in Taiwan, but rather for its place in the PRC. As far as Bosco is concerned, ‘Movies, music and clothing from Taiwan have helped to define modernity for the PRC, in the process changing the island’s image on the mainland’ (1994: 397). What purports to be a study of Taiwanese popular culture per se, thus becomes a study of Taiwanese popular culture in China. There is a similar inclination to be found in work by Geremie R. Barmé (1992) and Thomas B. Gold (1993) in which the idea of ‘Gangtai’ is prevalent. Gangtai is an abbreviation of the Mandarin terms for Hong Kong (Xianggang) and Taiwan (Taiwan) respectively, and references to Taiwanese popular music in the works cited above are commonly placed within this category. The very use of the term Gangtai links Taiwan with Hong Kong, and suggests that there is little different about music emanating from these two quite divergent societies. The Gangtai idea has clear links to the ‘Greater China’ concept, for it implies an inherent sameness about popular culture emanating from the peripheries of the ‘Chinese’ world. Taiwanese pop, be it Mandarin or Taiyu, is relegated to the ambiguous ranks of the southern ‘other’. Whilst Mandarin-language pop does enjoy a large following in China, the case of Taiwanese-language songs is quite different. Rather than gravitating towards the PRC, either for a market, for musical inspiration or for historical precedent, the Taiyu ge genre speaks of a local history that has much more to do with Japan than
176 Jeremy E. Taylor with any notion of a ‘Greater China’. Even now, as Taiwan and the PRC are believed by some to be set on a course towards eventual unification and cultural homogenisation (Myers 1996: 1090), the resonance of Japanese musical and cultural influence rings clear through the themes of the newly invigorated Taiyu ge genre, challenging the claim that Taiwan is a purely ‘Chinese’ society. Ironically, then, it has been the popular music of the foreign coloniser, adapted and, to borrow a term from Ulf Hannerz, ‘hybridised’ (1991: 124) over the last half a century or more, that has come to symbolise Taiwanese cultural identity and uniqueness. In order to understand this clearly, however, it is first necessary to take a brief look at the historical development of Taiwanese-language pop, particularly in light of the Taiwan–Japan relationship during and since the end of the colonial era.
Echoes of the empire As historian Zhuang Yongming has noted in his exhaustive work on pre-war Taiwanese-language pop, the first Taiyu ge were recorded in the early 1930s (1994: 22–3). This was the middle period of Japanese rule which preceded the patriotic fervour and assimilation programmes introduced in the lead-up to the Pacific War (Chou 1996). It was a time characterised by a relatively large amount of intellectual and artistic freedom in Taiwan. Newspapers were openly read by members of the educated elite whilst Taiwanese children were increasingly able to access an education on a par with that of Japanese expatriates (Tsurumi 1984). With the introduction of broadcasting and the establishment of radio stations in main cities throughout the island by the late 1920s (China Times 7 November 1996), a large portion of the population became exposed to the latest recorded Japanese music over the airwaves. Within this climate of relative openness, and with the background of the beginnings of electronic mass media in the colony, record companies such as Columbia and RCA soon arrived with plans to establish a recording industry there. Columbia was the most active, recruiting song writers such as Deng Yujian and Zhou Tianwang, as well as singers Ai’ai, Chun Chun and others (Zhuang 1994: 27). The company sent their newly assembled clique of musicians off on a steamboat bound for recording studios in Tokyo. The result of this and subsequent trips to Japan was a flurry of songs that became Taiwanese pop standards. Songs such as ‘U ia hoe’2 (Flower in the evening rain) first recorded in 1934, and ‘Bang chhun hong’ (Watching on the spring breeze), both hugely successful in the early 1930s, are still performed today as laoge (old songs/standards) on television programmes and the like. Yet perhaps more important than the early commercial successes of the Columbia and RCA artistes, the latter years of colonial rule laid the groundwork for continued Japanese influence in Taiwanese-language pop in the postcolonial era. This was to occur in a number of ways. Firstly, the cities of Japan provided the training ground in which a whole generation of musicians, song writers and others affiliated with the music industry came to learn their trade before the end of colonial rule. In the postcolonial decades, this generation came to shape the Taiyu ge sound and style and to leave a legacy that has lasted to the present.
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Historians have estimated that the number of Taiwanese students in Japan was in excess of 7,000 by the eve of the Pacific War (Tsurumi 1984: 292). Immersed in the rapidly modernising centre of the empire, many of these young Taiwanese came to be exposed to American jazz and Latin tangos, as well as the Japanese pop of the day. Some even took to music as a form of income. The classic representative of this entire group of students was Yang Sanlang. Yang had travelled to Japan in 1935 to study music and, after taking the Japanified stage name of ‘Saburo’,3 ended up playing trumpet in his teacher’s band in the evenings to make ends meet. He toured throughout Japan, eventually travelling to the Japanese colony of Manchuria before returning to Taiwan at the end of the war (Du 1993). Yang became influential in the 1950s, the so-called ‘heyday of Taiwaneselanguage pop’ (Winckler 1994: 31), as he single-handedly began transcribing dozens of Japanese enka songs into Taiwanese, as well as composing his own enka-inflected pop music, influenced by more than a decade of musical experience in Japan. Some of his most popular tunes, including ‘Kang-to ia u’ (Rainy night in the harbour town) and ‘Ku-cheng mi-mi’ (Endless nostalgia) continue to be recorded and performed by artistes today. Yang’s musical endeavours laid a foundation for others such as Ye Junling, a lyricist and later chief of Yazhou changpian (Asia Records) who introduced literally hundreds of Japanese songs into Taiwan during the 1960s (Zhang 1991: 141). Ye is perhaps the most prolific songwriter in the history of Taiwanese language pop. His songs were recorded by some of the music’s biggest names, from the ‘talented childhood star’ Chen Fenlan (United Daily News 29 April 1996), to the contemporary female singer Huang Yiling. Ye has even been referred to as a ‘Guobao’ or national treasure by government authorities, for the contributions he has made to the Taiwanese music industry.4 The songs that Yang Sanlang and Ye Junling introduced, labelled nothing more than hunxue gequ (mixed-blood songs) by a number of critics (Zhuang 1994: 83–6), came to dictate the sound of this genre of popular music. Writer Chen Fang-ming has elaborated on the dominance of this Japaneseinflected Taiwanese pop when describing the memories of his father ‘listening to those Japanese songs. I grew up with the sounds of an old fashioned record player spinning those songs into the air’ (Chen 1995: 38). The heartbroken melodies of Japanese enka which first came into Taiwanese pop in this period are now one of its defining features (Xu 1993: 184), thanks largely to the work of Yang, Ye and the performers who recorded their music. However, the Japanese influence on Taiwanese-language pop also came from another source, and one that was definitely much ‘closer to home’. Whilst the recording industry had got well under way in the 1950s and the following decade, a thriving live music scene had been established, especially around Taipei and its environs. The bars in areas such as Danshui, the hot-spring resort of Beitou and the red-light district of Wanhua, increasingly became the focus of a new Japanese clientele. As Taiwanese feminist historian Ke Ruiming has mentioned (1991: 217– 25), these and other nightlife centres throughout the island attracted large numbers of wealthy Japanese businessmen in the 1960s, who saw Taiwan as a source of cheap sexual entertainment. Still in a position of economic superiority to the people of their
178 Jeremy E. Taylor one-time colony then, Japanese men came to the island in their thousands to ‘buy the spring’.5 Japanese popular music, and in particular enka, was used by local Taiwanese musicians to cater for these patrons and to make them feel at home. Weng Jiaming (1996: 206–7) has noted that the 1960s and 1970s saw both an explosion of jiuge (wine songs) emanating from this very world of bars in which the postcolonial Japanese client was entertained, and the emergence of the jiujia nü (bar girl) figure as a mainstay of Taiyu ge lyrics. This bar music that employed Japanese enka and drinking melodies, incorporating Taiwanese lyrics concerning the pitiful life of the bar girl, came to be known as ‘nakaxi ’.6 The word nakaxi is absent from most dictionaries in Taiwan. Whether this absence is due to a dislike for words perceived to be of foreign origin, or whether it fits into that hazy category or words known as slang and thus does not merit a place in such books is unclear. In any case, the term nakaxi is used commonly in the Taiwanese popular music world. The term most likely originates from the Japanese nagashi, which in dictionary definitions refers to ‘wandering musician[s]’ (Katsumata 1954: 1168). Nakaxi now tends to be used in reference not only to the melodies that Taiwanese bar singers adapted from Japanese drinking and enka songs, but to the very lifestyle and behaviour that these bar singers epitomised.
Nakaxi women Today, many of the most popular artistes of the Taiyu ge genre claim to be from nakaxi backgrounds. Jiang Hui, by far the most popular female Taiyu performer in the 1990s, is a classic example, as her early career is commonly described in the music press as originating in the bar culture of Taipei’s underworld. In a biographical article about Jiang, Taiwanese music critic Du Wenjing describes the artiste’s youth ‘in the career of a nakaxi singer, [performing] in some sleazy establishments with her younger sister . . . gaining a reputation that was belittling and hard to enjoy’ (Du 1996). Others have referred to her as embodying the ‘the embittered woman’s image of nakaxi style performance’ (Tao 1992: 67). Yet none of these are descriptions that Jiang would be likely to publicly shy away from. Indeed, Dianjiang Records, the company under which Jiang has released her most commercially successful albums, tends to aid in the creation of Jiang’s persona as the quintessential nakaxi woman. Her album covers commonly portray her as a sad and pitiful bar girl, dressed in a low-cut black dress or gazing submissively towards the floor. Audio representations support this visual theme. Most of Jiang’s better-known tracks are to do with jiu (wine), and by association the nakaxi world of bars and night clubs in which her career began. Her hugely successful 1992 release ‘Chiu au e sim sian’ (‘The sound of my heart after drinking’) is but one of the best examples: ‘I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, please don’t give me your sympathies’, wails Jiang in the chorus, ‘only the wine understands me’ ( Jiang Hui 1992). This song, labelled ‘the national anthem of Taiwan’s KTV’ by one writer (Ke Yonghui 1995: 163), has come to represent not only Jiang’s image as the nakaxi bar singer, but indeed the entire Taiyu ge genre of the 1990s, and the conscious links it has with its roots in the bars of Beitou.
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The term ‘national anthem’ is central here too, as it points to the fact that Jiang’s music has gone further than entertainment, and now has appeal as an almost quasinational symbol. Notes on the jacket cover to her 1995 album take a similar tone, for they present Jiang’s songs as a symbol of a Taiwanese nation, a cultural expression that binds all Taiwanese together in a feeling of familiarity: The parents of some friends of mine are over fifty now and have migrated to the USA . . . they want us to send over some Taiwanese songs to listen to...the first one they specify is Jiang Hui. At an advertising company on Keelung Road in Taipei, there are people listening to Jiang Hui in the office . . . At a fishing tackle shop by the pier at Makung in the Pescadores, the boss likes listening to Jiang Hui as well. ( Jiang Hui 1995) In this way, the symbol of the low-class nakaxi woman, the singer of drinking songs and entertainer of foreign men, becomes a definitive symbol of Taiwaneseness. From Los Angeles to downtown Taipei to the outlying islands of Penghu, the nakaxi woman becomes Taiwan. Interestingly, then, a figure that in the 1970s may have been nothing more than a reminder of the exploitation that Taiwanese women suffered at the hands of some Japanese expatriate men, today acts in the context of a world Taiwanese diaspora which seeks to define its own identity through a common cultural capital. Jiang Hui may be one of the most popular Taiyu ge singers of the present era, but she is certainly not the only female performer to build a career on the nakaxi style. Huang Yiling is another female singer who has been presented in a similar vein to Jiang. A great number of Huang’s songs, including the title song to the 1995 album Sim thang chiu lai se (Wash away my heartache with wine), concern liquor as a central lyrical theme. Huang’s early career as an enka singer has been traced, like that of Jiang, back to the bars of Beitou in the 1970s by some music critics (Yue 1996). And in 1996 she symbolically returned to these musical roots by releasing the two-album series for Pony Canyon records entitled Ang e enka (Popular enka), in which she rerecorded Japanese enka songs dating from the early 1960s. The legacy of this nakaxi bar girl persona has been far-reaching. Indeed, female artistes who do not adhere to the role are regularly criticised in the music press as being less than authentic. Long Qianyu is an interesting case in point. After releasing the album Sui-chheng (Drifting emotions) for HCM Records in 1996, one critic wrote of Long as being untrue to the Taiyu ge style. Sounding a little too light-hearted for a real nakaxi singer, it was said that ‘some people think that it [her sound] has lost its “Long style” melancholy’ (Hong Shuzhen 1996). After all, in accordance with the nakaxi sound, should not all Taiwanese songs hark back to the figure of pitiful helplessness exuded by Jiang and Huang? Long’s 1997 release accordingly returned to the style of the bar song, with the title track to the album Goa bo chui la! (I’m not drunk) echoing Jiang Hui’s drunken melody recorded six years earlier. In the accompanying video clip, Long’s voice is played over a scene in which drunken
180 Jeremy E. Taylor businessmen are caressed by scantily dressed though less than enthusiastic bar girls. In her disgust, one of these nakaxi women tries to drink away the horrors of her profession, laying her head down beside a bottle of liquor on a bar table. Long voices the depression of the bar girl in the chorus of the song, even adding a drunken ‘hick!’ for full effect, as she sings: I’m not drunk! Its just that I don’t want to wake from my dreams. I’m not drunk! Its just that my heart has been shattered. (Long Qianyu 1997)
Postcoloniality and context Popular music in any part of the world tells us a great deal about the cultural tastes of its creators and consumers. What then do the wailing tones of Taiwanese-language pop tell us about the legacy of Japanese cultural influence on the island? Jonathan Friedman (1990), in his fascinating study of popular culture in Central Africa, has shed some interesting light on the links between pop music, nostalgia and postcoloniality. In his study, Friedman writes extensively of the sapeur movement in Congo, a social trend that saw young Congolese men consuming French cultural capital in the form of clothing and behaviour. The roots of this movement are traced back to the days of French colonial rule in the region, and in particular the strict social hierarchy that was imposed upon residents of the ‘typical colonial space of power’ (1990: 102) that was Brazzaville. Accumulation of cultural capital associated with the imperial métropole (i.e. Paris) distinguished an individual from other Congolese and could be used to find a place higher up the hierarchy of colonial society. The most sought-after signs of sophistication amongst sapeurs became clothing, and more precisely European designer fashion labels. As Freidman notes, this trend did not cease with Congolese independence, but in fact came into its own in the 1980s, with the advent of mass media and the rise of soukous music. Soukous is the guitar-frenzied dance music born in the sapeur-frequented nightclubs of Brazzaville and Kinshasa. It became the musical accompaniment to the whole sapeur movement as singers such as Papa Wemba flouted their French fashion labels during stage performances and sang the praises of haute couture clothing (Ewens 1991: 141). Even in an independent Congo, then, Paris remained the centre of the sapeur/ soukous world. There are similarities here between Congolese soukous music and the sapeur movement within which it was immersed, and Taiyu ge’s current status. One is tempted, as Leo Ching has been (1994), to consider that both cases are clear indications of Homi Bhabha’s ‘mimic man’ – the warped mirror image of the oppressor that the colonial subject becomes through consumption of cultural capital – in practice. In both cases, we see a trend appearing in which the consumption of the cultural capital associated with the centre of empire becomes a sign of sophistication and even social power. However, whereas Bhaba’s concept explains the role of cultural capital in
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empowerment of the oppressed and eventually as a tool with which imperialism can be fought, the situation with Taiyu ge is something quite different. As we saw in the examination of the music of Jiang Hui, Huang Yiling and Long Qianyu, contemporary Taiyu ge, whilst certainly drawing on the postcolonial ties that Taiwan has had with Japan, particularly in the form of the sex trade and the bar culture built around it, is not used primarily as a weapon against a continued Japanese presence on the island. Yet Taiyu ge do indeed remind us that Taiwan’s perceived cultural homogeneity, especially its ‘Chineseness’ and its place in a sinic world, is far more questionable than early KMT propaganda, and the ‘Greater China’ thesis, might suggest. Indeed, by continuing in the direction that was established by early Taiwanese musicians such as Yang Sanlang and Ye Junling, many contemporary singers, including those discussed above, have chosen to sustain a musical genre which specifically draws on those elements of Taiwanese history that link the island to Japan rather than China. It is perhaps for this reason that Taiyu ge as an entire genre has been used with increasing frequency by political parties and organisations in Taiwan which seek to define a modern, independent Taiwanese identity. This is a trend that, not surprisingly, started with the main opposition movement in Taiwan (Xu 1993: 47), now headed by the DPP (Democratic Progressive Party), but has now been taken up, ironically perhaps, by the KMT – the very party that had all but banned these songs until just over a decade ago.7 An indigenised musical form such as this offers the perfect symbol of Taiwan’s cultural uniqueness which can be worked into partisan battles against a ‘Greater China’ on all sides of the domestic political spectrum. There need be no contradiction in the fact that an artiste such as Jiang Hui may make her name singing Japanese-style melodies in an enka-inflected tone, and yet still be presented by the music press, her record company and government authorities alike as the ‘Queen of Taiwanese pop’ (Government Information Office 1995: 421), or even as a national symbol.8 At a period when questions of historical identity are still very much at the forefront of political debate in Taiwan, popular music, even that with as little political content as the bar songs of the Taiyu ge repertoire, can now find itself at the heart of discussions about Taiwanese identity at various levels of society.
Notes 1 One of the few exceptions to this can be found in the ground-breaking work of Fang-Chih Irene Yang (1993, 1994) who has looked extensively at the history of Taiyu ge over recent decades. 2 Note that all song titles are rendered in Taiwanese. The romanisation system I have employed here for Taiwanese is the so-called ‘Missionary script’, as first devised by the Reverend J. V. N. Talmage in 1850 (Fang 1994: 18). 3 Sanlang is the Mandarin transliteration of the Japanese name Saburo. My thanks to Ms Tsai Hsueh-hsing of the Taipei Language Institute for pointing this out to me. Yang’s given name was Wocheng. 4 A Taipei city-government-sponsored concert was held in tribute to the elderly Ye Junling
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5 6
7
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on 5 July 1996. The concert programme bore the title Taiwan Guobao Ye Junling chaozuo Taiyu gequ wushi nian qingzhu (A commemoration of fifty years of composition by the Taiwanese national treasure Ye Junling). The Mandarin phrase mai chun (lit. to buy the spring) means to frequent brothels. It is worth noting that the development of a bar music scene in the 1960s and early 1970s was occurring at precisely the same time as the US military presence on Taiwan was at its height, as touched upon in Allen Chun’s contribution to this volume. During the 1996 presidential campaign, for example, President Li Denghui (Lee Tenghui) publicly defied Chinese military threats, whilst at the same time inviting Taiyu ge artistes like Bai Bingbing to appear on stage at KMT rallies. Lee’s association with this music signalled to many his sympathy towards an independent Taiwan. Indeed, in light of Christine R. Yano’s findings in this volume regarding the multiethnic roots of enka, a form of music that has been so instrumental in shaping Taiwanese popular music, the question of Taiyu songs as symbols of ‘Taiwaneseness’ becomes even more complicated.
12 Pop music and interculturality The dynamic presence of pop music in contemporary Balinese performance Zachar Laskewicz
The future will bring us a diversified and complex world, and not the uniform cultural landscape which the Westerner has dreamt of for various reasons since the 19th century . . . (Pinxten 1994: 133)1
Contemporary anthropology seems to have transcended the structuralist notion of culture viewed as something existing outside or above the dynamic force of individuals. It seems in this post-structuralist day and age that viewing culture as an entity in a constant state of flux is no longer a problematic issue, just as it is no longer difficult to suggest that the arts are more than simply a ‘reflection’ of a given culture but a force which actively brings about cultural change. Wading through the large amount of material written about Balinese music one quickly gets the impression that Western theorists, ethnomusicologists especially, are in their own way attempting to save the Balinese culture from ‘losing its ethnicity’. From developments in different academic disciplines this may now seem a paradox: an apparent attempt to protect the culture from its own development in a world in which we realise that change is the only ‘given’ cultural studies can offer us. My primary purpose in this chapter is to discuss the way the Balinese culture has been able to adapt to an everchanging world. Cultural adaptation has been made possible by integrating the continuous change into meaningful experiences of the world. This results in updating and adjusting their forms of performance, helping to make their environment that much more comprehensible. I hope to demonstrate that this is only possible thanks to the integration of Western pop culture. In an attempt to conceive of and describe the way Balinese culture assists itself in making its world more comprehensible, or rather develops and adjusts the Balinese systems of understanding for this purpose, a number of steps will be taken. We begin with a discussion of the term ‘performance’ and its implications in relation to the Western understanding of music as opposed to dance. Then we move on to discussing the role played by performance in perpetuating and changing culture. This is followed by an introduction to ‘interculturality’ as a theoretical concept, and after this we move on to a brief discussion of the remarkable ability the Balinese culture has to adapt to cultural change. The next area of discussion is involved with comparing the sorts of distinctions our culture makes between ‘traditional’ and
184 Zachar Laskewicz ‘popular’ music, and how this differs for the Balinese. This leads on to a discussion of musical forms in the twentieth century which are, in the author’s opinion, clear examples of popular musical forms which have provided the Balinese with tools to be used to actively adapt to rapid cultural change. This discussion begins with Gong Kebyar, a form of gamelan and an approach to music-making which was created to meet the new needs of Balinese culture during a period of rapid change around the turn of the century. We end on a discussion of new music and dance forms which are emerging from the Balinese youth of today, some Western forms which are adapted in a unique Balinese way often for anti-colonial purposes, and some combining Western music and traditional forms, which I refer to as campuran. It will be demonstrated that this adaptation is not the inundation feared by ethnomusicologists, leading to the ‘uniform cultural landscape’ suggested by Pinxten (1994: 133), but is a dynamic attempt by the Balinese of today to make sense of a diverging musical environment and to fit it into a particularly Balinese cultural agenda. As Pinxten suggests, cultures ‘die’ slower than we may like to think. The term performance is used in this chapter to refer to both music and dance. Although many theoreticians and anthropologists restrict themselves to one of the two, the terms ‘music’ or ‘dance’ are simply insufficient to refer to the multimedial nature of performative experience, especially as far as Balinese culture is concerned. This is, however, no less true in our culture which includes the motional intention of disco music and of course music videos. In exploring the dynamic role of pop music in Balinese culture the word ‘performance’ seems to be the only applicable term considering that in Balinese ‘traditional’ art the terms music and dance are difficult to apply as separate entities: the one depends on the other and vice versa. I have used this term deliberately because, in my opinion, contemporary pop performance – most certainly in the Balinese case, but also in a contemporary European context – is so much more than simply the sound it makes. It is a dynamic, three-dimensional, interactive process which can involve visual elements (music videos, special staging, etc.), physical dynamics (loudness of the sound evoking physical vibrations in discos), sensual elements (in terms of sometimes violent emotional confrontation in a tightly filled space), movement-based structures (such as the strong desire to move one’s body to music, in other words, to dance), olfactory elements (the smell of gyrating bodies, smoke and even purposely induced smells in specific circumstances), among others. Referring simply to the music, is a dangerous reduction: the terms dance and music are Western constructions that function to reduce cultural phenomena to individual analysable elements. So in referring to performance, I am referring in this chapter to that activity which young Balinese people involve themselves in while creating what we call ‘pop music’. Using these parameters as a source, contemporary composers and performers create a dynamic environment that communicates vital spatial and temporal information which cannot be communicated in any other way. Performing artists such as pop musicians and other composers create models which communicate to an audience. Some of these musical models are more accessible than others, adopting recognisable forms which an audience can interact with. Thanks to this interaction, change takes place in a musical culture. I Wayan Dibia,
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an important Balinese choreographer and academic who is the director of the STSI (the Indonesian College of the Arts) in Denpasar, Bali, suggested that the composer plays a critical role in culture by bridging two opposing poles: tradition and innovation. On the one hand, the composer plays the role of the innovator in that he or she actively creates new forms and structures from his or her own experience of the old to adapt to new and changing environments. On the other hand, the composer has an important role to play in the perpetuation of his or her culture. According to Dibia, the composer retains a strategic position between a perpetuation of traditional forms and an innovation upon or alienation from the status quo. This creates a tension which remains in a state of unsteady balance. If, on the one hand, a composer’s work has a tendency towards innovation, then he or she may have difficulty finding an audience. If, on the other hand, the composer has a tendency towards perpetuation, this will lead to stasis and eventual stagnation. A composer, or in fact any artist, often acts as a sort of bridge between tradition and innovation. The most successful composer is often the artist who keeps up with new developments in the surrounding culture, providing their listeners with a bridge to new developments through adopting a musical language which the audience recognises. I Made Agus Wardana, a Balinese composer who lives and works in Brussels, helped me realise the importance of this in Balinese terms: musik harus diterima oleh semua orang: tidak terlalu sulit tapi enak didengar . . . (music should be accessible to all people: not too difficult, and pleasant to hear . . .).2 In this chapter I hope to demonstrate how new developments in Balinese popular music are helping to bridge this gap. In contemporary Bali there are a number of forces which act upon this unsteady state of artistic development. On a village level, the perpetuation of existing local variation is considered important, and so there is often a greater emphasis on tradition. At the same time, on a state institutional level – at the STSI in Denpasar – there is a greater emphasis on innovation and experimentation, sometimes varying to a very large degree from traditionally accepted performance-based structures. Balinese culture, however, is not so easy to classify. On a village level, teachers of music and dance as well as gamelan groups are invited to teach new music or play new works for community events, such as concerts organised by the banjar 3 in order to provide the community with a bit of extra income. Important performers from another village can also be invited to teach the latest musical craze which may have been introduced during one of the major island-wide musical competitions. What is perhaps the most interesting level of change in the Balinese musical world is the influence of contemporary Western pop music on a new generation of Balinese youth. In this chapter, I would like to tackle the issue of intercultural influence by taking an analytical viewpoint which considers the two contrasting poles, both tradition and innovation, and the complex ways these two poles are bridged in contemporary Balinese culture. This means to what extent the performance event or style comes from a dynamic innovative variation on traditional material, and to what extent the creative activity is based on a perpetuation of imposed cultural forms. It will be suggested that the forms used by the Balinese youth of today achieve a healthy balance between the two extremes, giving a uniquely Balinese way of experiencing the current cultural environment.
186 Zachar Laskewicz In this chapter we discuss particular dynamic forms of Balinese performance which have helped to bring about cultural change and development, where innovation upon tradition is brought about by physical action and interaction. Examples are given of new Balinese performance forms, some of which combine Western-style pop and traditional music. In this way, I will demonstrate how the Balinese youth of today are finding it increasingly necessary to combine popular music with their traditional forms so that their environment becomes comprehensible in a rapidly changing world. I believe that it is through this active interaction with their environment in the form of music and dance performance that cultural change takes place. Music has such a strong connection with change because of its vital temporal and spatial aspects. It is, certainly in terms of the Balinese culture, embedded in a spatial and temporal performance-based environment, and is therefore in a constant state of adaptation in order to provide the culture with the tools necessary for understanding that changing world. If we are to help musicology along on its path to a non-transcendent view of culture, we have to develop a theoretical model which is sensitive to this change. If music is allowed to become static, a museum piece or an ‘object’ to be studied as something abstracted from the parameters of space and time – as has happened to a large extent in our own culture (especially within the field of traditional musicology) – it simply stops playing a significant role in perpetuating culture. In this chapter I wish to demonstrate that intercultural influences, like the adoption of Western popular forms, do not all have to be experienced in a negative way (as is the prevailing tendency in contemporary ethnomusicology). Instead they have to be seen as an inevitable, necessary and vital change which allows the music to retain structures which are comprehensible to the Balinese. A generation of Balinese youth has to deal with a whole new series of Indonesian and other external influences, and adaptation and integration of pop forms help them to assimilate and integrate them. The fusion of a Balinese musical aesthetic with Western pop is a result of the cultural processes I refer to as interculturality. In order to approach interculturality, we have to discuss the different ways individuals make use of these processes to their own advantage. Interculturality often involves the recontextualisation of foreign cultural material within one’s own culture. It is not the same as globalisation which is a term we are confronted with more and more often as the world gets smaller thanks to extended telecommunication technology. Interculturality, however, is most certainly becoming a more common form of artistic expression thanks to globalisation. People who are confronted with a rapidly changing world are searching for tools to understand that world. This is one of the major factors which has to be understood about the way interculturality works. I have experienced this process myself through adapting my own artistic habitus while learning the contrasting cultural possibilities available to me through my contact with Java, the Netherlands, Bali and Belgium, all of which contrasted with what I had accepted as the status quo. I have also witnessed this phenomenon, having been in contact for many years with an intercultural environment, i.e. a non-European community, including Balinese people, who combine with their own performance forms all sorts of physical/sensory material they experience in the new culture they find themselves in. I Nyoman
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Wenten, an important Balinese choreographer who lives and works in California, told me in an interview that globalisation has brought to Indonesia special music schools which only teach Western music,4 and that these schools are funded by the Indonesian government. According to Wenten, the ultimate plan of the Indonesian government is to encourage their students to play other forms of music outside the context of the gamelan tradition. The actual political implications of this attitude to Western musical forms are beyond the scope of this chapter, although it is certainly an example of the growing need for intercultural interaction in contemporary (Indonesian) society. The intention here is to demonstrate that such intercultural experiences occur because the culture involved fulfils a personal need or desire. Traditional ethnomusicology often ignores the influence of Western popular music on non-European cultures because they conceive of this as an imposition on ‘traditional’ culture. Interculturality, however, should be seen as a tool we use to better understand the other 5 through dynamically interacting with the new environment. Diamond, herself an American composer who writes for the Javanese gamelan, comments on the importance of interculturality. As she observes in one of her papers: ‘Western influence dominates in certain areas, like global distribution of mass media and material goods. But is there only one villain here? Or are many cultural practices both dangerous and wonderful? Is television only bad? Is the oral tradition only wonderful?’ (Diamond 1990: 16). Similarly, Wardana, the Balinese composer mentioned previously, finds interculturality very important because it allows two cultures to produce something by combining their different musical ideas. His wording is literally ‘finding a solution’ or ‘creating a harmony’; with different people, he says, you learn new things, new ways of looking at yourself.6 The desire for intercultural influence, however, suggests an internal necessity for change, and one adapts the extra-cultural influence according to a personal agenda, which is only a natural process. Debussy, perhaps the most influential of French composers, introduced profound changes into the way music was listened to after brief experience of ‘Eastern’ music – in this case Javanese gamelan – at the 1889 Paris Exhibition: here began the lure of the exotic in music. The vague pentatonticisms, the new dimension of space and the exotic sensuality of sound seemed radically new and different, but in fact Debussy’s ‘impressionistic’ creations had little to do with Javanese music, representing instead a personal agenda and the needs for expression and development within a staid French middle class. This tendency can be extended to many other artists from the beginning to the end of the twentieth century, including Benjamin Britten and Steve Reich, both of whom were influenced by Balinese culture and made significant contributions to the development of music in Western culture. The innovations may have been influenced by the way the artists experienced Eastern culture, but their work does not necessarily reflect the culture which influences them: cultural anthropology taught us long ago that studying new cultures can often tell far more about the researcher than the culture being investigated. The Balinese have always been open to intercultural influence and that influence is most certainly noticeable in the twentieth century. One only has to look at general
188 Zachar Laskewicz performances such as the Barong dance, which is considered to have developed from Chinese/Buddhist influences, or dance performances such as Janger, which is an unusual combination of European colonial culture and Balinese coupling rituals. Here the Balinese have been influenced by cultures beyond Balinese shores, but in such a way that there is no sense that the performances are any less Balinese than ‘traditional’ Balinese performance. At a time of dynamic change and development, namely the infiltration of Dutch colonialism and the downfall of the Balinese feudal system, a number of Western artists and anthropologists found themselves on Bali, finding there the answer to many of their unfulfilled dreams in the West. Here we can mention the names of Walter Spies (graphic artist), Colin McPhee (composer/ ethnomusicologist), Margaret Mead, Gregory Bateson and Beryl de Zoete (anthropologists). Just as Bali was to have an influence on these people epistemologically, they in their turn had an influence on the Balinese culture. This is an interesting area of discussion, considering that many of these ‘scientists’ were attempting to give an objective account of what Balinese culture was like when in truth they were helping it to change and develop. I think it is important here to conclude that while researchers or artists are attempting to understand and/or assimilate the new culture, the process is primarily self-reflexive, i.e. it is directed towards the needs and desires of the active intercultural party. This allows the observer to experience a superficial aspect of the culture in question, but this is not necessarily negative, and is quite often positive in that it forces us to question the way we experience and understand our world, and the (artistic) tools we use to do that. As a result of this, we very often tend towards interculturality because of expectations we harbour about the culture we are interacting with. A typical misunderstanding which arises in Balinese–European cultural interaction is involved with the sort of music tourists expect the Balinese to enjoy, and how in real life the Balinese have played on this expectation to help promote their restaurants or art centres. Very often this takes the form of reggae music which did not, of course, originate in Bali. In a commercial sense it is considered to be appropriate for the tourist market. It provides genuine employment possibilities in the generally mid- to lower priced hotels and clubs, which means real job prospects for people who can appropriate this music on Bali. It functions primarily to affirm the popular conception of Bali as a ‘tropical beach paradise’. The primary concern of these reggae groups is to emphasise the Caribbean-like nature of Bali or a Rastafarian aesthetic which suits our traditional image of ‘tropical’ culture. From my own experience with the Balinese, who live an intense and busy existence, nothing could be further from the (Balinese) truth. One important point which should be noted here is the major contrast our culture makes between popular and classical music, not only in terms of genre but also quality: in our culture it is a ‘folk’ acceptance that pop music is in some way less refined and complex than ‘classical’ music, and even that pop music is a rung below ‘classical’ music, which is a static but sound reflection of some culture. According to Barth, pop music ‘radiates the same tendency of attraction [to the Balinese] as among Western youth’ (Barth 1993: 246). Despite pop music reflecting a dynamic culture in action, thanks to our cultural discrimination it is considered of lesser value and often
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subversive. Furthermore, the developments in music in our culture are usually written against the period before, for example the radical newism of the avant-garde. Our image of art and artists is generally one of struggle involved with achieving a goal, misunderstanding between innovative artists against the status quo, and sometimes even pain or death. Such an image of art is simply impossible in terms of Balinese contemporary performance. Popular music is only distinguished in terms of genre and appropriate time and place of performance. Contemporary composers write dynamic new works which almost every Balinese person will find at the very least interesting, although more typical emotions include rapture and joy. Creation on traditional instruments or any type of Western instrumental audience will not be considered in terms of quality. Westerners, especially musicians and composers, find this musical aesthetic remarkably innovative and liberating, and therefore it comes as no surprise to discover that hundreds of Balinese musical instruments are made for an international market each year. Gong Kebyar is such an important form of gamelan because it fulfils the roles played in our culture of both ‘classical’ and ‘popular’ music. This ensemble, which is actually both a set of instruments and a style of playing them, became enormously popular during a period of momentous change and cultural ferment brought about by a combination of the presence of Western artists and anthropologists, Dutch colonialism – which was increasingly undermining the cultural role of the Balinese feudal system – and the growing tourist trade. Since colonialism had depleted support from noble houses because of the lack of taxes on a village level, many of the gamelan ensembles reverted to the villagers which put the control of the music into the hands of the villagers themselves. The changes on the island on both a political and a cultural level meant that a new dynamic form of musical communication was necessary, one that stood against the staidness of the then existing forms, and Gong Kebyar certainly fulfilled these needs. A musical form accompanied by dance came into existence which was in a sense ‘abstract’, in that there were no narratives or ‘stock characters’: the function of the dancer was to present a ‘kaleidoscope of moods and emotions that reflects the rapidly changing character of the music itself’ (Ornstein 1980: 24). The word kebyar can be literally translated as ‘bursting’ into flame (like a fire) or bloom (like a flower), which is a relatively correct analogy for the music itself, which is filled with sudden bursts of sound and electrifying changes. It emerged in a period of artistic ferment in north Bali, and then spread like lightning across the island, replacing the existing forms: the metal keys of older gamelan orchestras such as the monumental Gong Gede were sometimes melted down and refashioned into the Kebyar ensembles which eventually became the basis for all contemporary Balinese music. Gong Kebyar, and its accompanying dance forms, were so much more than simply musical forms: they brought with them an entirely new way for the Balinese to relate to their environment and one another, and in the author’s opinion they were used as a tool to adapt to rapid socio-political and cultural changes that the twentieth century brought with it. Gamelan ensembles from across the island joined one another in large-scale musical contests, and Balinese ‘mega-stars’ demonstrating remarkable musical or dance techniques became popular for a short time before being lost again
190 Zachar Laskewicz into oblivion. Unfortunately the form has become so complex and difficult to play that its ‘klasik’ status puts it out of reach of the average Balinese youth. Many these days lack the specialisation taught in the music academies which have taken the role played earlier by the villages and have therefore now become the institutions controlling the development of the Gong Kebyar tradition. The young people of today are searching for new means to express their own approach to the world, something which Gong Kebyar cannot on its own fulfil: it has become too difficult for many young Balinese people, who are obliged to spend more and more of their time catering to either the tourist industry or the rapidly evolving business world. These new needs are often fulfilled by adapting Western pop music forms. These experiments in combining Balinese culture with Western pop function both to unite them with the world they are perpetuating in the industry, and to provide comprehensible forms of cultural expression in a postcolonial world. Balinese youth whom I interviewed during fieldwork in 1998 told me that they considered their ‘enjoyment’ of pop and traditional music to be essentially the same. Popular music, though, has a vitality which they greatly enjoy, allowing them to experience a shared space enjoyed by other young people. The tendency within ethnomusicology – which is thankfully receding – to lament the ‘imposition’ of pop music as a result of tourism or commercialisation is a hopelessly out-of-date assumption, and is in general only perpetuated for the large tourist market. For the young Balinese, popular music has many advantages when compared to traditional music. To be able to dance to this music one does not have to have had years of dance training, which opens up a whole world of experiencing space, sound and the sense of community among other young people. Although Balinese traditional music has its own exuberance and sensuality, it involves a great deal of practice, whereas pop music is open to a wider audience and permits more freedom of movement. It must not be forgotten, however, that the Balinese who attend discos are often the same people who attend the new music festivals held around Bali, and are often directly involved in playing in both rock bands and traditional orchestras. As discussed above, increasingly more young people are reaching out to other forms of music and have found, thanks to the massive influx of Western tourists, many new types of popular music to fulfil their needs, especially in tourist areas such as Sanur and Kuta. According to Bakan, ‘the influx of Western popular music culture into Bali has created an awareness of a certain kind of musical energy and intensity that is very appealing to Balinese youth’ (Bakan 1993: 335). Bakan goes on to say that even Gong Kebyar lacks communicative potential for the average youth of today because of the enormous technical skill required. I Wayan Dibia, director of the STSI in Denpasar, has made vocal the fact that he regrets the loss of many different performance forms which have been or will be lost because of the growing desire of the Balinese youth to specialise in Western music (Dibia 1993). As Dibia observes, more and more Balinese people, especially in the larger cities, are working five-day weeks and do not have the energy to participate in traditional performance either actively as a performer or even passively as a viewer. Staying at home and resting in front of the television for light entertainment is becoming increasingly more common. For the performing arts which are still popular, one can also notice a
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process of movement from religion/cultural education to entertainment. Dibia comments on the fact that performances such as Wayang Kulit which were initially used for educational and religious purposes are gradually changing function (Dibia 1993: 52–3). The performances of today are becoming more and more entertaining at the cost of their initial function in the perpetuation of traditional values. The pedagogical sections are becoming increasingly shorter and the amusing sections which allow the audience to relax and enjoy the more slapstick sides of the performance are being extended, meaning in essence that the whole aim of the performance is to lighten up a tired audience who have spent the day at work. As Dibia demonstrates: ‘society has become less ready to “digest” performances which are too serious . . . light entertainment which can be enjoyed without having to think hard has become both the food and the effective medicine for people to restore their physical and mental condition’ (Dibia 1993: 66). One of the unquestionable factors concerning the desire of the Balinese to look beyond their shores for musical satisfaction cannot be ascribed only to sociological change. Technology has made its impression not only on the reproduction of the human arts but also on communication in general, and in fact all the other ways we interact with our environment. Thanks to forms of telecommunication many of the ‘traditional’ forms of Balinese culture are threatened, at least as far as a whole school of Western ethnomusicology and a growing school of academics from Balinese extraction are concerned. Examples include Dibia (1993) who mourns the intrusion of the radio and television and Soedarsono (1995) who laments the availability of mass media which encourage people to stay at home and not attend traditional performances. According to I Nyoman Wenten, the last 20 years have seen a significant decline in the overall dedication of people in the villages to the gamelan and other artistic forms (Bakan 1993: 391). The reproducibility of music made possible by the introduction of recording techniques, most noticeably in the form of the cassette, and to a lesser extent the CD, has also contributed to this decline. This medium is so popular because it is affordable, small and transportable. It is a medium for Balinese youth actively to create their own traditions, even if they are based on Western models or campuran: fusion forms mixing traditional and pop music. Basically, reproduction makes Western music accessible to the young. The influence of mass media such as radio and television has of course had a great impact on Indonesia as a whole, both in Bali and Java. Slick marketing and lots of cultural propaganda have resulted in a new ‘pan-Indonesianism’ which resembles conformity to contemporary Western cultural values. Hatley points out the obvious in her article on cultural expression: the new Indonesianism revolves primarily around one thing: making big money and being successful in terms of a polished reflection of the unattainable ‘American dream’ (Hatley 1994: 257). Mass media, which take advantage of new technology such as the radio and the television, are fostering a new form of living and relating to the world based on an American middle-class norm all over Indonesia. Reasons for this move towards a Western popular model are not restricted to technology or the mass media. It is also possible that Balinese youth are led to explore different musical genres because of the institutionalisation of traditional
192 Zachar Laskewicz gamelan forms. I am referring here to the fact that if a musical form is ‘disembedded’ from its original cultural context and then taught in a static environment it simply stops communicating to a whole new generation. This has certainly occurred thanks to the increasingly significant role the STSI plays in defining Balinese classical culture – one which is becoming available only to a select few. Balinese music is used by the Indonesian government for particular Indonesian political functions within both Indonesia and on a world stage, and in this regard its role as a ‘popular’ form has been reduced. The STSI comes directly under the control of the Directorate General of Higher Education within the Ministry of Education and Culture (Hough 1992: 14), and the institution’s role is ‘to manifest at the regional level the current discourse of national culture’ (Hough 1992: 15). The Balinese performance culture is used to demonstrate Indonesia’s ancient roots and its ethnic diversity ‘united in the common purpose of national development’ (Hough 1992: 18). According to Hough, the New Order period ‘has been characterised by State intervention in cultural production throughout the archipelago. The co-option or appropriation of specific ethnic cultural forms to a national context appears to be a conscious effort by the state to enhance its own position and promote its economic and social programmes of development’ (Hough 1992: 1). We can see this as part of a general cycle: in the past, before the advent of Gong Kebyar, Hindu–Balinese rulers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries served to standardise Balinese culture. Now, after a period of independent change and development, ‘government-sponsored schools, research teams, and creative projects’ from the Indonesian state itself are again exerting power on performance forms. It will be argued further in the chapter, however, that new forms are again developing outside the academies, influenced by or based on Western popular music which is still not under the control of the state in the way that the Gong Kebyar of today is. These new forms are essential for young people, just as Gong Kebyar was at the turn of the nineteenth century, to make sense of a rapidly changing world. We will begin with a discussion of Bali as a member state of the Indonesian republic, and the implications of this for the appropriation of pop music forms in Bali. In the Sukarno period of Indonesian politics, Western music was included in his overbearing nationalist rhetoric which ultimately led to the banning of contemporary Western rock music. It is no wonder then that foreign music genres represent such a strong statement against a cultural dictatorship. In terms of a new generation of Indonesian youth of the New Order (Orde Baru), the mass media as means of communication in a common language has offered the young a tool for expressing their dissatisfaction with a corrupt political and social system. The Indonesian clones of Western bands should be viewed in terms of their ability to provide their audiences with a sense of liberation from an oppressive political system. Western popular music today has the advantage of escaping some of the restrictions imposed by the Indonesian state, and is accessible to a more general public of Balinese youth, who have grown up with it in terms of foreign recordings and television broadcasts such as MTV, which are not easily controlled by governmental decree. In Indonesia itself, the pop medium has enjoyed relative freedom compared to the more traditional art forms taught in the academies, simply because the Indonesian state considers it
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less necessary to suppress because of its non-Indonesian origin. Both in a Balinese and in a larger Indonesian context pop music still has to the same degree a direct anti-societal function, or at least an expression of the vitality of youth, which stands against the corruption of the ‘system’ which favours an elite few and leaves the rest to struggle with meagre means. The Balinese have been no exception to the Indonesian model, finding an enormously enthusiastic market for both popular and fusion forms, although, as already demonstrated, their enthusiasm for pop goes far further than simply a reaction against society or as a reault of the inundation of Western pop. Later we will be discussing some of the vital applications of pop music forms in Bali, many of which stand against all the stereotypes perpetuated for a tourist audience. In terms of Balinese youth, disco music is indeed the newest rage and hundreds of young people flock nightly to the many clubs which have sprung up in the major tourist centres. One could lament the fact that traditional culture is being set aside, but such a conviction is entirely misplaced. All of the young people I interviewed liked both traditional and popular music, and received a great deal of satisfaction in both musical environments. They referred to popular music as universal mendunia, a form which allowed them to share a dynamic moment with (mostly young) people universally, whereas traditional music had a specific regional quality. This is to be expected in Bali because of the wide range of visitors whom Balinese people interact with, meaning that the music and the nightclub environment provide them with a common area they can take advantage of, connecting themselves with the international crowd. The Balinese world is now, of course, much bigger than the shores of Bali. According to an interview held by the author with a young Balinese dancer and musician who sings for a new ‘ethnic fusion’ pop group (which will be discussed in more detail shortly), Western music, although lacking the taksu7 of traditional performance, has a strong sense of freedom which is not obtainable in the same way in other musical forms. The combination of traditional and modern forms is highly popular, most likely because it helps the Balinese to reconcile their own culture with new Western forms, helping subliminally their general comprehension of the cultural changes taking place around them. They even feel that they have a personal obligation to perform these experiments, and to create new performance forms with the surrounding cultural ‘tools’. The music that emanates from the West through the tourist industry has found a place in the lives of Balinese young people, especially those living in the larger tourist-based centres. This does not mean, however, that the West has successfully re-colonised Bali; it means that the Balinese have appropriated yet another level of it into their own culture. Such instances of cultural syncretism unite Balinese youth with what they feel to be a world culture made up of young people, revelling in being in busy places (perhaps a contemporary evocation of ramai 8). The discos created initially for tourists are most certainly frequented by a large population of Balinese young people from a wide range of different age groups (from quite young: one of the people I interviewed was only 15 years old), although most are probably from a middle- to high-class section of society. Discos which are frequented by Balinese people include Janger, Bintang Bali, Skandal and many others.
194 Zachar Laskewicz The strongly linked nature of Balinese society results in a great emphasis on retaining connection with its young people, meaning that ‘estrangement’ between old and new generations – at least in terms of those in Bali who belong to a Balinese banjar and participate in the culture directly – is limited if compared to Western culture. Although forms of radical new music such as heavy metal or punk do not receive direct assistance, banjar-approved groups run by musicians set up major events weekly: I was told of an event held in a performance space in Denpasar set up by a death-metal initiative know as the Bali Corpse-Grinders in one of my interviews, or the Sunday Hot Music event which is held weekly for Balinese deaththrashers in Sanur, both of which are quite unknown to tourists who often content themselves with the artificial reggae performances intended to fulfil a tourist idea of what being ‘Balinese’ actually is. The major forms of popular music I experienced during fieldwork on Bali were house, techno and punk rock. Yong Sagita is a well-known Balinese musician who has invented his own form of house music which is often played in Balinese discos. His work is interesting for a number of reasons. First, he uses native Balinese languages in his songs and, second, he uses Balinese gamelan music as part of the loud and repetitive house dynamic. His texts also are of up-to-date issues which Balinese people in Denpasar can relate to. His songs describe a number of situations young people are typically confronted with in contemporary Bali. The work ‘Toris’ is about misunderstandings in a conversation with a tourist, and ‘Hitom’ and ‘Bajang Sakura’ are both about a Japanese girl (common visitors to Bali). It appears that the language deployed is often quite basic, although the recording itself sounds pleasanter to a Westerner than the hard-core rock of most house music. Astita, a Balinese composer and teacher at the STSI, refers to ‘house’ music as peculiar to Western-style discos, but at the same time refers to the phenomenon as ‘tripping music’, and observes that many Balinese pop groups are getting together and using a combination of both sampled gamelan instruments and sometimes Balinese texts to create house works for use in discos, similar to the work of Yong Sagita. He also recognises that this music form shares some characteristics with traditional music: ‘steady and hard rhythm over and over for a long time that tends to put people into a trace and become involved with the music’.9 A combination of Balinese gamelan music and house music with repetitive hard rhythms played very loudly functions to totally overwhelm the (largely Balinese) audience, who become incensed and sometimes reach a trance-like state. Thanks to this dynamic musical pounding the body is almost forced to become involved in the communal sharing of a vital spatial and temporal environment, perhaps again helping the Balinese young people to achieve ramai. Young Balinese people I interviewed after having totally given themselves over to techno music seemed in a state of high intensity, in a totally entranced state which could undoubtedly be compared to the trance states regularly induced in traditional rituals such as the performance of the Barong. Another musical genre which is highly influential in Bali is punk music. Punk is specifically interesting because it represents a new way of living and experiencing the world: it is so much more than simply loud music. It represents an anti-colonial tendency, one which goes against the stereotypes. The rather ghoulish texts of some
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of the songs, the incredibly loud volume, the raw theatrics and the catharsis created in a punk environment do not have to be viewed in a negative way. The attraction is in the music itself, which provides its listeners with a sense of freedom to express themselves in a way that is not possible with other musical forms. It is not so much what the songs say, but how they go about presenting it, and the whole sensual environment which rejects repression and supports anarchy. With the assistance of a punk ethos many Balinese young people are creating an environment which assists them to cope with their culture in a world which is becoming more and more stifling as the pressure to please Western tourists grows. Pop music is not limited to discos and other tourist-based situations. Perhaps the best-known cultural event – one which is very much an accepted part of Balinese cultural life – is the world famous Pesta Kesenian Bali, abbreviated to PKB, and often translated as the Bali Arts Festival. This event is basically an island-wide competition which involves all the best performers and performances coming together in Denpasar. There is now a section known as ‘Pop Daerah’ in which all the Balinese kebupaten (regions) compete by entering rock groups. This ‘regional pop’ division has a similar number of musicians to a rock band. The songs are written in Balinese, and often include fusion with Balinese gamelan instruments or melodies. The singers also dance, similarly combining traditional dance and costumes with pop dance and motions. According to Ni Made Wulan, a female Balinese singer and dancer who participated in the event, they ‘mix-and-match’ Balinese and popular forms. They use typical Western pop instruments, and sometimes gamelan instruments like the trompong. The music itself can also integrate Balinese playing styles such as kotekan.10 As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, music and dance are tools we use to experience or understand our environment, and it is only natural, therefore, that the Balinese will feel the necessity to combine and mix traditional forms, which they are familiar with from their ritual lives, with Western popular music, which is becoming more and more a standard part of Balinese existence. The case study in this regard is a group which has the specific intention of helping Bali along on the path of finding its own communicative form within the genre. The group in question is made up of a well-known Balinese musician and composer who teaches at the STSI in Denpasar, I Komang Astita, and his friends and family. They combine contemporary Balinese issues with Balinese musical forms, and of course Western pop, attempting to set a standard for Balinese bands in the future. They want to use the music to both perpetuate Balinese traditional culture and at the same time to adapt its musical forms to a new musical epistemology inherent in contemporary pop music. The group is called Koka Studio which is a combination of the names of the two major creative forces behind the group, Komang and Kadek, and they have called their first release ‘Om Swastiastu’, which is a traditional Balinese term for ‘welcome’. Komang’s daughter Tisna explained to me in an interview that this had the symbolic value of the band’s desire to be welcomed into the Balinese musical world: they see their work as a ‘first’ on the Balinese popular music scene, and hope that it catches on. It is also the name for the first song on the tape. Tisna thinks that Balinese youth are watching too much Western pop music on television, and Koka Studio are
196 Zachar Laskewicz hoping to demonstrate that Bali has its own type of pop music which does not have to resemble the Western model directly. A video of the group was even made and broadcast in Denpasar and Jakarta, and this included in addition to gamelan instruments adapted on a synthesiser, traditional Balinese dance movements and costumes. As mentioned, the subject matter of the songs themselves concerns issues which are of importance to the Balinese of today. These extend from songs involved with religious issues, such as ‘Canang Sari’, concerning the presentation of offerings to the Balinese spiritual world, to protest songs trying to cope with the difficult issue of changes to the Balinese environment brought about by the rapidly increasing tourist industry. The song ‘Inguh’, for example, concerns the confusion Balinese people feel because of the continually decreasing amount of land left for their own houses or gardens, most of it having been taken up by hotels and tourist bungalows: nowhere left for ‘nature’ any more, only a superficial Western tourist world which forces the Balinese to question their existence and their future. The songs even extend to the reality of the material world, which is certainly a significant factor to the Balinese of today: the song ‘Kartu Kredit’ is a comical account of spending too much money using a credit card and discovering how much at the end of the month. The collection is an interesting mixture of themes, and the music itself resembles a replica of Western pop music forms with the typical addition of a drum machine and a Western singing style. Despite the idealism implicit in the band’s hope entirely to change the Balinese soundscape, one hopes that such a venture will at least influence other bands to make similar developments within their own music in terms of taking on Balinese issues significant to the Balinese, and blowing new life into traditional forms. These combined forms allow the Balinese youth to ‘physically’ comprehend the musical influences flooding in from the West, musical influences which are obviously a vital communicative form for the young people of today and have dramatic epistemological consequences for how they experience the world in general. Popular music, defined in opposition to ‘classical’ or ‘formal’ music by Western society, is a powerful force: one which surrounds us, forcing us to sensually experience the world in a certain way. It speaks to young people, and is so much more than simply a reflection of a given age, but an actual tool used to bring about cultural change and development. From the contents of this chapter, it is clear that Bali has seen many different and exciting changes in the twentieth century, and is evidently continuing to change, as all cultures do and always will. The Balinese obviously recognise the importance of these musical forms, and are adapting to them in a unique way so that their culture does not lose touch with a new generation of young people who are brought up in an entirely different cultural environment, influenced by various factors such as a new political regime, a new education system and an abundant and growing tourist industry. Thanks to their understanding of the importance of change the Balinese are protecting their own culture. I am pretty sure that my conclusion is the same as that of many others discussing the Bali of today: having such a remarkable ability to adapt, Balinese culture has a promising future, and certainly not one we have to worry about paternalistically here in the West. In
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fact, Balinese music and culture in general is playing an ever more important role outside Bali. As always, the Balinese are teaching us more than we may be aware.
Notes 1 All translations of Pinxten are by Laskewicz. 2 Taken from an interview held with Wardana on 8 April 1999 at his home in Brussels. My translation. 3 A banjar is the smallest social unit in Bali and is relatively highly regimented in that the members are connected to a complex system of social involvement. 4 Interview with I Nyoman Wenten held in Bali on 12 September 1997. 5 Term taken from Husserlian phenomenology referring to social structures developed by individuals to relate to the external environment, perpetuated by socio-cultural systems. Said (1985) refers to the cultural machines which are devised to understand the ‘East’ (the other) as Orientalisms. 6 Taken from the interview held with Wardana on 8 April 1999. 7 Taksu is a term which refers to the dynamism and the (supernatural) power inherent within Balinese traditional performance. 8 Ramai is a sense of being engulfed in a crowd, a preferred state of being anonymous in a world which normally involves many people sharing a small place. 9 Interview held with I Komang Astita held on 9 August 1999 in Denpasar. 10 Kotekan is a form of rhythmic melodic expression unique to Balinese music, resembling an elaborated form of hoketting which we find in mediaeval music.
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Index
Note: page numbers in italic refer to illustrations; page numbers followed by n refer to notes. ABG (Anak Baru Gede) 82 ADF (Asian Dub Foundation) 114, 120 Adorno, T. 1, 4, 91, 92; on music 104, 105–6, 107 advertising, India 66, 70–1, 74n Ahmad, A. 65 Ai’ai 176 Alfee, Japanese group 127, 130–2, 131; ‘Love Never Dies’ video 132–6; production analysis 136–7 alternative rock 35 Althusser, L. 3–4 American Armed Forces Network (AFNT) Taiwan 52, 59n American Chamber of Commerce, Taiwan 52, 56 Amuro, Namie 154 Ancok, Djamaludin 84 Anderson, B. 28, 73n Anjarwati, Neneng 78 anthropology 187–8 Appadurai, A. 2, 49, 150 Asia: economic ‘return to’ 160; financial crisis (1997) 17; ideological formation of 3–4; influence on Western pop music 114–15, 187–8; racial hierarchy 160, 172n; styles of capitalism 6; ubiquity of popular music xii Asia Records (Yazhou Changpian) 177 ‘Asian turn’, of Western pop stars 112 Assam 108n Astita, I Komang 194, 195 Astita, Tisna 195–6 Attali, J. 1 Audio & Video World, Chinese magazine 37–9; ‘educational’ articles 40–1 Australia, and Aboriginal problem 119–20
authenticity 26–7, 35, 112; of originals of Japanese songs 148–9; search for 36 Baak Doi record company 145 Baker, C. 29 Bakery Records 23 Bali 12–13, 183–97; cultural ethnicity 183; Gong Kebyar 184, 189–90; Indonesianism 191–3; interculturality 186–8, 195–7; musical instrument manufacture 189; sociological change 190–1; STSI (Indonesian College of Arts) 185, 190, 192, 195; tourism 190–1, 193; tradition and innovation 185–6, 190–1, 192, see also gamelan; Indonesia Bali Arts Festival 195 Bali Corpse-Grinders 194 ‘Bande Mataram’, Indian nationalist song 67, 68 Bandung, Indonesia 79 Bandung Underground II concert 81 banjar (Balinese social unit) 194, 197n Barmé, G. 175 Barong (Balinese dance) 188 Barth, F. 188 Bateson, G. 4, 188 Beatles: banned in Indonesia 76; concert in Hong Kong 145 Beijing: Komuro concert 154–5; rock scene 33–4, 36–7; students’ musical tastes 41–3 Beitou, Korea 177, 178 Bengal 10, 89–108; Hindu fundamentalism 100–1; jban-mukh gn movement 103–4; Left Front government 92, 96, 106; origins of modern song 89–91; revolutionary songs 92–3, see also Chatterjee, Suman
Index Berland, J. 128 Beyond Taichi 148 Bhabha, H. 64–5, 73n, 180–1 Bharat Bala Productions 67 biculturalism, Taiwan 52, 57 bilingualism, ICRT Taiwan 52, 55–6, 57 Billboard Records 86 Birmingham School, subcultural studies 33, 34, 35 Biws, Debabrata 90 Biws, Hemga 90 Boomerang, Surubaya band 80 Born, G. 1 Bosco, J. 175 Bourdieu, P. 174 Bowie, David 112 Brace, T. 33–4 Bradby, B. 130, 135 Brake, M. 33 Brazzaville, Congo 180 Britten, Benjamin 187 Budo¯kan, concert series ( Japan) 137–8 Calcutta 89; Hindu fundamentalist procession (1993) 100–1; ‘Operation Sunshine’ 106–7; popular songs 90 Calcutta Youth Choir 92 campuran (traditional Bali music form) 184, 191 Canto-pop xiv, xv, 20, 47n; in Hong Kong 146, 147, 149 Cantonese, pop songs in 144–5, 152 Cantonese opera 145 Castells, M. 4 CCK Foundation, Taiwan 60n censorship: Indonesia 80, 85, 86; Taiwan 58–9 Chage and Aska 131 Chambers, I. 36 Chatterjee, P. 70 Chatterjee, Suman 89, 93–108; and commercial control 104–5, 107–8; and gana-sangt tradition 93–5; and Kanoria Jute Mill dispute 96–100; press opinion of 93, 97–8, 100, 102–3; as social critic 95–6, 100, 101–2 Chavan, Y.B. xii Chen Fenlan 177 Chiang Ching-Kuo, President of Taiwan 52, 55, 174 China xiv–xv, 32–44; Beijing punk scene 36; influence of Taiwanese pop in 175–6; modernity 44; pop music magazines 37–9, 40–1; popular music
213
in Shanghai 144–5; social distinctions and pop music 41–3; Western view of rock music in 33–6, 37, see also Beijing; Hong Kong Chinese language: Cantonese 144–5, 152; Mandarin 173, 175; in Taiwan 55 Ching, L. 3, 4, 5, 6, 160, 180 Chiu Tsang Hei 155 ChM Yonpiru 162 Choudhury, Salil (Caudhur) 90, 92, 95 Chow, R., Writing Diaspora 36–7 Chow, Thomas 150 Christian symbolism: in Alfee video 136–7; in Japan 11, 127, 135, 141–2 Christianity: nostalgic 139–41; as romantic 140–1 Christmas, in Japan 137–8, 143n Chun 176 City Magazine 147 Clear Tones Orchestra 169 colonialism 11, 65; Bali 189; and cultural influence 180–1; Japanese 160, 174; nostalgia for 113–14, 115–16, 123 Columbia Records, Taiwan 176 commercialisation 8, 114–15; of Bengali modern song 91 Communist Party of India, in Bengal 90 Communist Party of India (Marxist) (CPI(M)) 92, 96, 99–100 concerts: Bandung Underground II 81; Budo¯kan series (Japan) 137–8; Gong 2000 (Indonesia) 80; Indonesia 82–5; Japan–Korea Big Star (Tottori) 159, 162, 170–1; Komuro’s 153–6; Lebak Bulus stadium (1993) 83–4 Congo, French colonial influence in 180 Connor, S. 48n consumer revolution, India 66–7, 69, 73 corporate structures 8 cosmopolitanism 9, 49 cover bands, Indonesia xiii–xiv cover versions, of Japanese songs (Hong Kong) 147, 150, 152 Crapanzano, V. 125n cross-cultural analysis, Japan 128–30 Crya, Riknta 104 cultural adaptation 183 cultural appropriations 115, 122, 124 cultural construction: and difference 25, 26, 48n; and pop music 42–3; role of mass media 32, 44 cultural homogenisation 6–7, 49–50; Bali 191–2; Indonesia 192–3; Taiwan 181
214
Index
cultural mixing (hybridity) 121–2; in Taiwan 175–6 cultural values 2–3 culture: black 67; as survival strategy 64–5; virtual 1, see also national cultures Current Scene, Chinese pop magazine 38 dance, and music (Bali) 184–5 dangdut (Indonesian music) 76–9; New Order use of 84, 85, 87; regional variants 78; successful export 79 de Zoete, B. 188 Debussy, Claude 187 decentring 50 democracy, Taiwan 57, 58–9 Deng Yujian 176 Dewan, Anita 96 Diamond, J. 187 Dibia, I Wayan 184–5, 190–1 difference 25, 26, 48n; rock as cultural practice of 25, 26 disco music, Bali 193 Djody, Setiawan 83 drugs, Thailand 31 Du Wenjing 178 Dyer, Richard 159 Elpamas 86 emotion, use of tears (Kim Yonja) 167–8 Endo¯, Shuusaku 140 Enka Jaanaru 160, 166 enka ( Japanese popular ballad) 12, 139, 161–2; foreign female singers of 162, 165; generational divide 164–5; in Taiwan 177, 178, 179, see also Kim Yonja Everly Brothers 76 Fals, Iwan i, 84; and Swami 82–3 femininity, in Japan 134–5 film music, Indian 76, 78 Fiske, J. 142 Folk Crusaders 131 folk music: Japan 131; Thailand 27, 28, 31n For Life Records 132 Four Steps 145 France, cultural influence in Congo 180 Free Satpal Ram Campaign 119, 120 Friedman, J. 180 Frith, S. 35, 36, 67 FuncaratDacaratMental 114–15 furusato, nostalgia for (hometown) 139, 166 Ga Kway, Wong 148 gamelan: Bali 184; influence on Western
composers 187; institutionalisation of 191–2; mixed with pop music 195–6, see also Gong Kebyar gana-sangt (Bengali mass music) 90, 91–2, 93; Chatterjee and 93–4 Gangpai (Mandarin-language pop) 173 Gangtai (Hong Kong links with Taiwan) 175 Garnham, N. 63, 71 Garofalo, R. 5–6 ‘Generasi Biru’ 80, 81 Germany 79 Giddens, A. 65 GIO (Government Information Office) Taiwan 53, 59n global capitalism 5, 7 globalisation 3, 9–10, 63, 75; of consumption 70, 71–2, 73; and cultural homogenisation 6–7, 75; and cultural identity 49–50; role of media 63 globe (band) 154 ‘glocalisation’ 5, 8, 51, 75 GMR radio station 79 Gold, T. 175 Golkar, Indonesian political organisation 77, 84–5 Gong Kebyar (form of gamelan) 184, 189–90, 192; skill required for 190–1 goyang pinggul (stylised gyrations) 78 Grammy Records, Thailand 21–3, 29, 31n; publishing wing 22 Grass Hopper 148 Groove Museum concert 154, 155 Grossberg, L. 19; on rock music 24–7, 36; We Gotta Get out of this Place 24 guitars, Japanese designs 128, 129, 134 Hall, S. 33, 64, 72 hangul (Korean syllabary) 159, 165 Hawaii, media contacts with Taiwan 53 Hebdige, D. 33; Subculture: The Meaning of Style 35 Hendro Priyono, Brigadier-General 84 Hindu fundamentalism 100–1 Hindutva ideologies 125n HMV, and Suman Chatterjee 101–2, 104 Hong Kong 11–12, 39, 144–56; Canto-pop 146, 147, 149; Chinese popular music 145–6; conservative tastes 156; consumer market base 149, 150; expectations of Japanese singers 153; image of Japanese singers and songs 151–3, 155–6; Japanese popular culture in 147–8; Japanese popular music 144, 146–50, 155–6; Komuro (TK) concert
Index 153–6; lack of local resources 147, 150; locally made music (1970s) 146; music industry in 149, 150–1; music journalism 152–3, 156, see also China Hong Kong EMI 145 Horne, H. 35 Hough, B. 192 house music, Bali 194 Huang Yiling 174, 177, 179, 181 Hui, Michel 146 Hui, Samuel 146 Hzrik, Bhpen 92–3, 108n ICRT (International Community Radio Taipei) 51–8; commercialisation of 56–7; music programming 53–6; news coverage 54; relations with state 52–3, 54, 56–7, 59n; structural reorganisation 57–8; Today’s Woman 56; Youth Nightline programme 55–6 imaginary constructions 3, 4, 5, 73n The Impossibles 21, 28–9 India xiii, 10, 63–73; exoticised by Crispian Mills 11, 112–13, 115–16; independence anniversary (1997) 66, 67; and national identity 70–1; nationalism 67–9; as political construct 72–3; and postcolonialism 65; socio-economic classification 66 Indian music: classical 91; film 76, 78, 93 Indian Peoples’ Theatre Association (IPTA) 90 indie record labels 79 indie rock 35 indigenisation, Taiwan 49, 51–8 individualism 35 Indonesia 10, 75–87; ban on Western music 76, 192; cover bands xiii–xiv; dangdut music 76–9; Indian film music influences 76, 78; multinational music industry in 75–6; music schools 187; ‘New Order’ 75, 81–2, 85, 87n, 192; underground music 79–82; use of Balinese performance culture 192–3; Western influences 191, see also Bali industrialisation, Thailand 29 Inoue, Yo¯sui 132 intellectual property 1 interculturality, Bali 183, 186–8 International Hit Radio, Taiwan 55 internet, Indonesia 81, 88n Irama, Rhoma 76–7, 78, 83, 84–5 Islam, in Indonesia 77, 83 Itsuki, Hiroshi 159
215
Ivy, M. 137, 139, 140 Iwabuchi, Koichi, Recentring Globalization 7, 160 Iyer, Pico xii J-pop 20 Jabo, Sawung 83 Jagger, Mick 82 Jaivin, L. 33, 36, 44 Jakarta Post, on Metallica concert 84 Jameson, F. 107 Japan 79, 127–41, 159–71; Christian symbolism in 11, 127, 135; Christian universities 127, 130–1, 139–40, 141; foreign female singers 12, 162, 169–71; generational divide 164–5; history of Christianity in 140–1, 143n; Koreans (zainichi) resident in 161, 169–70; minority populations 161; music videos 127–42; nostalgic Christianity 139–41; relations with Korea 160; religion in 137; Shinto and Christian weddings 138; Taiwanese students in 177; trade with Asian countries 160, see also Alfee; enka Japanese language 159; Kim Yonja’s mistakes in 163–4; phonetic syllabaries 170, 172n Japanese popular music in Hong Kong 144, 146–50, 155–6; cover versions 147, 150; image of 151–3; originals 147, 148–9 Jasad (Corpse), Indonesia 81 jban-mukh gn movement 103–4 Jiang Hui 174, 178–9, 181 Jiang Jingguo see Chiang Ching-Kuo jiuge (Taiwanese bar songs) 178 Joey Boy 23, 27 Jones, A., Like a Knife 33, 34, 36, 44, 45n Junior, Indonesian band 86 Kahara, Tomomi 154 Kanoria Jute Mill agitation (1993–4) 96–100 Kanoria Jute Workers’ Revolutionary Union 97–8 Kantata Takwa, super-group 83 karaoke: China xiv–xv; Japan 162 Karaoke Fan 160 katakana (syllabary for words foreign in Japan) 170, 172n Ke Ruiming 177 Ke Yonghui 178 Kim Yonja 159–60, 171–2n; as ambassadress for Korea 165–6; fan club 169; Koreanness of 163–4, 165, 169, 170; range of song genres 168–9; at
216
Index
Tottori concert 159, 170–1; use of tears and emotion 167–8; and zainichi Koreans in Japan 169–70 KMT (Nationalist Party of Taiwan) 173 Koeswoyo brothers, Indonesia 76 Koga Masao 162 Koka Studio 195 Komuro, Testuya (TK) 144, 154; concert in Hong Kong 153–6 Kondo, Masahiko 147, 153 Koo Lien-Sung 56, 57 Korea: Japanese imperialism in 160; Japanese songs in 166; Kim Yonja’s concert (1999) 166 Korea, North, concert (2001) 167 Korean language 159; Chinese ideographs 170, 172n Korean singers, in Japan 159–71 kotekan (Balinese playing style) 195, 197n Kula Shaker band 11, 111, 114, 115–16; album cover 125n; dialogic discussions of 116–23, see also Mills, Crispian Kurnia, Detty 79 Kye Unsook 162 Lee, G. 33 Li Denghui, President of Taiwan 59n, 182n Lien Chan, premier of Taiwan 56–7 liuxing yinyue (Chinese pop music) 40, 46–7n Long Qianyu 174, 179–80, 181 Loso, Thai band 31n Lotus 145 ‘Love Never Dies’ (Alfee), song and video 132–6, 133 luk krung (Thai urban folk music) 27, 28, 31n luk thung (Thai folk music) 27, 28, 31n Maa Tujhe Salaam, Indian TV music video 65–6, 67, 68–9, 71–2 McGrew, A. 63 McIntyre, Thongchai (Bird) 21 McPhee, Colin 188 Madonna 112, 135, 143n Maki, Mike 131 Malaysia, popularity of dangdut 79 Mandarin language 173, 175 Maoist, as cultural critic 36–7 ‘Maria’ (Virgin Mary) guitar 128, 134, 135 marketing, India 70–1 martyrdom 140 Marudut Sitompul, Samuel 79 Master Band, Indonesia xiii–xiv Mathinee Kingpayom (Ked) 19 Matsuto¯ya, Yumi 132
Mattelart, A. 70–1 Mead, Margaret 188 media, role in cultural construction 32, 44, 48n Meiji Gakuin University 127, 130–1, 139–40, 141 Metallica, concert in Indonesia 84 middle class: India 66–7, 69, 70; Thailand 28, 29 Miller, D. 135 Mills, Crispian 111, 126n; Orientalism of 115–16; pronouncements on India 112–13 Mills, Hayley 112 Mills, Sir John 112 Misora, Hibari 168 Mitra, Sucitr 90 Miyako, Harumi 164 Miyoshi, Masao 72 Modern Dog 23 modernity: fantasy of 11; in Japan 127, 137, 141–2; non-Western 44, 135–6, 142n; Western 70 Moerdiono, Indonesian State Secretary 77, 78 Moriyama Ryo¯ko 131 MTV: Indonesia 192; Taiwan 59; videos 8, 115, 130; and virtual culture 1 MTV Europe, Kula Shaker tour of India 111, 112–13 Mukherjee, Hemanta 90 Murdoch, Rupert 154 music: and dance (Bali) 184–5; social functions of (China) 47n Music Heaven, Chinese pop magazine 38, 39 music videos 8, 115; Japanese 130, 132–7, 142; Maa Tujhe Salaam 65–6, 67, 68–9, 71–2; pirate VCDs 149; study of 129–30 Mute 116 Nakajima, Miyuki 132 nakaxi (Taiwanese bar girls) 178–80 Nasida Ria Group 79 nation state: and global media 63, 71–2; and globalisation 72–3 National Cultural Maintenance Act, Thailand 19 national cultures: and pop music 2; Thailand 19, 174, 179, 181 nationalism: India 67–9; Taiwan 50–1, 179; Thailand 19–21 Nawaphon 28 Negus, K. 7, 130
Index NHK ( Japan Public Broadcasting Corporation) 159 nihonjinron (theories of Japaneseness) 161 nostalgia 113–14, 115–16; Christian (Japan) 139–41; for student years (Alfee) 139–40 Nugroho, Garin 86 Occidentalism 137–8 Oetoyo Oesman, Indonesian Minister of Justice 84 Ong, A. 165, 171 Orientalism 11, 112, 115, 123, 125n; and Japan 137 ‘Other’ 187, 197n Palapa, recording studio 81 Palu, Amry 78 Pas, indie band 79 Pasuk Phongpaichit 29 Patipan Pattaweekan (Mos) 18 Patterson, O. 50 performance 8; Bali 183, 184–6, 190–1 performer, concept of (Thailand) 23 Pesta Kesenian Bali (Bali Arts Festival) 195 Phibun Songkhran, Field Marshal 20, 21, 29 Pinxten, R. 183 Pioquinto, C. 78 poet-musicians, Bengal 89 political agitation: Indonesia 81–2; Kanoria Jute Mill (Bengal) 96–100; pop music and (Thailand) 29–30 pongchak (Korean popular songs) 162 Pony Canyon Records 131, 179 pop magazines: China 37–8, 46n; critical (China) 37–9, 40–1; Hong Kong 152–3, 156 pop music: Anglo-American 7–8; China 44; Chinese (in Taiwan) 56, 173; commercial control of 107–8; differentiated from rock (China) 39–41, 42–3; global influences 13; as popular culture 2; and social distinction (China) 41–3; Taiwan 55; Thailand 27–30; underground (Indonesia) 79–82; Western view of, as subversive 32–4, 188–9, see also dangdut pop music industry: Hong Kong 144–6; Thailand 23, 29 pop singers: Hong Kong 151–3, 155–6; Korean 162, 169–71; recruited (Thailand) 21–2; as soap opera actors 18–19, 22; Taiwanese 162, 178–80; Thailand 18–19 Pop Songs, Chinese pop magazine 38
217
popular culture 2, 147–8; social frameworks of 32–3 postcolonial: and cultural influence 180–1; use of term 64–5, see also colonialism postmodernism, and rock formation 24–5 Presley, Elvis 28 punk: Bali 194–5; China 35, 36, 43 Pyongyang, North Korea 167 Quick, Craig 53 radio stations 79, 176; Thailand 22, 31n, see also ICRT Rahman, A.R. 67, 69, 71 Ratthaniyom, Thai cultural legislation 19, 20– 1 RCA records, Taiwan 176 RCTI, Indonesian commercial television channel 77, 86 Rebana rock, Indonesia 83 record companies: Bengal 90–1; Hong Kong 151; indie (independent) 79–80; Indonesia 85, see also Grammy Records record reviews, China 40 Red Gaurs 28 reflexivity 123–4 reggae: in Bali 188; origins 50 Reich, Steve 187 religion, in Japan 137 Remix Dangdut House Mania album 78 Rendra 83 Rewat Bhutthinun (Der) 21, 28–9 Rhum, M.R. 20 Robertson, R. 5 rock music: differentiated from pop (China) 39–41, 42–3; Grossberg’s reading of 24– 7; ideology of 34–6; and rebellion 26, 27; as subversive 10, 32, 44 Roman 145 romance, modern version (Japan) 127, 135– 6, 138, 140–2 RS Promotions, Thailand 21, 23 Ry, Dwijendrall 89 Saam Num Saam Mum, Thai soap opera 17– 19, 22 Safari Artists group 85 Sagita, Yong 194 Sakazaki, Kohnosuke, The Alfee 130 Sakhalin, Japan 166 Saksit Tangtong (Tang) 18 Sakurai, Masaru, The Alfee 130 Samantha K 55 SAP Music Management 79
218
Index
self-reflexivity 124, 188 Sen, Atulprasd 89 Sen, Indranl 104 Sen, Rajanknta 89 Shanghai xv; Komuro concert 154, 155, 156; origins of popular music 144–5 sho¯jo (young girl) ( Japan) 134–5, 143n Shohat, E. 64 Si Doi Kuk (Chinese pop songs) 144 Siegel, J. 82 Sindra 146 Sivaraksa, Sulak 19 Slank band 80–1, 88n So, Natalie 56 soap operas, Thailand 17–19, 30n Soedarsono 191 Soneta Group 76 Songsit Roongnophakunsri (Kob) 18 Sony Music corporation 114, 125n Southern All Stars 131 spatial dislocation 65 Spice Girls 112 Spies, Walter 188 Spivak, G. 72 Star-TV, Taiwan 59 state: and media (India) 66; and media (Thailand) 31n; sponsorship of culture 10; use of pop music (Indonesia) 85–6 Steele, Patrick 54–5 subcultures 33–6, 45n; British dance 48n Suharto, President of Indonesia 76, 77, 87n Sukaesih, Elvy 76, 79 Sukarno, President of Indonesia 76, 87, 192 Sunday Hot Music 194 Suzy Wonder 55 Swami 82–3 Swdhn Bngl (Independent Bengal ) 100, 102 syncretism, cultural: Bali 193; Taiwan 49, 50, 51, 52, 57 Tagore, Rabindranth 89 Taipei 51 Taiwan 12, 39, 49–59, 173–81; bar singers (nakaxi) 178–80; Chinese language in 55; democratisation 57, 58–9; DPP (Democratic Progressive Party) 181; Greater China myth 174–6, 181; and ICRT 51–8; indigenisation 49, 51–8, 174; influence of Japan in 175–8, 180; Japanese colonial rule in 174; live music scene 177–8; martial law 51, 53, 58; and national cultural identity 19, 174, 179, 181; nationalism 50–1, 179 Taiwanese language 173–4
Taiwanese singers, in Japan 162 Taiyu ge (Taiwanese songs) 173, 174–6, 178; Japanese influence in 175, 176–7, 181 Takamizawa, Toshihiko, The Alfee 130, 134, 136 taksu 193, 197n Tamaya, Ellyn 86 Tata Young 21–2 techno music, Bali 194 technologies 1; Bali 191; Hong Kong 148, 149 television: advertising revenues (India) 66; global (dubbed) 70, 74n; Japanese (broadcast in Hong Kong) 146, 147, see also MTV television stations, Indonesia 77, 85–6 Teng, Teresa 162 Thailand 17–30; military 28, 31n; nationalism 19–21; pop music 27–30; radio stations 22, 31n; social changes 28–9; student rebellions (1970s) 27, 30, 31n Thornton, S. 42, 43, 48n TICCF (Taipei International Community Cultural Foundation) 52, 57 Time Media stations, Thailand 23 time-space compression 50 TK see Komuro TM Network 154 Tokugawa Ieyasu, first shogun 143n Tottori, Japan, Japan–Korea Big Star concert 159, 162, 170–1 tradition and innovation, Bali 185–6 transnationalism 50; and culture 64–5; sociological consequences of 58–9 Treat, J. 134, 143n TRF (band) 154 Tu Wei-ming 175 Turf House Club, Pune (India) xii–xiii TVRI (Televisi Republik Indonesia) 77, 85–6 underground bands, Indonesia 79–82 United States, and origins of ICRT (Taiwan) 52, 54 urbanisation, Thailand 29 utopia, in Chatterjee’s songs 94–5 ‘Vande Mataram’ campaign, India 66, 67 Varela, Carlos 108 video: pirate VCDs 149; and television (Indonesia) 85–6, see also music videos Village Scouts 28 Virgin Mary, symbolism in Japan 134–5
Index Wallerstein, I. 5, 6, 51 Wang, David 55–6 Wardana, I Made Agus 185, 187 Wayang Kulit (Balinese performance) 191 weddings, in Japan 138, 143n Weng Jiaming 178 Wenten, I Nyoman 186–7, 191 Western culture, in Thailand 19, 20–1 Western music 7–8; Asian influences on 114–15, 187–8; banned in Indonesia 76; in Hong Kong 145; influence on Balinese youth 185–6, 190, 192–3, see also pop music; rock music Wilson, R. 51 Wulan, Ne Made 195 Yamashita Tatsuro¯ 132 Yang Sanlang 177, 181
219
Yang Yuying 40 Yano, C. 139 Ye Junling 177, 181 Yeh, Sally 55 Yip, Grace 154 Yogya, Purnawisata centre 77–8 Yoshida Takuro¯ 132 Yoshioka Osamu 163 Zainichi Korean Cultural Arts Association 169 zainichi Koreans in Japan 161; Kim Yonja and 169–70 Zang Tianshuo 40 Zhang Lei 37–8 Zhang Qin 38 Zhou Tianwang 176 Zhuang Yongming 176 Zizek, S. 3, 4
