Asian Music - Journal Volume 42, Number 1, Winter - Spring 2011

From the Editor Ricardo D. Trimillos Aloha kākou! I am delighted to greet our members, readers, and other supporters in ...

Author: Ric Trimillos (ed)

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From the Editor Ricardo D. Trimillos Aloha kākou! I am delighted to greet our members, readers, and other supporters in my new position as incoming editor for Asian Music. Although Volume 42, Number 1 is my debut issue, it is in fact a collaboration with the immediate past editor, Stephen Slawek of the University of Texas at Austin. The articles were reviewed, selected, and revised under his editorship so that my transition into the vagaries of editing and formatting was relatively stress-free, for which I personally thank Stephen. The Society for Asian Music owes our outgoing editor for regularizing the publication, arranging two thematically-oriented issues on commercial music (39:1) and on music of the Asian diaspora (40:1), and putting the publication on a steady financial footing. After my initial plunge into this task beginning November 2009, I am even more appreciative of what the editorship entails and what Stephen has accomplished in his seven years of service. Many thanks, Stephen! My vision for Asian Music includes maintaining its reputation as “the leading journal devoted to ethnomusicology in Asian music . . .” (Project MUSE, http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/asian_music/) and further expanding the journal’s readership. To that end, I have asked each author of a major article to provide an abstract as a “hook” for the potential general reader and as an aid to our specialist colleagues. I am exploring ways to make our journal more accessible to an international readership and particularly to those whose culture is the focus of a particular article. For this issue, T-H Lin has graciously provided a Chinese-language abstract in addition to an English one for his article on Hakka musicians. The bilingual abstract is an experiment. As our technical capabilities allow, I anticipate more bilingual abstracts in future issues. I hope to hear from the readership concerning the usefulness of such an undertaking. Asian Music is primarily an Anglophone publication, but I want to make it as “user friendly” as possible for all who have an interest in or a commitment to the musics of Asia and their study. Some self-reflexivity about ourselves as the Society for Asian Music is an important and (hopefully) productive exercise. Thus it is both appropriate and auspicious to open this issue and my term as journal editor with Stephen Blum’s provocative piece “A Society and Its Journal: Stories of Hybridity.” The spoken version was the keynote address for the 50th anniversary celebration of the Society for Asian Music that was held November 21, 2009 in Mexico City as © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011

part of the 54th Annual Meeting of the Society for Ethnomusicology. We felt Stephen’s insights and message were valuable for an audience beyond those who were present that evening at the National Museum of Cultures in the Zócalo. I hope you find the written version as engaging as we found the spoken one to be. We hope to provide other opportunities for such self-reflection in the future. I regard the stewardship of this journal as an adventure as well as a challenge; I look forward to both. My ability to be an effective steward is not a solitary task. Therefore, I ask for your contributions, suggestions, and assistance in continuing and expanding the impact, relevance, and value of Asian Music to the musical scholarship of, about, and in Asia. University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa

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A Society and Its Journal: Stories of Hybridity Stephen Blum I’m deeply honored to have been asked to speak on this auspicious occasion when we look to the future with deep feelings of gratitude for the efforts so many have made on behalf of the Society and its programs. We’re only five years younger than the Society for Ethnomusicology and four years younger than our parent organization, Asia Society, established by John D. Rockefeller III in 1956. Members of our Society have accomplished much in the past half century, not least the publication of forty volumes of our journal Asian Music. For that we must thank, above all, the four editors—Mark Slobin, Marty Hatch, Sean Williams, and Steve Slawek—and also the guest editors of special issues, the review editors, and all the contributors and referees. Tong Soon and the Board gave me a dual assignment: to comment on the history of the Society for Asian Music in relation to the history of musical scholarship and to introduce our roundtable on hybridity and postcoloniality. Reflecting on challenges to our work in research and teaching that we’ve faced during our first fifty years should lead easily enough from the first topic to the second. Some of those challenges have come from the efforts made in so many nations during the second half of the twentieth century to systematize and diffuse a cultural heritage. How does our work as scholars relate to those efforts and to the larger issues of global inequality? One short answer is that the division of the world’s population into haves and have-nots obliges us to address the topics of tonight’s round table: hybridity in the performing arts and musical scholarship in a largely postcolonial world. All of us who have worked in Asia have had encounters with Asians who forcefully reminded us that they lack privileges we take for granted. During my dissertation fieldwork in Iran forty years ago, Communist friends drew my attention to Persian writings on how it feels to live in the part of the world that’s systematically exploited by the West. The text discussed most intensely, Ğarbzadegi by Jalāl Al-e Ahmad, bears a title coined as the name of a novel disease, toxic infection from the West.1 Our concern with hybridity is necessarily a concern with efforts people make to ward off what they regard as disease, and studies of postcoloniality consider attempts to diagnose and cure infections acquired from the colonizers. The Society for Asian Music was founded at a time when research universities in the United States were developing centers for East Asian, Southeast Asian, © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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South Asian, Middle Eastern, African, and Latin American studies—the “three continents” as they were called at the 1966 conference of the Organization of Solidarity of the Peoples of Africa, Asia, and Latin America in Havana. Many of us have benefitted enormously from contacts with scholars in other disciplines fostered by area studies centers. Tragically, much of the research carried out by these scholars was ignored or dismissed by those responsible for the illconceived wars waged by the United States in Vietnam and Iraq. In our early years, two presidents with progressive domestic policies involved the United States in a war we should have avoided, and as we celebrate our golden anniversary another president with progressive domestic policies continues the country’s involvement in a war where we don’t know what we’re doing. Other aspects of US foreign relations have changed: in the Society’s first decade, Europe was financing the current account deficits of the United States; today China finances them. And the exclusive G8, with only one member from Asia, is being replaced by the G20, with six: China, India, Indonesia, South Korea, and Turkey as well as Japan. For those of us who work in educational institutions of the United States, it’s as true today as it was fifty years ago that we need to do all we can to increase the attention given to past and present realities of Asian societies. The Society for Asian Music’s links to Asia Society run deeper than just their sponsoring us and providing office space in their former headquarters at 112 East 64th Street in New York. In the 1970s both societies were involved in presenting programs of Asian music and dance to American audiences. I’ll mention only two of the key people involved in that effort. Konrad Bekker, son of the distinguished critic and musicologist Paul Bekker, was a member of our Society during its first twenty-one years, serving as treasurer for six of those years. A memorial notice printed in vol. 13 of Asian Music outlines his involvement with musics of Asia during his twenty years in the Foreign Service, which took him to India, Burma, and Thailand. Upon his retirement in 1971, Bekker became Asia Society’s Director of Meetings and Studies. Beate Gordon directed Asia Society’s Performing Arts Program for twentythree years, and she also briefly chaired our board of directors. Beginning in 1971–1972, Mrs. Gordon organized national tours of carefully selected groups and arranged for several to be recorded by Nonesuch.2 In the final chapter of her memoir, The Only Woman in the Room, she writes that “I put all my efforts into trying to communicate the essence of Asian culture to Americans through first-rate, purely traditional art forms” (Gordon 1997, 159). I’ll never forget the performances of Korean p’ansori and Shantung traditional music in the initial season, or those of the Awaji puppet theater of Japan and the Topeng dance drama of Bali in the 1972–1973 season. The performances pointed to human possibilities I could never have imagined—an experience not so much of an “essence of Asian culture” as of fundamental dimensions of human creativity.

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Blum: A Society and Its Journal: Stories of Hybridity

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How can single gestures and sequences of gestures make such a powerful impact on a viewer/listener? I wondered. The question made me curious about lessons drawn from Asian performing arts by non-Asians, especially performers, creative artists, and scholars. As I began to seek out music, theater, dance, and writing nourished by encounters with Asian arts—the theater of Peter Brook, for instance—the experience of such creative responses by Europeans and Americans increased my sensitivity to techniques and structuring of performances as a general topic. I started to think about the affinities between musical and athletic disciplines—affinities I’d ignored as a pianist in the usual channels of conservatory training. The Society for Asian Music’s programs, many of them co-sponsored by Asia Society or by the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Department of Musical Instruments, were confined to New York City,3 but our journal and publication series, both initiated in 1969, made scholarship on Asian music, dance, and drama available to a readership that extended far beyond the five boroughs. Page 1 of the first issue of Asian Music told prospective authors that the journal “welcomes articles on all aspects of the music of Asia, including that of dance and drama.”4 Even if it’s problematic to regard dance and drama as “aspects of music,” the more important point is that emphasizing the interrelationship of all three challenges more than a few conventional approaches of musical scholarship that, fifty years later, still need to be challenged. Organizing performances and publishing scholarly work are complementary activities in several respects: just consider how such skills as we may have in reading and writing have been shaped by our experience of performance and vice versa. On the second page of Asian Music’s first issue our founding president, Willard Rhodes, stated that the journal is intended for “a reading public not only of cultivated amateurs who desire to deepen their knowledge and enjoyment of the many musics of this part of the world, but also those professional musicians and scholars who have specialized in Asian music.” He promised that the journal would try to represent “many approaches to the serious study of Asian music—ethnomusicological, anthropological, sociological, etc.” (Rhodes 1969, 2). In other words, it was to be a journal open to but not wholly dominated by the concerns of academic ethnomusicologists. In its first twelve years, the journal published types of writing its readers could not easily have found elsewhere: translations from Russian, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Tibetan; transcriptions of compositions; detailed studies of instruments and notations; personal accounts by American ethnomusicologists of their experiences in Asia; and critiques of current uses of such familiar terms as tradition, art music, and cultural heritage. Especially noteworthy is the translation of Fang Kun’s remarks about traditional music in vol. 12, no. 2, with responses by Robert Provine and Alan Thrasher.

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By declining to exclude anything, Willard Rhodes gave the journal a program that contrasts sharply, both with the policy adopted by Beate Gordon (quite appropriately) for performances at Asia Society and with Jaap Kunst’s statement in the first paragraph of the third edition of Ethnomusicology, published in 1959, a year before we were founded: “The study-object of ethnomusicology . . . is the traditional music and musical instruments of all cultural strata of mankind, from the so-called primitive peoples to the civilized nations. Our science, therefore, investigates all tribal and folk music and every kind of non-Western art music. Besides, it studies as well the sociological aspects of music, as the phenomena of musical acculturation, i.e., the hybridizing influence of alien musical elements. Western art- and popular (entertainment-) music do not belong to its field” (Kunst 1959, 1). The fatal flaw in this formulation proved to be the distance it posits between a scholarly field that excludes Western music and the actual interests and creative projects of the musicians who would be studied. Behind a phrase like “the hybridizing influence of alien musical elements” lays an assumption that it’s for scholars to decide what’s alien and what’s indigenous. Moreover, when we’re interested in people’s creative actions we must be wary of the word influence, which is so often used as an excuse for not probing why and how individuals or groups became engaged in specific projects. A general rubric based on geography, like “Asian music,” is clearly preferable to “non-Western music”: as Robert Young writes in Postcolonialism: An Historical Introduction, “the negative definition of ‘the non-west’ . . . also implies a complete dichotomy between the west and the rest which two or more centuries of imperialism have hardly allowed” (Young 2001, 5). As the Society for Asian Music, our relation to the journal Asian Music is the same as the African Music Society’s relation to the journal it began to publish in 1954, African Music. I know of no organization called the “Society for European Music” with a similarly named journal. No such names are needed so long as cultural hegemony of European music is taken for granted by the editors of countless journals. That state of affairs confronts those of us involved with music of other continents with a number of interrelated questions about the present and future directions of musical scholarship—questions that scholars working in different parts of the world need to formulate and discuss in ways that take their local conditions into account. Those local conditions generally include false representations of past and present realities diffused by the communications media. Are ethnomusicologists specializing in music of Asia or Africa more interested in difference than in what’s common to humans, as Kofi Agawu and others have repeatedly charged (e.g., in Agawu 2003, 151–71; cf. Hutnyk 2000, 10)? In my view, ethnomusicology as a whole does attempt to deal with what’s generally human as well as with concrete realities of specific practices—each of which differs from all the rest in crucial respects, as performance students who try to

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develop appropriate habits quickly realize. Performers can learn to understand their practice routines as special cases of the general human capacity for physical and spiritual exercise directed toward self-improvement.5 That’s one of the many reasons why schools at all levels outside Asia need to have programs focusing on Asian performing arts. Agawu takes Gerhard Kubik’s concern with “African music/dance as a motional system” to imply that, for Africans, patterns of movement are, in Agawu’s words, “as important as—if not more important than—the sonic trace itself.” “Does European music lack a motional system?” he then asks, adding that “This seems unlikely” (Agawu 2003, 105). He could have declared it to be impossible: no music is made without motional systems, a term best used in the plural, I think, rather than in Kubik’s singular.6 Efforts at studying movement systems in African and Asian practices needn’t be interpreted as symptoms of a desire to insist on differences between Western and so-called “non-Western” performers, though Agawu is right to complain that often they are so interpreted. I’ve always wondered why Agawu directs his charge of obsession with difference only at ethnomusicologists and not at the many music historians and theorists who agree with Joseph Kerman that they have nothing to learn from ethnomusicologists inasmuch as “Western music is just too different” from all other musics (Kerman 1985, 174). Musical scholars who don’t wish to insist on a supposedly unbridgeable gap can try to understand European techniques of counterpoint as special cases of more general human capacities for coordinating multiple sequences of action in performance. I attempted an account of counterpoint along those lines while writing a general entry on musical composition for the revised New Grove (Blum 2001), but abandoned the effort due to the limited space available. More recently the late Harold Powers asked me to read a text he’d started on “Comparative Counterpoint: Ensemble Control in Multi-part Music,” which resulted from his view that “we need to understand more fully the diverse ways in which ensemble control and individual freedom are integrated.” I think that topic, in principle, calls for attention to relationships among all sequences of action within a performance, including those of drummers, dancers, and other participants—the kind of attention that the choreographer William Forsythe has in mind when he speaks of “a huge counterpoint” that his dancers are “intentionally making.”7 Some types of ensemble control would fit comfortably within Powers’s “comparative counterpoint” rubric, and others would not. One of the main lessons that can be drawn from the experience of Asian and African music-making is that patterns of sound are commonly associated both with the motions that produce those sounds and with motions evoked by, or coordinated with, those of the musicians.8 Bell Yung’s paper on choreographic and kinesthetic elements in qin performance (1984) and the general model for musical analysis developed

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by Regula Qureshi (1987) from her study of qawwāli are two important works that develop that point. A different answer to exaggerated claims for the uniqueness of European music is the thesis advanced by Laurence Picken in 1977, in his foreword to the first issue of Musica Asiatica: “For the Heartland of Eurasia, there can now be little doubt that the history of music, of musical instruments, and of the relationship of music to culture is one history. For this one supracontinental landmass, there is one ‘musicology’ . . . ” (Picken 1977, vi). As part of the “supracontinental” history of music envisioned by Picken, scholars might assess musical consequences of the endless and often silly arguments over who does and who does not belong to “Europe.”9 More important, and central to our panel this evening, is comparative study of responses both within and beyond Eurasia to policies and actions of all the colonial and imperial powers: Russia, Japan, and China as well as the Western European nations and the United States of America.10 Since the fall of the Soviet Union, “Eurasia” has come to be used as an umbrella term for Russia and the newly independent states of Eastern Europe, the southern Caucasus, and Central Asia; in the 1920s the term was used in the same sense by the Russian émigrés known as “Eurasianists” (Laruelle [1999] 2009).11 The modern music history of Eurasia in this more restricted sense can most definitely be treated as “one history.” Any music history, no matter how vast or how narrow its geographic or temporal limits, ought to be understood as a history of interaction and exchange among people differentiated by such factors as language, religion, gender, social class, age group, and occupation, as well as by musical practice. Like most species of life, human communities evolve as they take in and reproduce innovations of various sorts, while continually defending themselves against unwelcome intrusions. As the only species endowed with language, humans can vigorously debate the acceptability of intrusions and innovations, not least in discourse about music-making and ceremony. The music historiography of Eurasia—in both the broader and the narrower senses of that word—suffers from a relentless production of nationalistic histories that ignore the very presence of major participants in the relevant exchanges. Projects designed to reproduce images of cultural purity can nourish desires not to recognize crucial interactions and affinities, though they can also stimulate awareness of past and present realities excluded from such projects: much discussion of hybridity is directed against efforts to propagate images of a primal “Turkishness,” or whatever. I see no reason for scholars to avoid taking sides for or against specific projects that resist or that welcome attention to hybridity, but an attitude that systematically favors people’s desires for hybridity over those for purity, or vice versa, is apt to obstruct a scholar’s understanding of the positions taken by participants in actual projects.12

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I’ve quoted Jaap Kunst on the “study-object” of ethnomusicology as a reminder that processes of hybridizing, combining, and coordinating have been major concerns of ethnomusicologists for as long as we’ve called ourselves that. We encounter these concerns in studies of construction and playing techniques of instruments, make-up of ensembles, compositions and performances, roles and subjectivities, theories, repertoires, styles, and idioms. The apparatus used by scholars in producing histories of culture includes formats for describing hybrids in each of these categories: in Azerbaijan, for example, the role of the bards known as aşıq, viewed historically, is said to have been “half shaman, half Sufi” (yarım şaman, yarım sufi).13 Moreover, hybridity, its risks, and its consequences are an enduring topic of myth, folklore, and literature—a topic that has long served as a focus for people’s anxieties, desires, and creative projects. Think of all the stories of transposed heads in the oral and written literature of India, a central theme of Wendy Doniger’s new book, The Hindus: An Alternative History (Doniger 2009). The pan-human concern with purity and the dangers of pollution, the subject of Mary Douglas’s classic work of 1966, has been a powerful incentive to storytelling. Scholars, no less than other humans, are spinners of tales who operate under certain sets of constraints and must choose from among the available narrative strategies, or else devise new ones. One of our responsibilities is the historical reflection on how the narratives we offer as speakers and writers relate to those we’ve encountered. What rhetorical moves do we see musicians, critics, and scholars repeatedly making as they deploy terms like hybridity, fusion, composite identity, métissage, bricolage, and so on? How do these moves relate to the discourse of the corporations that produce and market world music, drawing freely on ethnomusicological writing (cf. Frith 2000, 307–15). Stories—along with claims, justifications, denials, complaints, promises, and roles—are often attached to each of these terms, and we can’t know for sure what images or narratives readers or listeners will associate with which term that we may use on some occasion. It’s easy to argue about terms without making those different associations explicit, and given the continuing proliferation of stories and associations, I doubt that it’s productive for scholars to propose a restrictive definition for each term. Hybridizing may evoke efforts at harmonizing and coordinating, or efforts to sustain tensions among disparate energies. For Lévi-Strauss (1962, 26–47), bricolage was the characteristic procedure of la pensée sauvage, the undomesticated intelligence; for the Iranian philosopher Daryush Shāyegān ([2001] 2008, 10), it is rather “the play of a person with multiple identities who, benefitting from the art of combination made available by the vast resources of intercultural relations, recomposes the world to his or her measure and, out of the disparate elements lying to hand, furnishes an increasingly personalized

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living space”14—it’s a domesticating creativity. For Shāyegān, bricolage belongs to the large group of hybridizing activities that enable Asians to draw intelligently from the full range of Western achievements while retaining what’s needed from their own multi-layered histories. Most stories of hybridity that concern us as scholars of Asian music involve those two familiar protagonists, the East and the West. The very first issue of Asian Music in 1969 reprinted an article by John Cage, “The East in the West,” and a talk by Chou Wen-chung, “East and West, Old and New.” Cage, writing in 1946, was attracted by what he saw as a “tendency . . . towards a fusion of cultures” (Cage [1946] 1969, 15); two decades later Chou, in a 1966 talk, welcomed “a re-merger of Eastern and Western musical concepts and practices” ([1966] 1969, 19). Fang Kun, in the 1980 statement mentioned earlier, spoke of “foreign music melting into Chinese music, not replacing it” (Fang 1981, 9). In addition to the tropes of fusion, merging, and melting into, concerns with hybridity in music and culture are articulated through metaphors drawn from such domains as descent and marriage, infection and injury, to name just a few. In November 1856, three months before his death, the Russian composer Glinka wrote to a friend, “I am nearly convinced that it is possible to unite western fugue with the requirements of our music in bonds of legitimate marriage” (Findeïzen 1907, 541).15 The terms of Glinka’s statement turn up again and again in the discourse surrounding projects undertaken in the so-called republics of the USSR. Just what are “the requirements of our music” in relation to Western techniques? Which liaisons are legitimate marriages, and which are dalliances that society simply cannot accept? The Azerbaijani musicologist Aida Huseynova summarizes a view that’s widely accepted in Azerbaijan when she writes that muğam opera, initiated in 1907 by the composer-theorist-educator Uzeir Hajibeyov, “stimulated the birth of two more hybrid genres in 20th-century Azerbaijani music—symphonic mugam and jazz mugam” (2002, 66). A video she prepared on The Music and Culture of Azerbaijan includes the title “Music: Synthesis of East and West.” Contemporary music of Azerbaijan features a unique synthesis of traditional music expressions with all advanced styles and techniques of Western music. Huseynova sees hybrid genres as landmarks within a comprehensive synthesis. Writers for whom hybrid carries unpleasant associations of miscegenation, as it rather often does, have made claims of synthesis in order to dispel rumors of illicit mingling: in his 1946 history of jazz, Rudi Blesh assured his readers that “jazz is no musical hybrid; it is a miracle of creative synthesis” (Blesh 1946, 3, quoted by Middleton 2006, 222, with emphasis on the miscegenation issue).16 In Azerbaijan, celebration of hybrid genres of professional art is entirely compatible with the esteem bestowed on allegedly “pure” (tәmiz) traditions of folk art. Azerbaijani folklorists have complained to me that when their nation was

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a part of the Soviet Union, they had access to foreign scholarship only through Russian translations burdened with critiques of “bourgeois errors”; now, in the postcolonial situation, they are free to use hybrid tool kits as they seek out oases of pure tradition.17 The same duality turns up in the official schemes of other nations: professionals should hybridize, folk musicians should remain pure.18 Whether or not such terms as “professional folk” (Russian professional’ni narod’ni, cf. Kvitka 1924) and “folk classical” (Uyghur xälq klassik, cf. Light 2008, 27–28) apply to one or another practice has been debated for nearly a century in the vast region once dominated by the USSR. An excellent study by Federico Spinetti examines ways that musicians in Tajikistan are, in his words, “dismantling on multiple levels the field of musical categories promulgated by the state” (Spinetti 2005, 203). Responses to fears of contamination are a major theme of Nathan Light’s monograph Intimate Heritage: Creating Uyghur Muqam Song in Xinjiang, which effectively brings together the topics of our roundtable. To be sure, for many Uyghurs—as for many Tibetans, Tatars, Chechens, and others—“postcoloniality” is a condition devoutly to be desired and not likely to be attained in the near future. Light (2008, 6–10, 28) shows that cultivation of the canonical repertoire of the Uyghur on iki muqam, twelve suites of songs and instrumental pieces, has depended on techniques adopted from both Soviet and Chinese models. He found that “Uyghur intellectuals . . . offered multiple ad hoc histories and interpretations of fragmentary evidence to pull the nation together into a coherent description” (4). The histories tended, he continues, “to discount the importance of cultural debts and promote ideas of Uyghurs as cultural donors” (130). Stories in which Uyghurs give far more than they take downplay or flatly deny the musical impulses that were assimilated along with poetry in other Turkic languages and in Persian. Table 1, limited to studies of musical change and resistance to change that have been published in our journal, lists 36 terms and phrases for processes, policies, and outcomes. This list, which could have been much longer, can be compared with those in the classic articles of Nettl (1978) and Kartomi (1981). We can recall stories associated with each term, and we can ask which of them, in a given set of circumstances, make the best fit with that term,19 and what may have motivated someone to tell this story at that particular time. In what narrative structures does each term articulate concerns of the protagonists, the narrators, or both? We can’t legislate which terms people will choose as they talk about musical developments, but we can critique the stories attached to each term. Adjectives often evoke stories musicians wish to reject. Two brothers active in researching and performing music of the Dersim region of eastern Turkey, whom I met at the first-ever conference on Kurdish music held in Diyarbakır in 2007, denounced what they called “scientific” representations of the Alevi

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Flam

Pinckney

Hughes

Feldman

Booth

21/1, 1989–90

22/1, 1991

22/1, 1991

23/1, 1991–92

El-Shawan

17/1, 1985

Warkow

Fang

12/2, 1981

17/2, 1986

Levin

12/1, 1979

17/2, 1986

Powers et al.

El-Shawan

12/1, 1979

Signell

7/2, 1976

12/1, 1979

Becker

Daniélou

2/2, 1971

Beeman

Kishibe, Maceda

2/1, 1970–71

7/2, 1976

Chou

1/1, 1969 [1966]

3/1, 1972

Cage

1/1, 1969 [1946]

Asian Music

modern repertoire and traditional performance practice

cultural authenticity

“new folk songs,” old and new

musical acculturation

revitalization

acculturation

integration of a new musical tradition

mutual infiltration between the cultures of different peoples

convergence

musical change

status of traditional art musics

modernization process

dynamics of change

Western influence

plurality of cultures or synthesis?

preservation & diffusion of traditional music

re-merger of Eastern & Western musical concepts & practices

fusion of cultures

Table 1. A selection of terms and phrases for processes, policies, or outcomes in studies of musical change and resistance to change (compare Nettl 1978 and Kartomi 1981).

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Sutton

Bryant

Hung

Karahasanoğlu and Skoog

40/1, 2009

40/1, 2009

40/2, 2009

Gillan

39/1, 2008

39/2, 2008

Harnish

Yang

35/2, 2004

38/1, 2007

Chen

35/2, 2004

38/1, 2007

Warde

Widdess

34/1, 2002–3

Ng

34/1, 2002–3

Alter

Sutton

Davis

28/2, 1997

29/1, 1997–98

Chang

modernizing

Asai

28/1, 1997

29/2, 1998

musical & spiritual syncretism

Booth

32/2, 2001

rehabilitation

Stock

26/2, 1995

28/1, 1997

synthesizing identity

performing “Chineseness”

performing race and place

fusion music

tradition and modernity

East meets West in the concert hall

“digging” and “upgrading”: efforts to “develop”

conceptual transformations

continuity and change

elastic-edged experimentalism

hybridization

syncretism, cultural musical synthesis

aestheticization

syncretic processes

indigenization

cultural shows: culture or what, and for whom?

Rubenstein

23/2, 1992

14 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 religion and its music: “Scientific approaches have at best perceived Alevism as merely carrying the influences of many different cultural sources and beliefs, resulting in nothing more than an ‘eclectic,’ ‘syncretic,’ or ‘heterodox’ cultural heap: a folkloristic pile-up. . . . Hardly anyone has so far considered the possibility that the orally transmitted knowledge, the practices of worship, the conception of time and worship cycles in Alevism could present a systematic and unitary set of meaning[s] in itself ” (Kahraman and Kahraman 2003, 96). To be sure, a “scientific approach” worthy of the name would attempt to describe relationships among whatever components were identified. In the Kahramans’ narrative, the term scientific approach stands for superficial analysis produced by outsiders. The simplest plots have at least two phases: something happens, then something else happens. One common plot-type starts with recognition or assessment of a novel state of affairs and continues with reflection on what is problematic, and what can be done. For example, in a conference paper published in vol. 2, no. 1 of Asian Music, Kishibe Shigeo (1970–71, 11) summarized attitudes he attributed to “most musicians” concerning koto music performed in larger halls: a louder and stronger sound was acceptable, increasing the tempo or changing the mood of a composition was not, and the small proportion of listeners whose education had prepared them to appreciate traditional music was a problem. Another example: the novelist and musician Amit Chaudhuri relates what happened once he recognized that, in his words, “the pentatonic scale is identical with certain pentatonic ragas. This led, in turn,” he continues, “to a sort of double hearing, as I listened, now, to Hendrix; where the conscious mind was registering one sort of performance or form, and the subconscious was stirred to recall another” (Chaudhuri 2008, 214). Could these “mishearings,” as he thought of them, generate “some sort of hybrid vocabulary?” he asked. On the first track of his CD This Is Not Fusion, Chaudhuri works his way into the riff from Eric Clapton’s “Layla” by singing ga-ma-dha-ni-dha-ma-dha, deliberately “mishearing” Clapton’s tonic as dha. He rejects the term fusion because he wishes to play up the tensions between the categories he calls “Western and Indian music.” That position is consistent with his view that “discontinuities are as important to the formation of the modern imagination as collectivities” (Chaudhuri 2006, 116). A second type of narrative relates how an innovation came about and how it was received. A well-known example is at-Tifāshī’s thirteenth-century account of how Ibn Bājja created a new style in al-Andalus as he mixed (mazaja) “the songs of the Christians with those of the East” (Monroe 1987, 255–56; Liu and Monroe 1989, 42).20 To accomplish this, Ibn Bājja “secluded himself for several years with skilled singing girls,” and the new style proved itself so well suited to the “temperament” of the people of al-Andalus “that they rejected all others,” so we’re told. I know of no evidence that Andalusian listeners either were or were not concerned with identifying the components of this mixture. In more recent

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instances of hybridity and fusion, the components are often treated in ways that allow them to remain recognizable (cf. Sutton 2003 and 2008). Moreover, composers responding to the music and ideas of John Cage have created works and events in which different ways of making music are co-present, with no suggestion of fusion, hybridity, or even dialogue. One such composer educated both in Iran and in Europe, Nāder Mashāyekhi, tries to create situations in which two cultures merge and give birth to a “third culture” in which each parent culture will retain its identity.21 Mashāyekhi, who speaks German as well as Persian, believes that “Ultimately, each system resembles others, because these systems were all discovered by humans and all humans are subject to archetypical reaction patterns.” His aim in “combining several systems” is, in his words, to “set each of these systems alongside the others without making any attempt to project similarities onto them.”22 As I understand them, Mashāyekhi’s intentions and procedure in fié ma fié II have little in common with Bakhtin’s concept of hybrid construction in speech and in the novel, namely “an utterance . . . that actually contains, mixed within it, two utterances, two speech manners, two styles, two ‘languages,’ two semantic and axiological belief systems” (Bakhtin [1975] 1981, 304). Bakhtin distinguished unconscious, organic hybridization from the intentional hybridization characteristic of the novel, where “two points of view are not mixed, but set against each other dialogically” (360)—for example when a speaker quotes someone else’s words in an ironic voice. Clear instances of intentional hybridization in music would seem to be performances or compositions that quote other music, and new treatments of older idioms or repertoire items—as in performances by rural immigrants to cities (Turino 1993), or in the new versions of the Uyghur on iki muqam described by Light (2008), Harris (2008), and Trebinjac (2000). Depending on their backgrounds and interests, some listeners would be more likely than others to recognize an intentional hybridization. If a composition like Mashāyekhi’s has anything in common with the novel, it would be with the conclusion of a Bildungsroman, making public the protagonist’s hard-won achievement of an integrated, many-layered personality that extends itself in multiple directions and fully embraces more than one culture. As in Tajikistan, individual musicians in Iran try to find ways of working outside “the field of musical categories promulgated by the state.” Official rhetoric against what the government calls “the cultural invasion of the West” (tahājom-e farhangi-ye ğarb; cf. Youssefzadeh 2000, 39) has not suppressed the desires of musicians for various kinds of engagement with Western music and ideas about music. Iranians who are able to work in Europe or North America, like Mashāyekhi and Hāfez Nāzeri, describe their creative projects with claims, justifications, denials, and narratives in the rather small number of formats that gained currency in much of the world during the past century and a half. Some

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of the assertions, like Mashāyekhi’s, emphasize what humans have in common; others are claims to have done what supposedly has never been done before, as when Hāfez Nāzeri boasts of having created “a new kind of classical music that’s neither fully Eastern nor Western . . . , music that balances the Eastern and Western influences” (Ng 2009). Formulas like neither X nor Y and balancing this and that fit smoothly with stories of hybridity structured around the interaction of two sources of energy, often named “East” and “West.” The term hybridity can also be used for the more complex narratives that recognize multiple levels of cultural history in the West and in Iran, or wherever. Tales centered on a monolithic Iran and a monolithic West do not provide an adequate basis for creative thinking in art or in other areas of life. City University of New York

Notes 1

When I returned to Iran in 1995 after a twenty-three-year absence, new friends drew my attention to writings of the philosopher Daryush Shāyegān who replaced Al-e Ahmad’s metaphor of infection with metaphors of mutilation. The address delivered by Mohammad Rezā Darviši at the opening of the Ceremony and Song festival in Tehran, November 1994, “Tradition and Cultural Alienation in the Music of Iran,” makes extensive use of Shāyegān’s ideas (cf. Movahed 2003–2004, 109, n17). Shāyegān 1992 [1977], 73–91 is a discussion of ğarbzadegi (the topic, more than the book). 2 These include P’ansori: Korea’s Epic Vocal Art and Instrumental Music (Nonesuch H-72049, 1972), China: Shantung Folk Music and Traditional Instrumental Pieces (H-72051, 1972), A Persian Heritage: Classical Music of Iran (H-72060, 1974). 3 Lists of the programs sponsored by the Society for Asian Music in certain seasons were printed in Asian Music 7/2 (1976), 9/1 (1977), 12/2 (1981), 13/1 (1981), and 17/1 (1986). Ten of the fifteen programs in the 1975–1976 season were co-sponsored by Asia Society. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, according to a list kindly provided by J. Kenneth Moore (Curator-in-charge of the Department of Musical Instruments), four concerts were offered in 1983, nine in 1984, nine in 1985, two in 1986, seven in 1987, nine in 1988, nine in 1989, nine in 1990, eight in 1991, four in 1992, and three in 1993. 4 The series of Asian Music Publications designed by Fred Lieberman also gave prominent attention to dance: Dance in India was covered along with Chinese and Korean music in the bibliographic series, and the four titles in the monograph series included Carl Wolz’s study of bugaku. 5 If intellectual guidance is needed on that point, it’s long been available in the discussion of asceticism and training in Part Three of Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals, a text whose implications for anthropological theory are explored by Peter Sloterdijk in a book published earlier this year, Du mußt dein Leben ändern: Über Anthropotechnik. 6 Kubik does speak of “tone systems” in the plural (e.g., Kubik 1985). 7 Quoting a remark made by Forsythe in a public conversation with the philosopher and cognitive scientist Alva Noë at the New York Public Library, October 9, 2009.

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8

We’re a long way from developing a typology of musical textures that does justice to what we’ve learned about the ways people interact in performance. Carl Stumpf ’s revival of the ancient Greek term heterophony in the early twentieth century was the first step in expanding the distinction between polyphony and homophony that was formulated in 1650 into a general typology of textures. Next came a fourth term, monophony, for textures with a single voice. Powers uses heterophony as an abstract idea that actual textures may approach to varying degrees; thus he writes that pathetan in Central Javanese music “comes closer” to this abstract notion than does South Indian accompanied ālāpana “if only because there are four participants in the melodic ensemble rather than two” (Powers n.d., 3). I doubt that there’s any real need for the term monophony. To describe the classical music of Iran as “monophonic” is to gloss over the fact that in performance the responses of instrumentalists to vocalists create a texture of continually shifting combinations of voices. Problematic extensions of the term heterophony are trenchantly discussed by Feld (1988, 82–3). 9 On the first page of the novel Ali and Nino by Lev Nussimbaum (under the pseudonym Kurban Said), a geography teacher tells schoolboys in Baku that “it is partly your responsibility as to whether our town should belong to progressive Europe or to reactionary Asia” (Nussimbaum 1971, 1). It’s easy to imagine thousands of schoolmasters in the Caucasus and elsewhere impressing the same point on their charges. 10 Robert Young (2001, 16) distinguishes between “an empire that was bureaucratically controlled by a government from the centre” and “an empire that was developed for settlement by individual communities or for commercial purposes by a trading company”; in his view the term imperialism is appropriate for the former type and colonialism is appropriate for the latter type. 11 Igor Stravinsky’s significant involvement with the Eurasianists is discussed in Taruskin 1996, 1126–36. 12 Martin Stokes (2004, 59) points out that “authenticity and hybridity are . . . more complexly entangled concepts” than one might imagine from writings in which the terms are treated as an opposition. 13 By Muharram Qasımlı of the Azerbaijan Academy of Sciences, in conversation, April 21, 2003. 14 “le bricolage devient le jeu de l’homme à identités multiples, d’un homme qui, bénéficiant de l’art combinatoire que lui offrent les immenses ressources des relations culturelles, recompose le monde à sa mesure, fait configurer, grâce aux éléments disparates mis à sa disposition, un espace vital de plus eu plus personnalisé . . .” 15 Я почти убежден, что можно связать фугу западную с условиями нашей музыки узами законного брака. 16 Blesh (1946, 134) scorned “the ridiculous and pretentious hybridizing of a Duke Ellington and other so-called ‘jazz modernists.’ ” Middleton (2006, 226) aptly describes Blesh’s project as an attempt “to reduce blues/jazz modernism to a single narrative—to synthesis rather than hybridity.” 17 This paragraph is drawn from conversations with scholars at the Dede Qorqut Folklore Institute in Baku, April 18, 2003. 18 At the festival of regional music (musiqi-ye navāhi) in Iran, musicians must confine their performances to music of the region that they represent; before the creation of

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18 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 such festivals, it may have been more common for musicians to adopt techniques and repertoire items from other regions (see Youssefzadeh 2000, 53). 19 Nettl listed eleven terms for “non-Western responses to Western music, as exhibited in the musical artifacts produced in non-Western societies” (1978, 130–34). Hybridity is an issue in three of his categories: diversification, as in films with musical sequences that take in multiple styles; consolidation, evident in the production of “a nationally recognized music from a number of once more distinct styles” (132); and syncretism, which Nettl glosses as “development of mixed or hybrid styles” (133). Kartomi added four more categories to Nettl’s eleven, without limiting her discussion to “non-Western contact with Western music” (1981, 234–39). One of her categories, “transfer of discrete musical traits,” includes diffusion of musical instruments but also deliberate grafting of rhythms, tunes, or timbres into contexts where they stand out as foreign. Musicians sometimes aim to display what Kartomi calls “pluralistic coexistence of musics” in a single composition or performance. 20 James T. Monroe (1987, 255) transliterates the pertinent text as follows: “ilà an naša’a bnu bājjata l’imānu l-a’zamu wa-‘takafa muddata sinīna ma’a jawārin muhsinātin, fa-haddaba l’istihlāla wa-l-‘amala wa-mazaja ġinā’a n-nasārà bi-ġinā’i l-mašriqi.” 21 In Frank Scheffer’s film To Be and Not To Be: The Tehran Philharmonic Orchestra (2009), Mashāyekhi remarks that “dass ist ein absolut glückliche Moment das etwas entsteht von zwei unterschiedlichen Kulturen, und das ist eine drittes, das ist etwas Neues” (“It’s a moment of sheer happiness when from two different cultures merging something new is created”). 22 “Ich setzt diese Systeme nebeneinander ohne jeglichen Versuch, Ähnlichkeiten hineinzuprojizieren. Letzten Endes weist jede System auf die Ähnlichkeit mit den anderen / dem anderen zurück, da Systeme von Menschen entdeckt werden und Menschen archetypischen Reaktionsmustern unterliegen.”

References Agawu, Kofi 2003

Representing African Music: Postcolonial Notes, Queries, Positions. New York: Routledge. Al-e Ahmad, Jalāl 1962 Ğarbzadegi. Tehran: n.p. Trans. John Green and Ahmad Alizadeh as Weststruckness. [Lexington, KT: Mazda, 1982]. Trans. Paul Sprachman as Plagued by the West. [Delmar, NY: Caravan Books, 1982]. Trans. R. Campbell as Occidentosis: A Plague from the West. [Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1984]. Bakhtin, M. M. [1975] 1981 “Discourse in the Novel.” In The Dialogic Imagination, by M. M. Bakhtin, ed. M. Holquist, trans. C. Emerson and M. Holquist, 259–422. Austin: University of Texas Press. First published in Russian, 1975. Blesh, Rudi 1946 Shining Trumpets: A History of Jazz. New York: Knopf.

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Blum, Stephen 2001 “Composition.” In The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., 6:186–201. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bruner, Edward M. 1986 “Ethnography as Narrative.” In The Anthropology of Experience, ed. V. M. Turner and E. M. Bruner, 139–55. Urbana: University of Illinois. Cage, John [1946] 1969 “The East in the West.” Asian Music 1(1):15–18. Reprinted from Modern Music 23(2):111–15. Chaudhuri, Amit 2006 “The East as a Career.” New Left Review 40:111–26. 2008 “Anti-Fusion.” In Clearing a Space: Reflections on India, Literature and Culture, ed. Amit Chaudhuri, 214–17. Oxford: Peter Lang. Originally appeared 2007 in New Statesman. Chou Wen-chung [1966] 1969 “East and West, Old and New.” Asian Music 1(1): 19–22. Based on address delivered at International Music Symposium, Manila, 1966. Darviši, Mohammad Rezā 1994a Sonnat va bigānegi-ye farhangi dar musiqi-ye Irān [Tradition and Cultural Alienation in the Music of Iran]. Tehran: Howze Honari, Sāzmān-e Tabliğāt-e Eslām. 1994b Negāh be ğarb: bahsi dar tāsir-e musiqi-ye ğarb bar musiqi-ye Irān [Westward Glance: A Discussion of the Effect of Western Music on the Music of Iran]. Tehran: Māhur. Doniger, Wendy 2009 The Hindus: An Alternative History. New York: Penguin. Douglas, Mary 1966 Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. New York: Praeger. Fang Kun 1981 “A Discussion on Chinese National Musical Traditions.” Asian Music 12(2):1–11. Trans. Keith Pratt. Reactions by Robert C. Provine (11–14) and Alan Thrasher (14–16). Feld, Steven 1988 “Aesthetics as Iconicity of Style, or ‘Lift-up-over Sounding’: Getting into the Kaluli Groove.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 20:74–113. Findeïzen, N. F., ed. 1907 Polnoe sobranie pisem’ Mikhaila Ivanovicha Glinki. St. Petersburg: Sklad izdaniia v redaktsii “Russkoi Muzykal’noi Gazety.” Frith, Simon 2000 “The Discourse of World Music.” In Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation and Appropriation in Music, ed. G. Born and D. Hesmondhalgh, 305–22. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Gordon, Beate Sirota 1997 The Only Woman in the Room: A Memoir. Tokyo and New York: Kodansha. Harris, Rachel 2008 The Making of a Musical Canon in Chinese Central Asia: The Uyghur Twelve Muqam. SOAS Musicology Series. Aldershot (United Kingdom): Ashgate. Huseynova, Aida N. 2002 “Azerbaijani Mugam Opera: Challenge of the East.” In Identity, Culture and Language Teaching, ed. Pavel Sysoyev, 60–67. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. Hutnyk, John 2000 Critique of Exotica: Music, Politics and the Culture Industry. London and Sterling, VA: Pluto Press. “In Memory of Konrad Bekker.” 1981 Asian Music 13(1): 1–2. Kahraman, Metin and Kemal Kahraman 2003 Çeverê hazaru / Deriyê hêzaran / Binler kapısı / Das Tor der Tausenden / The Gate of Thousands. Istanbul: Lızge. 102 pp. with CD. Kartomi, Margaret J. 1981 “The Processes and Results of Musical Culture Contact: A Discussion of Terminology and Concepts.” Ethnomusicology 25(2):227–49. Kerman, Joseph 1985 Contemplating Music: Challenges to Musicology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kishibe Shigeo 1970–71 “Means of Preservation and Diffusion of Traditional Music in Japan.” Asian Music 2(1):8–13. Kubik, Gerhard 1985 “African Tone Systems: A Reassessment.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 17:31–63. Kunst, Jaap 1959 Ethnomusicology: A Study of Its Nature, Its Problems, Methods and Representative Personalities to which Is Added a Bibliography. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. Kvitka, Klyment 1924 Professional’ni narodni spivtsi y muzykanty na Ukrayani: prohrama dlya doslidu yikh diyal’nosti ta pobutu [Professional Folk Singers and Instrumentalists in Ukraine: A Program for Study of their Activity and Everyday Life]. Zbirnyk Istorychno-Filolochichnoho Viddiluy Ukrains’koi Akademii Nauk (Kiev), 13(2). Reprinted in Kvitka, Izbrannye trudy v dvukh tomakh, II (Moscow, 1973), 279–325 (English summary, 410–11).

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Laruelle, Marlène [1999] 2009 Russian Eurasianism: An Ideology of Empire. Trans. M. Laruelle. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Originally published as L’Idéologie eurasiste russe ou comment penser l’empire [Paris: L’Harmattanx, 1999]. Lévi-Strauss, Claude 1962 La pensée sauvage. Paris: Plon. Light, Nathan 2008 Intimate Heritage: Creating Uyghur Muqam Song in Xinjiang. Halle Studies in the Anthropology of Eurasia 19. Berlin: LIT Verlag. Liu, Benjamin M. and James T. Monroe 1989 Ten Hispano-Arabic Strophic Songs in the Modern Oral Tradition. University of California Publications in Modern Philology 125. Berkeley: University of California Press. Middleton, Richard 2006 Voicing the Popular: On the Subjects of Popular Music. New York: Routledge. Monroe, James T. 1987 “A Sounding Brass and Tinkling Cymbal: Al-Halīl in Andalus (Two Notes on the Muwaššah).” La Corónica 15(2):252–58. Movahed, Azin 2003–04 “Religious Supremacy, Anti-imperialist Nationhood and Persian Musicology after the 1979 Revolution.” Asian Music 35(1):85–113. Nettl, Bruno 1978 “Some Aspects of the History of World Music in the Twentieth Century: Questions, Problems, and Concepts.” Ethnomusicology 22(1): 123–36. Ng, David 2009 “Hafez Nazeri: ‘A New Kind of Classical Music.’ ” Los Angeles Times, September 27. Nussimbaum, Lev [writing as “Kurban Said”] 1971 Ali and Nino. New York: Random House. Picken, Laurence 1977 “Foreword.” Musica Asiatica 1:v–vi. Powers, Harold n.d. “Comparative Counterpoint: Ensemble Control in Multi-Part Musics.” Unpublished paper. 94 pp. with 42 ex., 3 figs. Qureshi, Regula Burckhardt 1987 “Musical Sound and Contextual Input: A Performance Model for Musical Analysis.” Ethnomusicology 31(1):56–86. Rhodes, Willard 1969 “To the Reader.” Asian Music 1(1):2.

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Shāyegān, Daryush 1989 Le Regard mutilé: schizophrénie culturelle: pays traditionnels face à la modernité. Paris: Albin Michel. [1977] 1992 Āsyā dar barābar-e ğarb [Asia Faced with the West]. Tehran: Entešārāt-e Bāğ-e Ā’yene. First published Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1977. [2001] 2008 La Lumière vient de l’Occident: le réenchantement du monde et la pensée nomade. La Tour d’Aigues: Éditions de l’Aube. First published: Éditions de l’Aube, 2001. Slobin, Mark 2007 “Musical Multiplicity: Emerging Thoughts.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 39:108–16. Sloterdijk, Peter 2009 Du mußt dein Leben ändern: Über Anthropotechnik. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Spinetti, Federico 2005 “Open Borders: Tradition and Tajik Popular Music: Questions of Aesthetics, Identity and Political Economy.” Ethnomusicology Forum 14(2):185–212. Stokes, Martin 2004 “Music and the Global Order.” Annual Review of Anthropology 33:47–72. Sutton, R. Anderson 2003 “Innovation and Accessibility: Towards a Typology of Fusion Music in Korea.” Tongyang Ŭmak: Journal of Asian Music Research Institute (Seoul National University) 25:227–50. 2008 “What’s That Sound? Korean Fusion Music and the Ascendancy of the Haegŭm.” Asian Music 39(2):1–27. Taruskin, Richard F. 1996 Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through “Mavra.” Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Taylor, Timothy D. 2007 Beyond Exoticism: Western Music and the World (Refiguring American Music). Durham: Duke University Press. Ch. 5, 140–60. “Some Versions of Difference: Discourses of Hybridity in Transnational Musics.” Trebinjac, Sabine 2000 Le pouvoir en chantant, I, l’art de fabriquer une musique chinoise. Nanterre: Société d’Ethnologie. Turino, Thomas 1993 Moving away from Silence: Music of the Peruvian Altiplano and the Experience of Urban Migration. Chicago Studies in Ethnomusicology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Young, Robert J. C. 1995 Colonial Desire: Hybridity in Theory, Culture and Race. London: Routledge. 2001 Postcolonialism: An Historical Introduction. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Youssefzadeh, Ameneh 2000 “The Situation of Music in Iran since the Revolution: The Role of Official Organizations.” British Journal of Ethnomusicology 9(2):35–61. Yung, Bell 1984 “Choreographic and Kinesthetic Elements in Performance on the Chinese Seven-String Zither.” Ethnomusicology 28(3):505–17.

Discography Chaudhuri, Amit 2007 This Is Not Fusion. np: Times Music TDFWM 242C. Mashāyekhi, Nāder 2009 fié ma fié II—moulana. Münster: Dreyer Gaido LC 11796.

Videography Huseynova, Aida 2007 The Music and Culture of Azerbaijan. Interactive DVD with technical production by Kristen Bellisario and project coordination by Mary Goetze. Global Voices Comprehensive. Scheffer, Frank 2009 To Be and Not To Be: The Tehran Philharmonic Orchestra. PHV Film. 55 m.

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From Folk to Popular and Back: Musical Feedback between Studio Recordings and Festival Dance-Songs in Uttarakhand, North India Stefan Fiol Abstract: Every day central Himalayan musicians travel to studios in east Delhi to record their own renditions of rural festival dance-songs. The resulting recordings, infused with studio techniques and sonic “folk” tropes, are distributed, consumed, and reinterpreted back in the mountain villages where they may reinvigorate festival dance-song performances and perhaps eventually stimulate new studio productions. This article ethnographically traces processes of musical feedback and influence between the urban recording studio and the rural festival, thereby complicating the routine dichotomization of musical life into categories of indigenous/cosmopolitan, traditional/modern, or production/consumption.

Since the late 1970s, an increasing number of amateur and semiprofessional musicians from the central Himalayan state of Uttarakhand have been performing in two distinct settings: rural mountain festivals and urban recording studios in Delhi, North India. One result of their exposure to both of these sites of musical activity has been a gradual adaptation of the festival musical repertoire, particularly round dance-songs, to regional commercial recordings collectively known as Uttarakhandi gīt (songs). These vernacular language recordings are disseminated across plains-based urban migrant communities and mountain-dwelling village communities via radio stations, 24-hour television cable networks, and kiosks selling cassettes and video compact discs (VCDs). Some critics have argued that Uttarakhandi gīt have gradually standardized and diluted regional culture, threatening the survival of village musical traditions. While these concerns are understandable, commercial recordings have also generated considerable public interest in village music and dance, and they have become a direct source for learning the dance-song repertoire that is performed at rural festivals. This article explores musical communication across festival and studio settings with particular attention to round dance-song genres. Many other styles of village music—panwārā, jāgar, Baddī gīt, and māngal gīt—have been recorded in Delhi studios and transformed through this process, but these recordings’ reciprocal influence on village practice has been negligible.1 Small-scale producers © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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have tended to release these albums in low volume, with limited distribution in the mountains. Moreover, these are specialist genres rooted in ritual practice and performed by predominantly hereditary caste-musicians who have had little exposure to commercial music. In contrast, Uttarakhandis of all geographic and social backgrounds actively participate in round dance-songs during communal gatherings, and the genres themselves facilitate widespread participation by being open-ended, repetitive, flexible, and inclusive of secular and sacred interpretations. By shifting between ethnographic examples in studio and festival locations, this article explores the circular process whereby commercial recordings become a source of creativity for festival dance-song performances, and the latter become a source of creativity for recording studio projects. Despite the neatness of this formulation, there is no grand, circular design in the minds of most studio or festival participants. The opinion of many Uttarakhandis is that the rural festival and urban recording studio are spaces of traditional and modern musical production, respectively, and that whatever comes out of one setting is neither appropriate nor intended for the other setting. This perspective emerges not so much from a belief that the musical values or styles in studio and festival settings are incompatible but rather from a widely shared modernist discourse through which cultural practices, forms, and spaces acquire dichotomous meanings as global/local, modern/traditional, or popular/folk. The ideological polarization of festival and studio performance is mediated by geographical distance in the case of Uttarakhand but also by the historical context of relations between mountain villages and urban centers in the North Indian plains. Until the nineteenth century, Uttarakhand was an important center of transHimalayan trade, agriculture, and mining. Once ceded by the British Raj in 1815, the region’s strategic importance was measured less in terms of its productive capabilities and more in terms of its geographic features as a buffer zone against Soviet and Chinese threats, as an alpine retreat from the sweltering heat of lowland summers, and as a source of resource extraction for plains-based development projects (Rangan 2000). Throughout the ninteenth century, by necessity or choice, increasing numbers of Uttarakhandi males migrated south to the urban plains for military service and educational and employment opportunities. The plains came to be imagined as a place of opportunity and status elevation, in spite of the considerable economic uncertainty, social alienation, and discrimination that Uttarakhandis faced in this environment. Writing in 1828, the British commissioner to Kumaon, G. W. Traill, remarked, “The rate of wages [in the hills], greater by one half than that which exists in the plains, fails in inducing the voluntary attendance of day laborers: the people of this class will, however, without hesitation wander hundreds of miles, and spend weeks to gain a few annas by peddling the commodities of the plains” (1991, 138).

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Following national independence in 1947 and the dissolution of the princely state of Tehri Garhwal, the western and eastern halves of Uttarakhand (Kumaon and Garhwal) were administratively conjoined under the state government of Uttar Pradesh. The male migrant population had become so large and so destabilizing to the region that many observers wrote of a “money order economy” in Uttarakhand.2 In response to the threat of a Chinese military invasion in the early 1960s, the Indian government constructed roads through the Uttarakhand hills, up to the northern and eastern borders with Nepal and Tibet. These roads became the veins of the regional economy, facilitating the extraction of laborers and resources southwards to the urban plains as well as the importation of plains-manufactured consumer goods northwards into the mountains. By the early 1990s, discontent over this economic imbalance fueled a popular movement for regional statehood. It was argued that the state government of Uttar Pradesh had consistently failed to account for the unique environmental, social, and cultural conditions of the Uttarakhand hills and that the smaller government of an Uttarakhand state (eventually realized in November 2000) would facilitate greater inclusion in the fruits of national modernism and development.3 This longstanding pattern of interdependent and exploitative economic relations between the urban plains and the rural hills has been replicated within the music industry. Since the early 1980s, the expressive culture of mountain festivals (music, dance, dress, poetry, etc.) has been exported to recording studios in Delhi, and more recently to the regional state capital of Dehradun, to be codified, edited, packaged, and finally distributed back to the hills in the form of a commodity that ultimately benefits the plains-based company (see map in Figure 1). Few hereditary specialists from regional musician-castes (Bājgī, Baddī, Hūrkiya, Jāgariya) have participated in the regional music industry; the lack of financial resources and social networks in the urban plains, combined with issues of caste-based discrimination, have largely precluded these professional musicians from participating in studio recording. In their place, increasing numbers of semi-professional singers from higher-caste backgrounds (Rajput and Brahmin) have traveled to Delhi, eager to make a name for themselves and at the same time represent their local communities (cf. Grandin 1989, 188). In order to find financial viability and regional prominence, many have found it necessary to participate in both studio recording and live stage performances. While commercial recordings are rarely profitable (and often incur significant debts on young singers), they generate cultural capital that may eventually lead to invitations to more lucrative live performances. In spite of the geographic and cultural gaps between rural festivals and the urban recording studios, the political and economic context of urban migration, consumer capitalism, and cultural regionalism have created the conditions for significant contact and overlap between these settings. Given this context, it is

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Figure 1. Map of Uttarakhand (courtesy of Natalie Fiol). understandable that studio musicians are utilizing musical forms and styles from village festivals, while festival dancers are incorporating songs and movements created in recording studios. In South Asia, where predominantly rural traditions have co-existed with diversified music industries for decades, such mutual interaction between live and mass-mediated performance is quite common and has been well documented. Ethnomusicologists have long been interested in the stylistic transformations of musical genres such as thūmrī, bhajan, rasiya, ghazal, and qawwālī after they have been widely disseminated via studio recordings and films. In some cases, the commodified styles of these genres have transformed the way they are subsequently performed in live presentational settings (Manuel 1986, 1993, 1994; Qureshi 1999). Scott Marcus (1993) and Gregory Booth (1993) have explored this issue from the other direction (bottom-up) by demonstrating the ways in which musical ensembles resignify film songs and commercial devotional songs to suit local contexts of performance. On a transnational stage, Timothy Taylor (2001), Steven Feld (1996, 2000), and Thomas Turino (2000) have each examined unanticipated confrontations resulting from musical borrowings (or appropriations, to use a more politically charged term) between multinational companies, pop stars, and indigenous communities.

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28 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 While building on these studies, this article focuses on a more regionally contained set of interactive processes. Instead of locally produced music moving outwards to global/transnational mediascapes, or commercial albums moving inwards to local performance contexts,4 Uttarakhandi musicians and sound commodities circulate between studios and festivals, conjoining these two performance settings within a regionally integrated migrant economy. Although there may be little agreement about what this type of cultural interaction means, or how it should proceed, few would refute that studio production and festival performance mutually shape the corpus of music and dance within any Uttarakhandi community. Musical feedback across these settings is facilitated by relatively closed loops of consumers/listeners and producers/performers who communicate through the vernacular languages of Garhwali, Kumaoni, and Jaunsari.5 While Hindi film songs, transnational pop, and other Indian regional musical styles have influenced the development of Uttarakhandi gīt (see below), the relatively circumscribed consumer base—consisting of approximately nine million inhabitants—results in a certain degree of stylistic insularity and feedback across these performance locations. If my focus is on horizontal rather than vertical relations between these performance contexts, this does not mean that issues of power are non-existent or irrelevant. One’s access to, and control over, technology obviously mediates the degree of participation in this process. As mentioned above, musical specialists from lower-caste communities are integral to musical performance in regional festivals, but they have mostly been absent from studio recording contexts. Similarly, female participation in festival dance-songs has always outnumbered male participation in my experience, and there are numerous varieties of dancesongs exclusively performed by women. In the male-dominated space of the recording studio, however, female participation is limited to subsidiary vocal roles performed by about a dozen professional singers, most of who are either unmarried or are married to studio producers or music directors. In village contexts, moreover, hereditary specialists and women tend to have less access to playback technology than high-caste males; as a result, it is somewhat less common (though certainly not rare) for them to integrate commercial songs into communal dance performances. An ethnographic focus on musical and social interaction across festival and studio environments also uncovers more subtle issues of power having to do with the imagination of the urban plains and the mountain village. The contentious history of post-colonial capitalism, migrancy, and cultural regionalism has polarized the respective association of the plains and mountains with “modernity” and “tradition.” Urban studios and village festivals are likewise imagined as oppositional spaces of popular music production and traditional/folk music production. A focus on interactions between these performance contexts can

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reveal how individuals selectively draw upon this bifurcated discourse to rationalize stylistic choices in one setting that, intentionally or unintentionally, inform the other setting. For example, many recording artists choose to include songs from their village locality on commercial albums because of a general perception that these songs are old, autochthonous, traditional, and slowly disappearing. Adapting these songs to the conventions of studio recording may be motivated by a desire to revive this repertoire in the village and simultaneously to elevate their own local and regional status. These albums may be listened to and reinterpreted by villagers because they are considered locally relevant, but at the same time, having been produced in urban studios, they are valued for their novelty and sophistication. In the musical texts and the ways that people engage with them, the values for modernity and tradition thus overlap and intersect (Rudolph and Rudolph 1967). This article brings areas of musical life that are normally treated as disparate into one analytical framework so as to demonstrate how they articulate and regenerate one another. At the risk of reifying “the rural festival” and “the urban recording studio,” I privilege each of these settings in turn, highlighting a number of redundant features that lend coherence to musical performances. The goal is not to comprehensively account for stylistic constancy and change in each of these settings but rather to demonstrate how conventional patterns of behavior, sound, and meaning within one performance context may facilitate or impede musical adaptation within the other context. A number of critical questions will be examined: How does an awareness of the regularized recording of the dance-song repertoire in the studio transform the way that villagers experience and reinterpret this music? Conversely, how does the habituated integration of commercial recordings into festival dance-song repertoires transform the way that studio participants understand their task and make musical choices? Finally, how and why do certain musical elements translate from the studio context to the festival context, or vice versa, while others do not?

Incorporating Uttarakhandi Gīt into Festival Dance-Songs In Uttarakhand, as in agrarian societies across South Asia, festivals are opportunities to celebrate profane and sacred relationships and to mark auspicious times and places. Festivals in Uttarakhand are known by a variety of different names that offer clues to their varied social functions: “sacred geography (thaul), lust or curiosity for spectacle (kauthik), longing for togetherness (melā), religious urge for communion with the divine, and innate responses to the changing rhythms of nature (ausār)” (Purohit 2001, 365). The variety of musical performance on display across this spectrum of occasions is likewise extremely diverse and may include: hill bands (consisting of bagpipe and dhol-damaun);6 brass

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30 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 bands (modeled on plains-based ensembles); solo ballad singing (panwārā); unaccompanied devotional chanting; processional music on drums and natural trumpets (karnāl, bhankora, ransinghā); ritual dances performed by musiciancaste specialists (Dākkī, Bājgī, Baddī); staged dances and songs performed by commercial artists and folkloric dance troupes; and most commonly, participatory round dance-songs. With the growth of the regional music industry since the 1980s, cassette playback, amplified through loudspeakers, has also become an increasingly common sonic feature of festival environments.7 While this is to be expected in large-scale, urban melās that incorporate competition and stage performances,8 it has also become part of the sonic environment of interior festivals. Several music producers describe rural festivals as an important testing ground for new albums. Even though a larger percentage of Uttarakhandi gīt consumers reside in urban centers in the plains, some producers attempt to gauge the positive or negative reception of an album among highland audiences first because they claim this provides an accurate indication of how the album will sell elsewhere. Music companies often release albums several weeks prior to a major festival, especially if the album has songs honoring the local deity or the festival in question. Cassette shops along the major roadways in the foothill urban centers of Vikasnagar, Dehradun, Rishikesh, Kotdwar, Haldwani, and Kathgodam stock the latest albums and sell to tourists, pilgrims, and vendors traveling to mountain festivals. Less-experienced musicians who have self-produced albums may also sell or give these away at festivals as a form of advertising; if the album is well received, it can lead to private bookings or live performances at other festivals. Even when cassette playback is desirable during a festival, it is often not possible because of intermittent or nonexistent electrical current and the remoteness of many festival locations. In such contexts, the influence of commercial music is indirectly evident in the performances of round dance-songs, by far the most ubiquitous and participatory form of festival music making. There are many terms for round dance-songs across this region—tāndī, hārūl, lāman, chopatī are common in Jaunsar and western Garhwal; jhumeilo, thadyā, and cauñflā are common in eastern Garhwal; cāncerī and thoda are common in Kumaon—yet all of these involve dancers in circular formations stepping together while singing call-and-response, antiphonal, or unison verses. While some of the local terms for dance-songs correspond to specific rhythmic and footwork patterns, the styles of rendering these dance-songs may vary significantly even between two neighboring villages that use the same terminology. As festivals are meeting places for members of many different communities, dance-song performances are a means for people from one locality to set themselves apart from others, just as they also facilitate experimentation and borrowing across communities (Hatwal 2009). The repertoire of dance-songs performed within a single

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village is often very large, encompassing a variety of styles and social functions (e.g., courting, demonstrating gender solidarity or complimentarily, exhibiting martial prowess, narrating local histories, highlighting seasonal changes, worshipping local deities, etc.). Many of these dance-song styles are rarely if ever performed today, while others have been disseminated on cassette, VCD, radio, and television, encouraging the participation of young people in festival performances. In March 2005, I accompanied friends to the popular Naugaon melā, which had attracted more than two thousand people from Rawain, in the northwest corner of Garhwal, and from the urban plains. Throughout the day and into the night, people gathered in the main village courtyard, singing and dancing in circular formations of anywhere between four to fifty people. Some of the smaller groups danced unaccompanied, but their songs were drowned out by the larger circles, which were accompanied on the dhol performed by Bagji, hereditary drummers from their locality. (Despite the participatory nature of dance-songs, the roles of dancer and drummer tend to be divided by caste background.) Almost every group of dancers exhibited a distinctive footwork pattern and a unique form of linking hands and arms across the waist or shoulders. When dancers became tired of a particular song and the volume of the singing began to dissipate, one, or several, in the group introduced a new song without losing a step, although often times the footwork pattern and rhythmic accompaniment shifted slightly to fit the melodic rhythm of the new song. At times, I became aware that dancers were drawing on commercial recordings as a source for dance-songs. Young male dancers, amidst much laughter from their peers, directed romantic lyrics toward young women on the other side of the circle while mimicking the stylized movements portrayed on VCD albums. Throughout the day, dancers incorporated songs from a number of different artists, but the songs of Narendra Singh Negi, the most prolific and popular recording artist in Uttarakhand, and Mehinder Chauhan, a young singer from Rawain, were the favorites. Several adolescents admitted to having learned the texts of these dance-songs through repeated exposure to cassettes and VCDs. One individual claimed that he was not so interested in dance-songs until he began listening to Negi’s albums, which often include one or two tracks labeled “traditional” (paramparik) that are modeled after village dance-songs. In conversations with Narendra Singh Negi and Mehinder Chauhan, it was apparent that they anticipated and welcomed the incorporation of their compositions into festival settings. These musicians clearly measured their success in commercial terms (numbers of albums recorded, amount of fees commanded), but they also identified the purpose of their recording to be one of regenerating interest in “folk music” (lok sangīt). Both musicians have sought out village elders and folklorists to gather material for their recordings. Chauhan has collected and

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32 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 recorded a number of texts and melodies of lāman from Rawain in an effort to revive this repertoire among the present generation. He claimed that during live performances in Rawain he is requested to sing this traditional repertoire even more than his own compositions. I attended one of his collaborative songwriting sessions and observed him and several poets from the region composing song verses by extracting themes from various local historical narratives. Negi’s approach was less localized and more pan-regional (as was his fame), but he showed a similar interest in preservationist projects and in maintaining what he called the “folk element” (using the English phrase) in his songs. Which time do we save? [The songs from] seven hundred years ago? What happened to the creations from four hundred years ago? In the fifty years to come, what will be the folksongs? You can call it anything you like: traditional song, new song, modern song. Maybe it’s fifty or forty years old, [but after] one hundred years it will become a folk song. It is a circle out of which some songs will fall and become extinct and some others will prevail . . . Now, when my name is not in the songs, so my name will gradually be deleted from these songs, and then the songs will remain. If they have the strength to remain, then they will remain. In this way, folk music (lok sangīt) will be made. In this way, the “folk element” will be important. You have to see whether there’s a “folk element” in this [music] or not! If not, then reject it. If there is, then record it. Because [through these] songs, Garhwali gīt, Kumaoni gīt, folk will be made after fifty, sixty, one hundred years. But it will only happen if [people] record and play it. (Narendra Singh Negi, personal interview, April 11, 2005, emphasis added)

For Negi, a commercial recording would only become accepted over time as a legitimate folk song if the “folk element” were retained in the recording.9 One pertinent question, which will be considered below, is how Negi goes about identifying and isolating the folk element for his compositions? Another question is whether songs originating in the recording studio could ever be considered folk songs in the same way as localized, anonymously composed, orally transmitted, and communally rendered festival songs? This obviously depends upon the degree of sonic and social transformation that can occur when commercial songs are adapted to festival settings. Certain musical transformations are more immediate, and stem from the structural differences between music-making in the studio and in the festival. For example, studio-produced Uttarakhandi gīt are soloist driven, verse-refrain structured, and three to five minutes in length, and the temporally fragmented, multi-track production process is oriented toward the end product. When adapted to festival settings, which emphasize participatory dancing, dhol-driven accompaniment, and open-ended songs consisting of one or two repeated melodic phrases, Uttarakhandi gīt will necessarily be altered in terms of tempo, texture, melodic structure, instrumentation, and overall form.

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The fundamental transformation of the identity of a song, however, will result not from these superficial stylistic alterations but from a more gradual process of communal identification and adaptation. Narendra Singh Negi, for example, described a festival performance in which he was unable to recognize his own compositions because of what he termed a continuous process of “filtering.” Negi: I’ve seen villagers in Jaunsar [western Garhwal] . . . singing a song [while dancing]. But I couldn’t recognize the songs, and I couldn’t even understand the words. Afterwards they told me, “Negiji, this is your song.” Fiol: So, in their own way, they changed your song? Negi: Exactly. This is what’s so special. There is a “filter” at work, and for this reason songs last for one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, years. Today, the songs that we call cāncerī, you cannot know how these were written two hundred years back. The original song was something else. But over time, the “filter” was working, and changes in the melody were introduced so that people would enjoy it more, and certain words would be linked to other words so that it would reflect their life. So this filtering over time is what has allowed the songs to come in the form that we have them, and they may be two hundred or three hundred years old. Today these [songs] are perfect; there is no need to change them. People cut them and reformed them so much and have revealed these forms to us today. This is how much filtering has happened. (N. Negi, personal interview, April 11, 2005)

Negi’s metaphor of a communal filter that strains the content of commercial songs over time, subtracting irrelevant features and adding locally meaningful ones, is a provocative (if somewhat romanticized) way of describing the transformation of commercial recordings into village dance-songs. In my experience, the village dancers who incorporated Negi’s songs remained conscious of the fact that they were singing his songs (even if Negi would not have been able to recognize them as his own), and not autochthonous village songs. Nevertheless, Negi has good reason to believe that with the passage of time some of his compositions may enter the folksong repertoire (if by folksong one accepts the conventional interpretation of an orally disseminated and communally owned song of unknown provenance). In the mid-twentieth century, Brij Mohan Shah and Mohan Upreti, two leading ambassadors of Kumaoni music, theater, and dance, composed the song “Beṛū Pāko.” It was first performed by Upreti’s Delhi-based theater company Parvatiya Kala Kendra at a stage program in 1952, and Upreti also recorded the song for the HMV label. (Legend has it that after a folk festival, Prime Minister Nehru selected this song as his favorite and distributed the LP album to other dignitaries.) By the 1980s, “Beṛū Pāko” had become the folk anthem of Uttarakhand, and even today it is a ubiquitous part of the repertoire of weddings, processions, and festivals. The song’s notoriety must be attributed at least in

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34 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 part to its commercial diffusion beginning with the LP album and followed by numerous cassette and VCD remixes, mobile phone ringtones, and a national Coca-Cola advertisement.10 Few of the village musicians I worked with knew how old this song was nor who had composed it. One Kumoani music producer I spoke with lamented the fact that this relatively modern song was erroneously categorized by many people as a folk song, and Upreti, a composer-poet working to professionalize Kumaoni art forms, was erroneously labeled a folk artist. In his opinion, “a whole generation of people is looking to capitalize on the name of folk when they are, in fact, burying it” (personal communication, Prabhat Gangola Shah, August 7, 2005). While there are differing viewpoints regarding the merits of commercialization, this example bolsters Negi’s claim that some commercial songs are gradually filtering into the village repertoire. Yet it also qualifies Negi’s claim, because this filtering process is not simply the unmediated response of villagers adapting these commercial songs to traditional settings. The widespread incorporation of “Beṛū Pāko” into rural performances has been contingent upon its dissemination and consumption through a wide array of commercial media. Rather than imagining a shift from a commercial sphere of production into a traditional sphere of consumption, it is necessary to consider how village engagements with mass-mediated music have become part of the process of constructing the category of folksongs. As in the British and American folksong “revivals,” the music industry has played a pivotal role in valorizing the concept of the folksong (lokgīt) as a primordial and communal voice of the people and has become a primary means of locating and disseminating a corpus of folk music. One further example may elucidate the impact of commercial mass-mediated music on village-based festival performance. In April 2005 I attended the onsite shooting of singer Mehinder Chauhan’s video album Mīnū Ai in Rawain. A production team of around fifteen individuals performing various roles— drivers, make-up artists, soundmen, lighting assistants, actors, dancers, cameramen, utility men, producer, director, and assistant director—assembled at Chauhan’s village home after a seven-hour drive up the Yamuna river valley from Dehradun. Most of the crewmembers were originally from Uttarakhand, but none was from the Rawain area. It took approximately a week for the production team to record the material that would later be edited into a video album of eight songs. At around ten o’clock on the first night, the crew set up in front of the temple courtyard in Chauhan’s village to record the title track, “Mīnū Ai.” Chauhan had composed the song’s text on the theme of the beauty of a village girl, and he set this to a tune common to many regional tāndī—the generic name for round dance-songs. The filming did not coincide with any local festival, but the occasion nevertheless created something close to a festival atmosphere.

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Many high-caste women and men from this village and several nearby villages donned their best clothes and assembled in the courtyard. It took several hours for the director to rein in the enthusiasm of the dancers and get them to synchronize their movements with the barely audible playback of the cassette recording (released several weeks earlier) through a small tape player (Figure 2). The tempo of the studio recording was unnaturally slow for the dancers, and many found it difficult to move together. To improve this, they would begin singing alongside Chauhan’s recorded voice but would then be unable to hear the recorded playback and would gradually increase the tempo, to the director’s consternation. The next night, in an effort to find better material for the title track, the director accepted the invitation of the headman of another nearby village, who no doubt wanted to memorialize his village by virtue of a VCD production appearance. Chauhan had a difficult time teaching the dhol drummers to only mime the action of drumming without actually striking the drum because this once again drowned out the cassette playback, making it difficult for the dancers to follow the correct tempo. Meanwhile, I asked several elderly women seated in the courtyard if they were excited to have their village represented on the commercial VCD. To my surprise, one woman replied that a number of video albums had previously been filmed in this village, and that it was in fact becoming a

Figure 2. On-site shooting of the VCD Mīnū Ai.

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nuisance, because these production teams demanded a lot and never gave anything back. Part of her resentment was triggered by the manner in which this production team interacted with the villagers. Arriving late at night, they set up a noisy generator to power their spotlights, enlisted the help of the village headman to bring the entire village out of bed and to the courtyard, and then advised many women to clean up and change clothes because they were deemed unsuitable to appear in the scene. In contrast to the previous night, there was little enthusiasm on this occasion; the director frequently cued the spectators and dancers to clap and cheer, which often produced little or no response.11 This VCD shoot is a rather atypical example of the cyclical feedback between the studio and the festival, contexts that are normally separated geographically and temporally. Here, in contrast, the contingencies of these two contexts converged within one localized performance space, exposing areas of synthesis and compromise. Chauhan’s already-released audio recording employed the conventional rhythms and melodies of tāndī dance-songs, prompting the creation of a festival scene for the VCD album in the first place. Yet his recording also introduced a slower than normal tempo and a new text, and the dancers in the recording were required to learn and adapt to these elements while reconstructing a festival experience. For many participants from the second village, this was a completely manufactured experience of “tradition” by the video production team. Yet for many of the dancers in Chauhan’s village, the video shoot was treated as a truly auspicious occasion; it was an opportunity to demonstrate the unity of the village and to share the success of one of their own kin. Massmediated and festival-based music thus interacted at many levels and prompted a range of positive and negative interpretations. My objective thus far has been to assess the impact of the commercialization of round dance-songs on their performance and conceptualization in rural festivals. I may be guilty of overstating the influence of commercial recordings on festival contexts, and there is a vast corpus of festival music and dance that, for whatever reason, has yet to be commercially recorded. Yet it was only after repeatedly returning to several villages in Rawain and participating in their local festivals over the course of two years that I began to consider the broader effects of the music industry on festival performance. One evening, while viewing one of my video recordings of a recent festival performance on the television of the village headman (padhān),12 several male viewers began arguing about the authenticity of one of the dance-song texts. The particular song under discussion was a variety of harūl, a slower-paced dance-song genre often performed by Rajput men and associated with historical narratives of valor. One elder man felt that an important section of this song’s narrative was left out while his middleaged son-in-law disagreed, claiming that this was the way he had learned the song. As part of his defense, the latter admitted that this was also the version

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presented on Mehinder Chauhan’s cassette album, Dāndī Kūrerī. This remark drew scorn from the elder man, and several others present, who argued that “kaseṭ music,” essentially a modern phenomenon, could not be regarded as an authority on traditional matters. While this point essentially ended the debate, it was nevertheless striking that Chauhan’s recording had entered this conversation at all. As recording artists are seeking to authenticate their songs by drawing on festival practices, some village performers have turned to commercial recordings as a source for learning and legitimating the music performed in “traditional” festival contexts.

Making Uttarakhandi Gīt “Traditional” in the Urban Recording Studio If the previous section focused on the effects of recordings of round dance-songs on festival performance practice, this section is concerned with the reverse relationship. How does the regular incorporation of recorded songs into festival performances alter the way that producers, music directors, and singers make musical choices in the recording studio? Before considering this question, it is necessary to historically contextualize the use of “folk elements” within Uttarakhandi gīt recordings. Radio was the first electronic mass medium to have a major impact on mountain-dwelling populations.13 Beginning in the 1950s, live studio performances featuring regional musicians were broadcast on the stateowned All India Radio (AIR) stations in Delhi and Lucknow (and from 1978 in Nejibabad, northern Uttar Pradesh). AIR staff also went on field expeditions to mountain villages to record a wide range of hereditary musical specialists. By the 1990s, government-run media were losing ground to the private sector, and these field expeditions were deemed too expensive; henceforth, musicians were required to travel to AIR studios in the urban plains to make recordings. One consequence of this policy shift was that hereditary musicians from lower caste and lower-class backgrounds had fewer opportunities to participate in the music industry. Beginning in the late 1970s, amateur or semi-professional musicians living in the urban plains established informal social networks and registered cultural organizations. Musicians from Akhil Garhwal Sabha, Kumaon Sabha, and the aforementioned Parvatiya Kala Kendra, for example, began to seek opportunities within the Delhi-based music industry at the same time that private music companies emerged to capitalize on the potential for regional music markets (see Manuel 1993, chapter 8). By the mid-1980s, private music companies such as Saraswati, Neelam, and Rama began specializing in vernacular language recordings and soon became brand names for Uttarakhandi gīt aficionados. During this period, the only individuals in the recording studio from Uttarakhand were the lead singers; producers, music directors, engineers,

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38 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 and session musicians had little to no knowledge of the language or music of Uttarakhand. As a result, music directors resorted to generic folk arrangements, incorporating stylistic features from the better-known and larger Bhojpuri, Maithili, and Punjabi regional industries or from light-classical ghazal and bhajan genres, accompanied on flute, harmonium, dholak, and tabla. By the 1990s, Uttarakhandi migrants, particularly from Garhwal, had established themselves in the Delhi-based music industry as accompanists, music directors, and, in rare cases, producers. Albums from this period featured an expanded range of cosmopolitan instruments (guitar, mandolin, drum pads, and synthesizers), indigenous instruments such as hūḍka (an hourglass-shaped pressure drum) and biṇai (Jew’s harp), non-indigenous instruments that were nevertheless evocative of Himalayan landscapes such as bānsūrī (bamboo flute) and santūr (hammered dulcimer), and standard percussion instruments used across North India (dholak and tabla). The texts of Uttarakhandi gīt treated sentiments familiar to both the villager and the male migrant: the married woman pining for her natal village and family, the beauty of the hills during different seasons, and the separation from one’s kin and one’s beloved. While all albums were generically labeled Uttarakhandi gīt (or, more specifically, Jaunsari gīt, Garhwali gīt, and Kumaoni gīt), the musical arrangements on the albums revealed one of two distinct stylistic approaches: an “unadorned” style rooted in indigenous musical forms and texts, and performed by a small number of hereditary village musicians; or a “commercial” style assimilating characteristics of Hindi film music and other regional commercial styles, and performed by high-caste urban migrants (Alter 1998).14 On commercial recordings since the late 1990s, there is evidence that these two distinct styles of presenting Uttarakhandi gīt are merging. Migrant musicians continue to be interested in “modernizing” the sound of Uttarakhandi gīt, but they are also interested in drawing upon specialist genres (e.g., jāgar, panwārā, Baddī gīt) and round dance-songs. The latter, commonly labeled “folksongs” (lokgīt) or “traditional songs” (paramparik gīt) on the album covers, appear on the recent albums of each of Uttarakhand’s most commercially successful singers (Narendra Singh Negi, Pritam Bhartwan, Gajender Rana, Manglesh Dangwal, Hira Singh Rana, etc.). The remainder of the tracks on these albums consists of “original” compositions (although the originality of these songs can be debated as they are often based upon recombinations of village-based rhythms, melodies, and texts). The impetus for singers and music companies to combine different styles of presentation on the same album may in part be found in the expansion of consumer markets, in both the Uttarakhand hills and the urban plains, connected by a bourgeoning migrant economy. An even more important factor for the mixed song selection may be the heightened social and physical mobility of migrant

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singers. As migrant singers move frequently between village festivals and recording studios, interacting across varied social networks, they become cultural intermediaries who necessarily mediate between rural and urban perspectives. Like the “stars” of major international music industries, successful recording artists in Uttarakhand demonstrate their cosmopolitanism through mobile practices. Unlike many musical celebrities elsewhere, however, Uttarakhandi musicians remain closely connected to village communities through affine and kin relations, and they return to the village frequently during festival seasons. The mobile lifestyle of the recording artist produces what could be called an experience of “double nostalgia”: while in the city, the migrant singer longs for the simplicity and purity of village life, and while in the village, he longs for the sophistication of plains-based modernity. Each of these experiences of nostalgia manifests in the musical styles and lyrics of Uttarakhandi gīt, which serve as virtual “memory banks” for real and imagined experiences of the city and the village (Greene 2003, 48). Because of the migrant singer’s position of “in-between-ness,” there have been paradoxical tendencies to standardize and vernacularize the musical arrangements of Uttarakhandi gīt. Standardization has been evident in the use of external sonic elements, such as the use of dense textures and electronic sound effects associated with Hindi film soundtracks. Narendra Singh Negi defended the practice as follows: The atmosphere of the city and the village are different. No? And when the child watches Hindi films and English films, listens to Hindi songs, and your Hollywood and Bollywood . . . so he also wants that this type of thing be made in Garhwali. So be it. And we try to give it to them . . . what I’m writing and composing that is new, I’m trying to keep this theme in mind. To give the new generation something in the beat, [something] that gets them interested. So that they say, “this will be good to dance to.” (N. Negi, personal interview, April 11, 2005)

Standardization within Uttarakhandi gīt has also resulted from a conscious synthesis of texts and musical styles from different parts of Uttarakhand. Narendra Singh Negi’s songs are predominantly written in the Salan dialect of Garhwali associated with his home district of Pauri; yet Negi regularly borrows rhythms, melodies, and vernacular phrases from different sub-regions, a practice that also has also parallels in Nepali lokgīt (Greene 2003; Henderson 2002). Negi’s skill as a songwriter has been attributed to his ability to evoke localized cultural sentiments (vernacularization) while also maintaining a level of accessibility and intelligibility among nearly all Uttarakhandis (standardization).15 The dual processes of vernacularization and standardization are also evident in the ever-expanding VCD industry. As evidenced in the above example of Chauhan’s Mīnū Ai album, plains-based production teams and dance troupes

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40 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 regularly attend mountain festivals or recreate festival-like settings for video shoots. Yet many mountain towns and villages can now boast their own teams of singers, instrumentalists, dancers, videographers, and producers who travel to the plains long enough to rent a recording studio and get copies made of a master album. With little or no input from plains-based music directors, these albums exhibit mostly localized content with selective influences from mainstream popular music. For example, Hāo Jāo Bābā Naukarī (2001), one of the first VCDs released in Uttarakhand, was a small-scale community production recorded almost entirely in a Jaunsari village courtyard on a personal camcorder. The album sold extremely well in nearby towns and villages because of the personal connection that these viewers felt toward the community and the round dance-songs styles represented on the album. Surprisingly, the album also sold well in other parts of Garhwal and in the migrant communities around Delhi. One producer attributed this success to the album’s evocation of an authentic “folk style” and to the dancers’ use of colorful costumes and choreographed routines, inspired by Bollywood song and dance routines. Achieving a balance between standardization and vernacularization and marketing to both local audiences and pan-regional audiences was an explicit goal for a number of regional music producers I met in Delhi. Many were willing to fund albums dedicated to a particular deity, festival occasion, or dancesong style if they could be confident of a concentrated (if still temporally and geographically limited) market for their investment. Even on these localized albums, however, producers replicated standardized features of Uttarakhandi gīt (e.g., verse-refrain form with instrumental interludes, bānsuri and dholak-tabla tracks, pentatonic melodies, and nasal vocal timbres) because, according to one studio producer, “if you [attempt to] experiment, the old people [in the villages] have the mindset that this is not Uttarakhandi gīt” (personal communication, Rajiv Masi, February 7, 2005). The positive reception of cassette and VCD albums in village communities, and their integration into festival dance-song repertories, has also influenced the way that producers and music directors construct Uttarakhandi gīt. Many refrains are antiphonally structured, with gendered choirs alternating between an antecedent phrase and text (generally posed in the form of a question) answered by a consequent phrase and text (e.g., Chauhan’s title track on Mīnū Ai). This practice mirrors the antiphonal, gendered performance style of many dancesongs in which women and men sing independently while moving in concentric circles. Other sonic features employed on studio albums are even more obvious icons of festival contexts, such as audio sampling of ringing temple bells, piercing cadences of the rānsingha (the S-shaped trumpet played in procession or in the presence of deities), and collective exclamations of dancers (e.g., “śobāse, śobāse”).

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A number of studio performers I spoke with attributed the marked emphasis on percussion in recordings of the last decade—in terms of both an increased number of rhythm tracks and the relative intensity of these tracks within the overall mix—to the use of Uttarakhandi gīt as the basis for live-dance performances. The expectation that recordings will be used for dance performance can also alter decisions about tempo. One in-studio discussion about the correct tempo of a song was resolved only after the lead singer argued that his composition was based upon a cauñflā dance-song and thus needed to be recorded in a moderately fast tempo so that dancers in his village would find it easier to follow in their performances. Since the early 1990s, when Uttarakhandi percussionists began to accompany regional albums in Delhi studios, they have developed a corpus of rhythmic patterns coded by sub-region. For example, the chalan (lit. “movement,” but here referring to the internal rhythmic articulation) of kemtā tāla and kaherva tāla (cycles of six and eight beats, respectively) will be rendered differently by studio percussionists depending on whether the song and/or lead studio singer come from Jaunsar, Kumaon, or various parts of Garhwal.16 Although these rhythmic patterns are usually performed on dholak-tabla in the studio, as opposed to dhol-damaun, they are nevertheless indices of dance-song performance, and their inclusion may thereby facilitate a recording’s incorporation into the festival dance context. From a longue durée perspective of the regional music industry, the appropriation of village-based rhythmic patterns is an example of vernacularization and demonstrates the influence that regional dance-songs styles have had on Uttarakhandi gīt. From the perspective of village practice, however, these rhythmic patterns represent only a small fraction of those in general use, and their repeated use in studio recordings has contributed to the gradual standardization of village drumming practices.

From the Festival to the Studio and Back Again: Nanda Devi Rāj Jāt The story of one of Narendra Singh Negi’s most successful albums offers a final example of the circular interaction between studio and festival performance that is the focus of this article. Nanda Devi is the most widely worshipped form of the goddess in Uttarakhand; she is more commonly known as Parvati, the wife of Lord Shiva, but is also locally known by many other titles such as Gaura, Uma, Bhagwati, Chandravati, and Raja Rajeshwari. Each winter, Nanda Devi is processed on a palanquin (dholī) during the “small pilgrimage” (choṭa jāt). The rāj jāt, or “royal pilgrimage,” occurs approximately every twelve years and involves a much longer journey from Nanda’s high mountain abode, where she lives with her husband, Lord Shiva, to a number of villages, each of which regards

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the goddess as its own out-married daughter (dhyānī). In a particularly famous instance of the anthropomorphism that characterizes the popular Hinduism of the central Himalayas, Nanda’s journey from her affinal home (sasurāl) to her natal home (mait) mirrors the journey that married women make generally once a year. The arrival of the goddess is thus particularly significant for all of the out-married women who return home and perform dance-songs about their experiences of joyfully reuniting with and painfully separating from the goddess and their village kin (Sax 1991). Many of the round dance-songs honoring Nanda Devi are no longer performed by village women. One of the ways that I heard locals account for this loss was to argue that commercially recorded music had inundated the village and had obviated the need for live performance during the festival. (Uttarakhandi gīt is doubly cast as the villain and the savior in this story.) A prominent folklorist, playwright, and close collaborator of mine, Datta Ram Purohit, had participated in several of the pilgrimages for Nanda Devi, and, noting the decay of this repertoire, he decided to stage an open-air recording session in 1991 with some of the old women who still remembered these dance-songs. The transcription in Figure 3 is taken from an excerpt of one of the items on this field recording, which had neither titles nor clear beginnings or endings. The text expresses the female devotees’ desire for Chandravati (another name for Nanda Devi) to dance (nāc) in the village courtyard (candan ki cauki). They asked why the Goddess was angry (rūṭhū) and tried to appease her by reminiscing about the different jewelry she received on her wedding day: earrings (kān kundal), nose hoops (nāk nathūli), and ankle bells (ghūnri ghūngūr). After the lead singer introduced each line of text, the group repeated it three times before a new line was introduced. While singing, the group interlinked their arms and moved in a dance pattern called cauñflā: three steps to the right and one step to the left. After four repetitions of this pattern (corresponding with two statements of the melody), the dancers reversed direction, inverting the basic pattern—three steps to the left and one step to the right—for four more repetitions before reverting back, and so on. One of the idiosyncrasies of this

Figure 3. Lata Village performance.

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dance is the rhythmic anticipation of the change in rotational direction. On the fourth repetition of the pattern, the final step to the right (or left) becomes the first step to the left (or right) in the new pattern; this is represented by the two missing beats in the second ending of the transcription. The most recent royal pilgrimage of Nanda Devi, in 2000, received an unprecedented amount of national publicity, in part because it coincided with the formation of the new regional state of Uttarakhand in North India, and it was hard to imagine a better sign of regional unity and spirituality than Nanda Devi. Narendra Singh Negi saw commercial potential in an album of songs dedicated to the goddess, and he used the aforementioned field recordings as the basis for a two-cassette album.17 Working together with musical accompanists and music directors at the T-Series studios in Delhi, he produced an arrangement scored for a female choir and flute, hammered dulcimer, keyboard, tabla, dholak, and hūḍka. Besides the added instrumentation, Negi’s adaptation of “Nāc Nāc Chandravati” (Figure 4) differed from the field recording in terms of its bounded length, slower tempo, and regularized 8-beat rhythmic pattern. The melodic rhythm was squared off in this version, and the melodic movement was simplified, repeating a nearly identical ascending and descending phrase and returning to the tonic at the initial beat of each measure. Negi added an additional pitch to the melody (B-flat, or komal nishād), creating modal affinity with raga dhūnī, which is commonly used throughout the region.18 He also presents the text in verse-refrain form, despite maintaining a singular melodic phrase throughout the song. Each line of text repeats only once, returning to the refrain, which is also repeated once. Negi justified many of these changes as an effort to minimize the redundancy of the field recording. Other changes were not intentional, but they may be understood to result from conventional patterns of technological mediation and the collaboration of many people in the recording studio, many of whom have had little exposure to festival dance-songs. Despite these transformations, Negi was committed to retaining what he identified as the “folk elements” of the field

Figure 4. Narendra Singh Negi’s commercial recording of “Nāc Nāc Chandravati.”

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44 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 recording, and he claimed that these essential aspects were only clarified by the commercial recording: The thing [we have produced] is ultimately the same [as the field recordings]. But I gave [the singers] something new in the throat; I made it a little musically rich, no? And the tunes [dhūn] I used are also from these [old songs]. But the way these things were dying out, we realized this as we were in the process . . . Why did people stop listening [to these songs]? One reason was that the words weren’t coming clearly. What was being sung? It was not always clear what words were being spoken in the recordings, because these were old ladies. So the words are coming clearer [in our recording], but the tunes are the same, the themes are the same, it deals with Nanda Devi, and the storyline is the same. Everything is the same. (N. Negi, personal interview, April 11, 2005)

The Nanda Devī Rāj Jāt cassette album reportedly sold over three hundred thousand copies within a few weeks of its release, making it one of the bestselling albums in the history of the regional music industry. Vikram Rawat, Negi’s manager and producer, explained that the key to the success of the album was that “it went [to the] plains, and the media covered it so much—it found so much promotion—that all over Garhwal and Kumaon it was famous at that time. So much so that the inlay card of our cassette was placed on the plate [used for devotional offerings during Hindu rituals] (pūja ke thāna)” (personal communication, July 15, 2005). The recorded playback of these songs was a ubiquitous component of the pilgrimage, and festival dancers adapted the texts and tunes into their participatory dances. Interestingly, many dancers were unaware that they were reinterpreting a much older stratum of village dance-songs, instead believing that these were Negi’s original compositions in honor of the goddess. Following the success of the cassette album, T-Series produced a video album (see Figure 5) that superimposed footage of pilgrimage scenes and festival dancing over the studio soundtrack. This album quickly became the best-selling VCD on the market, and many industry insiders credit its success for the explosion in VCD production at the beginning of the decade. Several regional companies attempted to piggyback on the success of the T-Series production, producing audio and video albums of the rāj jāt that combined live footage with studio-produced aspects.19 The success of this album can be explained in part by Negi’s retention of the underlying rhythm and cadence of the songs from the field recording, which facilitated their incorporation into communal cauñflā dances. The collective, embodied movement of the cauñflā dance was a stable feature through which a range of old and new texts and tunes was continuously recycled. Moving together with arms interlinked, these female participants adapted Negi’s tunes and texts to their movements, re-establishing them as an important component of devotional practice during this festival. Only time will tell whether any of these songs lose their identity as Uttarakhandi gīt and gradually become “filtered” into the communal folksong repertoire.

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Figure 5. Narendra Singh Negi’s VCD album, Jai Mā Nanda Devi (2000).

Concluding Thoughts This article has explored musical feedback between live and mass-mediated contexts of dance-song performance, as sound commodities and semi-professional migrant musicians oscillate between rural festivals and urban recording studios. The underlying social processes that facilitate this feedback in Uttarakhand correspond with a wide range of cases documented elsewhere (e.g., Fenster 1995, Grandin 1989; Keil 1984; Meintjes 2003; Mukuna 1992; Rasmussen 1995; Rosenburg 1993; Scales 2002; Silverman 2007; Venkataraman 1994). Each of these studies highlights a context in which private or state-run music industries have expanded and diversified to produce recorded music for specific subnational regions or ethnic, racial, linguistic, or religious minority communities. In most cases, this process was precipitated by the growth of an urban migrant class. As an increasing number of migrants from distinct cultural groups began to participate in the urban music industry, it became easier and more important for them to distinguish the style of their cultural group from that of other groups (in the case of Uttarakhand, this desire was coordinated with a political regionalist movement in the early 1990s). As a result, studio musicians adapted and standardized many aspects of village musical life and combined these aspects with mainstream studio techniques. Migrant performers became the cultural intermediaries in this process, translating village codes into a cosmopolitan idiom and facilitating the incorporation of this idiom into the cultural life of the village.

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46 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 At the same time, contemporary festivals in many parts of the world have undergone processes of commercialization and folklorization (Dudley 2002; Borah 2005; Widdess 1994); the Nanda Devi pilgrimage is an example of the convergence of local, state, and regional commercial interests that has become common elsewhere. Moreover, with the availability of inexpensive playback technology in the latter decades of the twentieth century, vernacular-language recordings have been disseminated beyond urban migrant communities to rural populations via radio, cassette, and television stations, and more recently, VCDs.20 In the case of Uttarakhand, it is difficult to determine the extent of the festival/ studio interactions described in this article, but it is safe to say that only a small portion of all Uttarakhandi gīt ends up being performed in festivals and that the majority of festival dance-songs never find their way onto commercial recordings. One reason for this is the geographic distance between these settings, but an even more important reason may be the unique socio-musical features of each performance environment. The experience of performing dance-songs in festival settings is shaped by the relatively circumscribed roles of drummer and singer-dancer; by the circular stepping pattern of the dance; by the introduction of melodic phrases and texts that are known to and supported by the majority of participants; by the gendered arrangement of song and dance patterns; and by the broader socio-religious meaning of the festival occasion. The experience of recording dance-songs in studio settings, in contrast, is mediated by the circumscribed and somewhat hierarchical roles of producer, music director, engineer, session musician, and migrant singer; by the relationships to technology and to the end-product; by the fragmented process of multi-track recording; by the conventions of verse-refrain form; by the bounded length of songs and albums; and by the broad range of electronic and acoustic instrumentation available. Because of these contextual differences, songs that do migrate from one setting to the other are rarely transferred intact; rather, as the example from Nanda Devī Rāj Jāt demonstrated, it is more common that particular timbres and textures, or fragments of tunes, rhythms, and texts, are reassembled in and adapted to the new performance environment. One obvious point to take from this is that musical performance evolves unevenly and unpredictably across many arenas of social life; it is made up of many streams of influence, making it difficult if not impossible to determine a starting or ending point in the creative process. While it is commonly assumed that commercial studio recording encourages musical standardization and village festivals encourage musical vernacularization, it is more accurate to say that both of these processes are unfolding dialectically as songs are continuously refashioned across these contexts. Uttarakhandi gīt have helped to codify a repertoire of regional folk songs (e.g., “Beṛū Pāko”), but they have also stimulated localized interpretations of melodies and movements in festivals. Similarly, the increasing number of Uttarakhandis entering the regional music industry as

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session musicians, directors, and producers, has, on the one hand, led to the commercial availability of a variety of locally meaningful, idiosyncratic festival music and dance, and on the other hand, has standardized a number of sonic features in Uttarakhandi gīt (e.g., gendered singing parts, dhol-damaun inspired rhythmic patterns). The habit of dichotomizing musical life into categories of traditional and modern, popular music and folk music, and even production and consumption, has been shown to influence musical behavior in studio and festival settings. In much scholarly discourse, one encounters these terms as a shorthand to signify particular contexts of musical production, means of dissemination, and stylistic tendencies (e.g., Booth and Kuhn 1990). Yet such binary thinking is unhelpful for understanding the broader creative processes under discussion, and it may obscure an awareness of the “filtering” process that Negi anticipates whereby recorded music may evolve into the anonymous folksongs (lokgīt) of a community. Conversely, it may obscure an awareness of the process Negi participated in directly, whereby participatory dance-songs were “revived” in villages as a result of commercial recording. Close ethnographic attention to musical feedback between live and mass-mediated performances can enable scholars to develop more nuanced ways of thinking about the evolution of musical style. In spite of the perception that recording studios and festivals in Uttarakhand are settings for respectively “modern” and “traditional” music, it has been demonstrated that a combined value for newness and oldness on the part of all participants involved is what stimulates musical feedback across these settings. University of Cincinnati

Notes 1 Elsewhere I have written about the commodification of Baddī gīt (Fiol 2010b) and jāgar possession rituals (Fiol 2010a). While there has been little evidence of video recordings of jāgar influencing live ritual practice, viewers may simultaneously interpret these videos as “real” rituals and “artificial” entertainment, facilitating multiple understandings of authenticity and an experience that I refer to as “dual framing.” 2 Although migrant remissions contribute a great deal to the regional economy, Uttarakhandi women’s labor in homes, fields, and forests certainly makes up the bulk of the region’s economic activity, even if this fact often goes unremarked in economic analyses (Majumdar 1998). 3 In a separate article (Fiol, forthcoming), I examine the role of vernacular-language popular music in sustaining and articulating regionalist movements in Uttarakhand and in other South Asian contexts. Readers interested in the Uttarakhand movement are encouraged to consult Husain (1995), Kumar (2000), and Mawdsley (2002). 4 Binary conceptual models for social change have been influential in South Asian anthropology, from Redfield and Singer’s model of great and little traditions (1954), to Marriott’s model of universalization and parochialization (1955, 197–203). While the circularity of mutual influences between festival and studio-produced dance-songs

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48 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 could be evoked through the use of these binaries, I find it less helpful to think in terms of “processes of upward universalization” or “downward parochialization” in this case (Marriott 1955, 201). 5 Despite being variants of the Pahari language family (a subset of the Indo-European language system), Garhwali, Kumaoni, and Jaunsari are regional designations for clusters of dialects that are often mutually unintelligible. 6 The dhol-damaun pair is the heart and soul of much secular and sacred music in Uttarakhand. The dhol is a large, two-headed, barrel-shaped drum slung over the shoulder with a cloth strap, and played on one drumhead with an open hand, and on the other drumhead with a stick. The damaun, a shallow kettledrum played with two thin sticks, fills in the strong beats of the dhol with more regular pulsations. For a more detailed description of hill bands and brass bands, see Alter (1998). 7 See Greene (1999) for a comparable example of the use of cassette music during festivals in Thanjavur, South India. 8 Some more recent festivals in urban areas (e.g., the Virasat and Saras melās) are partially sponsored by private music companies located in Delhi or the state capital, Dehradun, injecting an overtly commercial influence into the setting. On one occasion, I witnessed a singing talent competition sponsored by T-Series company in which contenders sang compositions by the popular artist Narendra Singh Negi on his birthday; the winner was guaranteed a cash prize and a studio recording opportunity in Delhi. 9 Negi’s perspective that mass-mediated music can continuously regenerate folk music contrasts sharply with the perspectives of many twentieth century folklorists. A statement of Maud Karpeles (1968) is representative here: “Folk music is the product of an oral tradition. The factors that shape the tradition are continuity, variation, and selection. A song composed for popular entertainment lacks those distinctive features generated by the molding process of oral transmission. Unlike folk song, it remains static or disappears. The creation of folk music is related primarily to the pre-literate stage of a community. In the age of mass-media new folk music can hardly be created, but the folk music we have inherited can be enjoyed for its intrinsic merits.” 10 The advertisement campaign was called “Ṭhanda Matlab Coca-Cola” (Cold Means Coca-Cola). Filmed in Manali, Himachal Pradesh, the advertisement depicted a “Gurkha” guide (played by Bollywood actor Amir Khan) humming the tune to “Beṛū Pāko.” While the use of this tune was a point of pride for many Uttarakhandis, the fact that it was not filmed in Uttarakhand was also a point of irritation. 11 It did not come as a surprise when, after returning to Dehradun, the producer told me that the sequences recorded in this village would not be used in the final version of the VCD. Despite the efforts of the crew and the reluctant involvement of villagers, his decision was a reminder that the authority over the presentation of “tradition” ultimately rests with producers and performers in plains-based studios. 12 In contrast to the pradhān or official village leader, who may be given certain local administrative responsibilities, the padhān (also called syānā) is the unofficial headman of the village and is often a descendant of the original founding family of the village. 13 The earliest commercial recordings of Uttarakhandi musicians were released on 78 rpm records by the Gramophone Company of India (HMV). The first album was recorded sometime in the mid-1940s by two Kumaoni sisters named Gopi Devi and

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Champa Devi, who, it is rumored, were working as prostitutes in Mumbai. The first Garhwali language album was recorded in 1949 by Jeet Singh Negi, Mohini Sharma, and Keshav Anuragi in Mumbai. While I have been unable to track down these albums, or to adequately assess their influence, it is doubtful that they would have been heard outside of a small group of regional elites who owned gramophone players. 14 Similar developments were taking place in the urban popular music of Nepal. Lokgīt recordings since the 1950s have been modeled on village songs and dances (and on the intermediary work of folklorists), with the texts translated into the lingua franca Nepalese (Henderson 2002; Grandin 1989). Paul Greene (2003) has also described the more heavily mediated lok pop genre emerging in the early 1990s, which utilizes a range of studio audio techniques and draws upon more cosmopolitan musical styles. Lok pop singers eulogize mountain village life from a “wide-angle lens, in which [villagers] appear more remote and ephemeral than they actually are” (Greene 2003, 6). 15 Outside of cassette sales, Negi’s song lyrics are popular in print media. Two booklets of poetry (Negi 1999, 2002) and a Festschrift (Navani and Kughshal 2000), along with countless articles in magazines and regional newspapers, have been published on Negi’s work and life. His lyrics are so popular that some commentators have credited them for a resurgence of interest in the Garhwali language, particularly among youth; still others lament the fact that the Salan dialect has become more dominant than other local dialects of Garhwali. 16 For description and notation of a number of sub-regional rhythmic patterns used in Uttarakhandi gīt, see Fiol 2008, 211–15. 17 Narendra Singh Negi, Sri Nanda Devi Rāj Jāt: Garhwali Gīt, Part 1 & 2, T-Series Cassette (2000). 18 Although Negi is familiar with Hindustani music theory as a classically trained tabla player, he demonstrates little interest in strictly following the conventions of rāga theory in this song, or in Uttarakhandi gīt more generally. The important point is that he and the other studio musicians felt the need to expand the four-note melody of the field recording. 19 Another VCD album, entitled Nanda Devī Rāj Jāt, was released by Park (Srinagar) just a few days after the pilgrimage had ended in 2000. The producer and singer both hail from the Joshimath region where the rāj jāt took place. The music for this album, dubbed alongside the video commentary in a single take, is strikingly different from Negi’s T-Series version. The singer, Darwan Naitwal (from village Nauti), performed a devotional genre ( jāgar) and lament (khūder) for Nanda Devi in a very slow tempo, accompanied by a single melodic line on a synthesizer and with indigenous percussion accompaniment on the dauñr and thālī. Despite low production quality (by the standards of many urban studios) and limited distribution in the hills, the album apparently sold well among regional audiences. I gratefully acknowledge Anoop Sinha for bringing this recording to my attention. 20 The proliferation of the VCD format across Asia over the last decade deserves more scholarly attention. As a relatively inexpensive medium that integrates sonic and visual cultural components, the VCD appears to have intensified the interaction of urban commercial genres and village-based (especially dance-driven) musical forms. In Uttarakhand and Nepal, the fact that VCDs are so often filmed in village locations both anticipates and encourages these feedback relationships.

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2010b

“Sacred, Inferior, and Anachronous: Deconstructing Liminality Among the Baddī of the Central Himalayas.” Forthcoming in Ethnomusicology Forum 19. forthcoming “Articulating Regionalism through Popular Music: The Case of Nauchami Narayana in the Uttarakhand Himalayas.” Forthcoming in Asian Studies. Grandin, Ingemar 1989 Music and Media in Local Life. Linkoping, Sweden: Linkoping University. Greene, Paul 1999 “Sound Engineering in a Tamil Village: Playing Audio Cassettes as Devotional Performance.” Ethnomusicology 43(3):459–89. 2003 “Nepal’s Lok Pop Music: Representations of the Folk, Tropes of Memory, and Studio Technologies.” Asian Music 34(1):43–45. Hatwal, Nand Kishor 2009 Uttarakhand Himalaya ke Chancheri Geet evam Nritya: Chancheri Jhamako. Dehradun: Winsar Publications. Henderson, David 2002 “Who Needs ‘The Folk’? A Nepali Remodeling Project.” Asian Music 34(1):19–42. Husain, Zakir 1995 Uttarkhand Movement: The Politics of Identity and Frustration, A Psycho-Analytical Study of the Separate State Movement, 1815–1995. Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh: Prakash Book Depot. Karpeles, Maud 1968 “The Distinction between Folk and Popular Music.” Yearbook of the International Folk Music Council 20:8–12. Keil, Charles 1984 “Music Mediated and Live in Japan.” Ethnomusicology 28(1):91–96. Kumar, Pradeep 2000 The Uttarakhand Movement: Construction of a Regional Identity. New Delhi: Kanishka Publishers Distributors. Majumdar, Lipika 1998 “Sacred Confluences: Worship, History, and Politics of Change in a Himalayan Village.” PhD dissertation, University of Pittsburgh. Manuel, Peter 1986 “The Evolution of Modern Thumri.” Ethnomusicology 30(3):470–90. 1993 Cassette Culture: Popular Music and Technology in North India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1994 “Syncretism and Adaptation in Rasiya, a Braj Folksong Genre.” Journal of Vaisnava Studies 3(1):33–60. Marcus, Scott L. 1993 “Recycling Indian Film-Songs: Popular Music as a Source of Melodies for North Indian Folk Musicians.” Asian Music 24(1):101–10.

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Marriott, McKim 1955 “Little Communities in an Indigenous Civilization.” In Village India: Studies in the Little Community, ed. M. Marriott, 171–222. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mawdsley, Emma 2002 “Redrawing the Body Politic: Federalism, Regionalism and the Creation of New States in India.” Commonwealth and Comparative Politics 40 (3):34–54. Meintjes, Louise 2003 Sound of Africa! Making Music Zulu in a South African Studio. Durham: Duke University Press. Mukuna, Kazadi wa 1992 “The Genesis of Urban Music in Zaire.” African Music: Journal of the International Library of African Music 7(2):72–84. Navani, Kirti and Ganesh Khugshal “Gani” 2000 Akshat: Garhwali Geet-Sangeet mai Narendra Singh Negi ki Upsthiti evam Bhumika. Dehradun (Uttarakhand): Winsar Publishing Company. Negi, Narendra Singh 1999 Ganyun ki Ganga Syanyun ka Samodar. Dehradun, Uttarakhand: Winsar Publishing Company. 2002 Mutt Botiki Rakh: Uttarakhand ke Suprasiddha Kavi-Gayak ke Kuch Geet. Nainital, Uttarakhand: Pahar. Purohit, Datta Ram 2001 “Fairs and Festivals: Place, Occasions, and Events.” In Garhwal Himalaya: Nature, Culture, and Society, eds. O. P. Kandari and O. P. Gusain, 365–83. Srinagar: Transmedia. Qureshi, Regula 1999 “His Master’s Voice? Exploring Qawwali and ‘Gramophone Culture’ in South Asia.” Popular Music 18(1):63–98. Rangan, Haripriya 2000 Of Myths and Movements: Rewriting Chipko into Himalayan History. London: Verso. Rasmussen, Ljerka 1995 “From Source to Commodity: Newly-Composed Folk Music of Yugoslavia.” Popular Music 14(2):241–56. Redfield, Robert and Milton Singer 1954 “The Cultural Role of Cities.” Economic Development and Cultural Change 3:53–73. Rosenburg, Neil 1993 “Country Music—Popular or Folk?” In All That Glitters: Country Music in America, ed. George Lewis, 151–60. Madison: Popular Press. Rudolph, Lloyd and Susanne Rudolph 1967 The Modernity of Tradition: Political Development in India. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

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Sax, William 1991 Mountain Goddess: Gender and Politics in a Himalayan Pilgrimage. New York: Oxford University Press. Scales, Christopher 2002 “The Politics and Aesthetics of Recording: A Comparative Canadian Case Study of Powwow and Contemporary Native American Music.” World of Music 44(1):41–59. Silverman, Carol 2007 “Bulgarian Wedding Music between Folk and Chalga: Politics, Markets, and Current Directions.” Muzikologija: Casopis Muzikoloskog Instituta Srpske Akademije Nauka I Umetnosti 7:69–97. Taylor, Timothy 2001 Strange Sounds: Music, Technology, and Culture. London: Routledge. Traill, George William 1991 “Statistical Sketch of Kumaon.” In Himalaya: Past and Present, eds. A. C. Fanger, M. P. Joshi, and C. W. Brown. Almora, 1–97. Uttarakhand: Sree Almora Book Depot. Turino, Thomas 2000 Nationalists, Cosmopolitans, and Popular Music in Zimbabwe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Venkataraman, S. 1994 “Cultural Interaction through Music in Tamil Nadu.” In Music Cultures in Contact: Convergences and Collisions, 73–83. Sydney: Currency Press. Widdess, Richard 1994 “Festivals of Dhrupad in Northern India: New Contexts for an Ancient Art.” British Journal of Ethnomusicology 3:89–109.

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Tibetan Buddhist Vocal Music: Analysis of the Phet in Chod Dbyangs Lee-Suan Chong Abstract: This paper examines the musical variations of the phet, a Tibetan word sung in chod dbyangs chants practiced specifically by the Kagyu sect. The repertoire of dbyangs chants, a genre of Tibetan Buddhist vocal music, is vast in Tibetan Buddhist tradition. The dbyangs composed for a particular text within a particular type of practice may have different versions according to different sects, monasteries, masters, or even time periods. The same dbyangs ritual within a monastery may also differ from one performer and performance to another. Uncovering the key formations and compositions of phet singing promises to open up new avenues for the exploration of Tibetan Buddhist vocal music.

Introduction Chod is a particular esoteric practice in Tibetan Buddhism, designed to help the practitioners eliminate ego clinging and to attain ultimate understanding of their own true nature, which is often referred to as “Buddha nature” (Powers 1995, 97–98). Dbyangs that serve the practice of chod are known as chod dbyangs and are widely practiced in all four major sects of Tibetan Buddhism: Nyingma,1 Dge-lugs,2 Sa-skya,3 and Kagyu,4 as well as among lay practitioners known as yogi5 in Tibet, Nepal, India, Bhutan, and Mongolia (Rinchen 1999c). There are three different versions of chod dbyangs chants based on three different sets of texts of differing length. The shortest is two pages long, and the longest consists of approximately one hundred pages. The middle text lasts about one hour (Rinchen 1999c). The shortest text is mainly for emergency use such as a sudden invitation for chod prayer or when a monk encounters someone dying and does not have any chod texts with him. Most monks are able to memorize the shortest text and apply it when necessary. This version, however, does not have a complete set of chod visualization practices. The longer version is used only when there is sufficient time or during special auspicious occasions. Chod practitioners usually use the middle length text in their individual chod practice (Rinchen 1999c). Phet (pronounced “pay”) is a Tibetan word little used in colloquial language but with a significant role in chod practice. According to the chod text and commentary given by H. E. Jamgon Kongtrul Lodo Taye, phet functions as an aid for © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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mind purification during the practice of chod dbyangs (Taye 1993). It is a special Tibetan Buddhist term found only in the Ultimate Teachings6 and chod practice (Rinchen 1999c). Lama Karma Rinchen explains that two Tibetan consonants, pa and tra, combine to form the word phet. Pa means skillful methods, and tra is wisdom. Therefore, when pronouncing the word phet, the chod practitioner merges his skillful methods and wisdom to destroy thoughts (Rinchen 1999c). In chod teaching, phet serves two main functions. The first is to guide the stages of visualizations, the other is to cut through thoughts in order to purify the mind (Trungpa 1991, 4). In these situations, the sound qualities and musical characteristics of phet singing differ from one practitioner and performance to the next. This is because the sound qualities and musical characteristics of phet depend on the activity and purity of the mind of the practitioner during the performance, not on any pre-set composition by a composer. Tibetan Buddhists explain that thoughts are where mental afflictions originate. They are considered the root of the “illusion of samsara7 and the erroneous attachment to self that hinders the realization of the nature of the mind” (Edou 1996, 45). Machig Labdron’s (1055–1145 AD) (founder of chod practice) authentic teachings define “phet” as “the nature of emptiness.”8 At the moment the chod practitioner calls “phet!” he rests in his true nature beyond or devoid of all conceptualization (Edou 1996, 6, 43–44).

Research Methodology The main research sources in this study are Herein is Contained the Condensed Explanation of Offering the Body as a Gift, called “Garden of Joy” (Taye 1993) Machig Labdron and the Foundation of Chod (Edou 1996), and the chod text. I recorded two chod dbyangs performances given respectively by Lama Karma Rinchen (abbot of Kagyu Thegchen Ling Monastery, Honolulu, Hawai‘i) and Lama Tempa Gyaltshen (a lama from Tokari Gonpa, Bhutan) during their separate individual chod practice at Kagyu Thegchen Ling in Honolulu on November 19, 1999. Through Lama Karma Rinchen’s recommendation and help, I obtained the chod text and an additional tape-recorded sample from Lama Lodo, abbot of Kagyu Droden Kunchab Monastery in San Francisco. All the recordings were made with the full permission of the three Lamas, and the musical data for this study was collected from the three tape-recorded samples. In addition, interviews were conducted with the three lamas, members, and monks of Kagyu Thegchen Ling Monastery, Osal Ling Monastery (in Maui, Hawai‘i), and Kagyu Droden Kunchab Monastery, between 1995 and 2000. I encountered one specific problem at the data collection stage of the study. Interviews with the performers were conducted several weeks after samples of the phet chants were recorded. Consequently, the interviewees had difficulty

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Figure 1. Lama Tempa Gyaltshen practicing chod: right hand playing dramaru and left hand playing dril bhu. Photo: author. in remembering what they were thinking or feeling and could not recall the pattern of their thoughts, even after listening to the recordings. Therefore, this research is strictly based on what the three performers were able to recall on their phet singings. Lama Karma Rinchen had the clearest recollections of all the participants due to his higher level of attainment in spiritual practice. He

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commented that the philosophy of chod dbyangs chanting and patterns of mental activity would most likely be similar for all three performers as they had all been trained in the same Buddhist tradition. Since this paper intends to study chod dbyangs at the most profound level, Lama Karma Rinchen’s explanations on chod dbyangs are highly relevant. As a “Rinpoche” (The Precious One), he has attained higher levels of Buddhist realizations than the other two lamas. His views are likely to be more reliable and profound due to his deeper level of spiritual experience. I have studied and practiced Buddhism for about thirty-three years and am very familiar with Buddhist culture and philosophy, especially Mahayana9 and Vajrayana10 Buddhism. My association with Tibetan Buddhism began in 1994, and I lived in Kagyu Thegchen Ling Monastery in Honolulu, Hawai‘i, a Tibetan Buddhist monastery, from 1994 to 1999. My research work began in 1995 when I started practicing Buddhist rituals together with other residents of the monastery. To date, I have traveled to India, Nepal, Taiwan, Singapore, Hawai‘i, and different states of mainland America to receive teachings and to conduct interviews with His Holiness 14th Dalai Lama (Spiritual Leader of Tibetan Buddhist Dge-lugs sect), His Holiness Sakya Trizin (Spiritual Leader of Tibetan Buddhist Sa-skya sect), His Holiness 17th Karmapa (Spiritual Leader of Tibetan Buddhist Kagyu sect), His Holiness Khaka Jetsun Dampa Rinpoche (Spiritual Leader of Mongolia), and many other great masters of Tibetan Buddhism.11 My initial research embraced around twenty to thirty members of Kagyu Thegchen Ling Monastery (consisting of North Americans, American Japanese, American Chinese, Hawaiians, Bhutanese, Nepalese, Indians, Taiwanese, Tibetans, and other Asians). The Hawai‘i Tibetan Buddhist community is rather small yet growing. Another smaller Tibetan Buddhist Kagyu monastery, Osal Ling Monastery, is located on the island of Maui under the supervision of Lama Sonam Tenzin. It is acceptable for monks to travel between the two monasteries for consultations, practice and pujas,12 and travel is not an issue; most of the members have their own cars, and other means of transportation, such as buses, are available. Usually the monasteries conduct various pujas, such as mahakala pujas13 (daily), mahamudra pujas,14 tara pujas,15 Dewachen pujas,16 tshok,17 and vajrasattva18 on a weekly basis. Rituals usually combine a mixture of the English and Tibetan languages. Besides that, Buddhist teachings are divulged by Lama Karma Rinchen and Lama Sonam Tenzin once or twice a week, while advanced teachings and practices are taught by the great Tibetan Buddhist masters during their official visits. His Holiness 14th Dalai Lama visited Kagyu Thegchen Ling Monastery in Honolulu and Osal Ling Monastery in Maui in 1994, while His Eminence Tranggu Rinpoche visited both monasteries in 1996, as did Khenpo Tsultrim Gyaltso Rinpoche in 1998.

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Hawai‘i Tibetan Buddhists have different habits and forms of practice from Asian Tibetan Buddhists, and this is similarly the case with the Buddhists found throughout the United States. Generally, Hawai‘i and American practitioners favor intellectual learning combined with spirituality in their pursuit of the Buddhist path, and they do not simply believe in the teachings without proven facts. Many American practitioners find an immense reservoir of wisdom in Tibetan Buddhism, a reservoir which can reveal to them the inner intrinsic nature of the mind and the possibilities of self-liberation. However, the information given out by the members of Kagyu Thegchen Ling and Osal Ling Monasteries is very limited because chod practice is not popular in Hawai‘i. According to Lama Karma Rinchen, Americans have little knowledge of chod dbyangs and do not practice them. Therefore, most of the information for this study had to be obtained from the great Tibetan Buddhist masters and monks originating from Asia. Extensive studies were carried out in different monasteries in Hawai‘i, San Francisco, India, and Nepal from 1995 to 2000. Research methods included living in the American and Asian monasteries as a lay practitioner, conducting library research using published and unpublished materials written by both foreign and Tibetan musicians and practitioners, participant-observation, interviews, and spiritual experiences arising from personal Buddhist practices through Guru-student relationship with Lama Karma Rinchen and other great Tibetan Buddhist masters. This research work, which took six years to complete, was done in considerable depth from different perspectives, as both an insider and an outsider.

Analysis of Phet Sound natures (volume, intensity or strength of attack, length of duration, and sound contours) and frequency of occurrence of phet in each of the recorded sample will be analyzed. Significant features in these criteria will be explored. Samples will also be compared for their similarities and differences. Of the three different versions of the chod dbyangs available, the three lamas chose to chant the mid-length version for this analysis. The text was prepared under the supervision of Venerable Lama Lodo of Kagyu Droden Kunchab in San Francisco. It is written and normally chanted both in Tibetan and English in America. There are seven sections in the chod text where the reciters only sing the word phet. These sections with only “phet” singing are referred as phet sections in this study. Each section is numbered in sequence—phet 1, phet 2, phet 3, etc. These sectional divisions are created to facilitate the musical analysis of phet in chod dbyangs. Tibetan monks do not have these notional divisions and do not use sectional terms in their tradition. Phet appears significantly in these different sections where only the word phet is sung in a repeated and sporadic manner.

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Performers play a dril bhu (a bell) and a dramaru (a double headed drum) while they sing the phets. Occasionally, they blow rkang-gling (a thighbone trumpet) at the end of each phet section. While this instrumental music will not be analyzed, it is used as a foundation to mark the location of the phets and length of phet sections. The dramaru is used as the main basis for beat counting and referential point for the phets and to mark the beginning and ending of each phet section. For example:

Figure 2. Lama Karma Rinchen’s phet 3.

The sound qualities and contours are judged relatively among the three performers. The below selected sound qualities and contours are examined: 1. Volume 2. Intensity or strength of attack 3. Duration 4. Falling 5. Rising The performers call out phets as a spontaneous reaction in accordance with their religious needs at the moment of performance. The way they utter the phets is quite similar to verbal expressions used in daily conversation. They do not sing the phets on any pre-composed melodies or with a set tune. The pitches of the phets are not confined to any particular scale or range and performers have total freedom to pronounce the phet at any pitch. Hence, notation is not useful or necessary as guidance for the practitioners since phets are produced spontaneously and vary from performer to performer and from performance to performance. The pitches of the phet do not signify any religious meaning or purpose. They are mere unconscious vocal sounds and cannot be justified intellectually. Consequently, the melodic aspects of phets are considered irrelevant to this study and variations in pitch will not be analyzed.

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Figure 3. Examples of phet sections: phet 1–4. Excerpt from Chod: Condensed Daily Practice of Offering the Body, prepared by Lama Lodo (1989: 16A, 17A, 19, 20A).

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Figure 4. Thangka of Machig Labdron, founder of chod.

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62 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 Below are the analyses of the sound qualities and contours, and frequency of occurrence of phets, in Lama Tempa Gyaltshen, Lama Karma Rinchen, and Lama Lodo’s tape-recorded samples. The phets are referenced using alphabetical letters such as pa, pb . . . , etc. for each sample.

Figure 5. Sound contour of Lama Tempa Gyaltshen’s phets.

Figure 6. Sound intensity of Lama Tempa Gyaltshen’s short-accented phets.

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Table 1. The sound qualities and contours for Lama Tempa Gyaltshen’s phet sections. Phet Section

Phet

Phet 1

Pa

Short, moderately loud, moderately accented

Pb

Moderately soft, dragging, heavy

Pc

Moderately soft, dragging, light

Pd

Moderately soft, dragging, heavy

Phet 2

Sound Qualities and Contours

Pe

Soft, dragging, heavy

Pf

Short, very loud, sharp, strongly accented

Pg

Short, moderately loud, moderately accented, fall at end

Ph

Short, moderately loud, sharp, moderately accented

Pi

Short, moderately soft, weakly accented

Pj

Moderately soft, dragging, fall at end, heavy

Pk

Very soft, dragging, fall at end

Pl

Short, very soft, weakly accented, fall at end

Pm

Short, very loud, sharp strongly accented

No phet from phet 3 to phet 7

Figure 7. Sound contour of Lama Karma Rinchen’s phets.

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Figure 8. Sound intensity of Lama Karma Rinchen’s short-accented phets.

Figure 9. Sound contour of Lama Lodo’s phets.

Figure 10. Sound intensity of Lama Lodo’s short-accented phets.

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Table 2. The sound qualities and contours for Lama Karma Rinchen’s phet sections. Phet Section

Phet

Phet 1

Pa


Pb

Moderately soft, dragging

Pc

Short, moderately soft, slightly accented

Pd

Short, loud, moderately accented

Pe


Pf

Soft, dragging, light, descend and ascend at end

Pg

Soft, dragging, heavy

Ph


Phet 2

Phet 3


No phet from phet 5 to phet 7

Table 3. The sound qualities and contours for Lama Lodo’s phet sections. Phet Section Phet 1

Phet 2

Phet 3

Phet 4

Phet


Pa

Moderately loud, dragging

Pb

Short, extremely loud, sharp, strongly accented

Pc

Very soft, dragging, fall at end, heavy

Pd

Moderately soft, dragging, fall at end

Pe

Soft, very loud, accented

Pf

Soft, dragging

Pg

Short, very loud, accented

Ph

Moderately loud, dragging, fall at end

Pi


Pj

Extremely soft (almost inaudible), dragging, fall at end

Pk


Pl, m

Extremely soft (almost inaudible), dragging, fall at end, light

Pn . . . t Extremely soft (almost inaudible), dragging, light Phet 5

Pu

Very soft, dragging, fall at end

Pv

Very soft, dragging

Phet 6

Pw

Short, extremely loud, sharp, strongly accented

Phet 7

Px


Table 4 (page 66) shows the frequency of occurrence in each of the phet sections of the three samples.

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Table 4. Frequency of occurrence in each of the phet sections. Phet Section Phet 1 Phet 2 Phet 3 Phet 4 Phet 5 Phet 6 Phet 7

Types of Phet

Lama Tempa Gyaltshen

Short-accented

2

Soft-dragging

4

Short-accented

5

Soft-dragging

2

Short-accented

0

Soft-dragging

0

Short-accented

0

Soft-dragging

0

Short-accented

0

Soft-dragging

0

Short-accented

0

Soft-dragging

0

Short-accented

0

Soft-dragging

0

Total

6 7 0 0 0 0 0 13

Lama Karma Rinchen 3

4

1 0

3

3 1

1

0 0

0

0 0

0

0 0

0

0 0

0

0 8

Lama Lodo 1

3

2 2

4

2 1

3

2 0

10

10 0

2

2 1

1

0 1

1

0 24

In chod dbyangs, the sound qualities of phets can be generally categorized as: 1. Short and accented 2. Soft and dragging The short-accented phets may sound sharp and strongly accented or sometimes weakly accented, while the soft-dragging phets may be droned and prolonged softly and peacefully with a light vocal quality. The ones with the sign “moderately soft” normally sound heavy. However, the situation may be reversed. There are two other unique characteristics. One is a downward slope at the end of a phet. The other is a fall followed by a slender lift at end of phet. Most of these two attributes happen to the soft dragging phets. Typically, performers included a different number of phets in each phet section. In each sample, more phets were found before phet 4 than after. The use of phet seems very flexible and every individual seems to have a certain amount of freedom to decrease or increase the number in their phet sections. There is also a possibility that no phets will be featured at all. Since there is no pre-composed setting for the phet singing, the issue in question is what determines the frequency of occurrence for each type of phet.

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Theoretical Basis for Phet in Chod Dbyangs This further analysis investigates the factors that mold the sound qualities and contours, and different frequency of occurrence of the phets, and looks into the mental activities of the three performers during their actual performances. This examination follows the sequential arrangements of the phets. Phet 1 All samples show a constant pattern of soft-dragging phets followed by a shortaccented phet in phet 1. Powa or “Transference of Consciousness” seems to have caused the performers to establish the regimented phet arrangement. According to the instructions in chod text used by the performers, the first phet section is laid out for the performers to conduct a series of visualizations called “Transference of Consciousness” or powa (Lodo 1989, 16A). The practice is a body offering imagined by the practitioner to accumulate merit and wisdom (Patrul 1994, 297–98). Powa is a Tibetan word conveying the idea of leaving one place for another. It is a method used at the moment of death to release oneself from the six realms that compose samsara19 and to be reborn in a land of pure manifestation: the Land of Bliss (Kalu 1995b, 99). There are mainly three kinds of powa—lesser faculty, mediocre faculty, and superior faculty transference. The lesser faculty represents those with lower merits and wisdom who aim only for self-liberation. The mediocre faculty categorizes the practitioners who have the compassion and wisdom of Bodhisattvas20 and strive to liberate themselves and others in order to achieve enlightenment. Finally, the superior faculty is the group with superior wisdom and the highest holy qualities of the Buddhas: practitioners delay their attainment of Buddhahood and vow to help all sentient beings achieve enlightenment. The practitioners with higher capabilities would practice mediocre or superior faculty transference because their minds are powerful enough to be purified within a shorter process of powa. On the other hand, less capable practitioners would have to undertake lesser faculty transference and go through longer training of powa to purify and cultivate their minds. The lesser faculty is divided into an extended version, a mediocre version, and a condensed version (Taye 1993, 19–22). During the process, the performer pushes two pea-like bindus21 (mystic fluid of the body) mentally from one position in the body to the next. At every phase, he expresses a phet, reflecting the movements of the bindus and the process of the visualizations. The phases are at the soles, genitalia, navel, heart, throat, crown of the head, and the Machig Labdron imagined above the crown. Light radiates from these locations. Each of the successive phases represents “the hell realm, the hungry realm, the animal realm, the human realm, the demigod realm, and the realm of the gods.” The last

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68 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 phase symbolizes the liberation from the sufferings of samsara. The phet singing during the visualization of powa aims to purify the mind; it becomes a musical means for liberations (Taye 1993, 20). The powa described above is the extended version of the lesser faculty and also the full set of visualizations. All kinds of powa are based on this version even though each may conflict in the number of stages. Every performer has the liberty to choose any type of powa. The decision is usually made depending on the time, purpose, and ability of the performer (Gyaltshen 2000). The lesser faculty undergoes the most steps for the visualization of powa whereas the superior faculty endures the least (Taye 1993, 21). Due to the different types of powa, the performers have diversified figures of phets in their phet 1. Rinchen has selected the mediocre version of the lesser faculty. He chooses to have only three stages in the visualization of “Transference of Consciousness” or powa (Rinchen 1999c). Rinchen’s pb serves as the first phet in the particular theme of phets mentioned above. He begins the visualization as he draws two bindus slowly from the space in front of him to both sides of his soles. The phet is trailed softly and slowly as an aid to settle the mind, and the sense of dragging supports the mind to maintain its equanimity (Rinchen 1999c). Hence, his pb is soft, long, and dragging. Next, he projects the bindus from the soles to the heart discharging with slight power and then aspiring to get the bindus to the destination in the shortest time. Mentally, he shortens the distance between the two body points (Rinchen 1999c). The length of the phet reflects the journey of the bindus. Consequently, his pc sounds moderately soft, slightly accented, and abridged. At the last visualization stage of sending the bindus to Machig Labdron’s heart on top of his head, he transmits the bindus speedily and clearly to Machig Labdron’s heart. If he sends them slowly, discursive thoughts might emerge and disturb his mind. Instead of moving to the right place, the bindus may follow other thoughts and float to other areas [inside or outside the body] or stay at one spot while he continues his fantasy. As he enunciates a phet, he imagines shooting the bindus very expeditiously (Rinchen 1999c). As a result, his pd sounds prompt and pointed. Although this process of visualization is merely imagined, the performers must still move the bindus mentally upward against the force of gravity and across quite a far distance. Rinchen expels his pd with a fairly potent voice, the loudness acting as invisible energy providing him with the means to do so. For this reason, the pd is loud and accented. It is fascinating that pc is softer and weaker than the subsequent phet even though they both belong to the short-accented type. Rinchen explains that he finds it more difficult to transmit the bindus to a higher place (from his heart to the top of his head). It is a habitual concept for humans to feel they need more energy to travel to a higher position, even though the bindus and the visualizations do not truly exist. To provide him

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the energy to accomplish his task, he calls out pd in a more forceful manner. Ergo, his pd becomes louder than pc (which is considered easier due to its lower position in the body) (Rinchen 1999c). Unvarying religious purpose and motivation seem to bring about the similarity between Rinchen’s and Gyaltshen’s pa. According to the content of chod text, the performers make a series of mental offerings to high beings and all beings in the six realms right before phet 1 (Lodo 1989, 15A–16A). Rinchen explains that an antidote to phet was applied at the beginning of phet 1 as a reminder not to become attached to good deeds accumulated from the offerings and to eliminate the fear of taking suffering from all beings. According to Buddhism, the two emotions (attachment and fear) are the result of selfishness or egotism (Rinchen 1999c). From the instant they call phet, they dissolve their minds in equanimity and nothingness. At that time, they use the sound of the phet to trace their thoughts. Since the thought of reminding is brief, and they become relaxed in nothingness after that, the phet becomes short. However, the phet is louder than latter dragging ones. This is because the performers are inclined to discipline themselves through the aid of “slight” loudness. Similarly, Gyaltshen also chooses the mediocre version of the lesser faculty, but he extends his visualization by having two additional stages. He sends the bindus from the soles to the genitalia, navel, heart, and finally to Machig Labdron’s heart (Gyaltshen 2000). As a consequence, Gyaltshen produces two more phets than Rinchen in the “soft-dragged short-accented” category mentioned earlier. Unlike Rinchen, Gyaltshen delivers all his bindus unhurriedly except the last one in the pattern. The expanded length of Gyaltshen’s first phet in the theme is an outcome of the first phasic development of powa. For the rest of the three bindus, Gyaltshen is free to send them rapidly or slowly depending on his motivation. He resolves to decelerate and stretch them by reason of his preference for feeling relaxed in whatever he does. The slowness consequently shapes the long duration of the phets. Gyaltshen’s wandering mind also contributes to the lengthy phets. Several times his mind flashes between thoughts. Consequently, he delays getting the bindus to the destined points. The phet then becomes long as a result of his procrastination. In the same way as Rinchen, his finishing phet in phet 1 is “short,” “(very) loud,” and “(strongly) accented.” The similarity is due to the same inducement to send the bindus immediately from the performer’s heart to Machig Labdron’s heart (Gyaltshen 2000). Lodo chooses the condensed version of the lesser faculty. He first gathers the bindus to the soles, and then directs them straight to Machig Labdron’s heart. Accordingly, he has a long, softer phet followed by a very loud, short one in the “soft-dragged short-accented” layout. As described earlier by Rinchen, the first phet is extensive, as the evolution of lugging two bindus to the soles takes

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some time. The next phet is brief and strongly audible because, like Rinchen and Gyaltshen, Lodo intends to send the bindus as briskly as he can to the top of his head and into Machig Labdron’s heart. So the distance is mentally reduced. Since the tone of the phet travels on the course of the bindus, the phet is curtailed. The interval between the soles to the crown of the head is considerable. Therefore, Lama Lodo has to mentally push the bindus very strongly so that they can reach the top without fail. He visualizes the sound of the phet as the energy that the bindus ride on. He emphasizes the sound very intensely and “extremely loud(ly)” to make it effectual enough to push the bindus to the top (Lodo 2000). There is an obvious anomaly between the samples in phet 1. After the final short-accented phet at the end of this section, Lodo implants another softdragging phet. Other performers do not generate any more phet. The difference occurs because Lodo conducts his practice slightly more discretely than others do. At the ending of phet 1, Lodo wants to relax his mind and put it in equipoise. He interpolates that ancillary phet at the time he gives rise to the notion of placidity (Lodo 2000). At this second, Lodo intends to use the softness and slowness to help him to become peaceful. The intention causes him to drag the phet softly and slowly. Moreover, the chod performers marry the sound of the phet to the flow of their thoughts. The non-wavy sound and the long duration of the last phet in phet 1 seem to reflect the calm state of Lama Lodo’s mind. Other performers do not relax their mind in equipoise at the end of the section (Rinchen 1999d; Gyaltshen 2000). Therefore, the extra soft-dragging phet does not occur at the ending part of others’ phet 1. There is a difference among the samples regarding the sound quality of the short-accented phets. Lodo’s and Gyaltshen’s concluding short-accented phet in phet 1 sounds more clamorous and mighty than Rinchen’s. The difference might arise as an actual consequence of age and physical condition. Comparing the three performers, Rinchen is the oldest. He is almost seventy years old, whereas Lodo is in his fifties, and Gyaltshen is in his early thirties. Both Gyaltshen and Lodo are younger and larger in body size. They seem to have better stamina and stronger vocal qualities (sound and strengthwise) than Rinchen. Phet 2 In the second phet section, the performers are instructed by the chod text to mentally make a body offering called “Three Cycles of White Feast Condensed into One” (Lodo 1989, 17A). The visualization is examined to comprehend the connection between the mental state and the musical phenomena of the phets. “Three Cycles of White Feast Condensed into One” is also known as the “Four Guests” (Taye 1993, 23). The performers do the visualization as an offering to please and pay homage to the higher beings, to satisfy their obstructors and debt collectors, and to eliminate the suffering of all beings in samsara

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with dharma22 of liberation (Taye 1993, 23–24). Meanwhile by offering their most precious human bodies, the performers cut their three poisons: desireattachment, hatred-aversion, and ignorance—the products of the identification with an “I” (Kalu 1995b, 142). At the beginning, the performers emanate their awareness as the female deity Vajrayogini,23 by dragging a phet quietly (Rinchen 1999d). The Vajrayogini has many delicate features and ornaments on her body, and the performers need to visualize the Vajrayogini’s body color, body features, and ornaments as precisely as they can. This is a meditative technique to purify the mind and train the mind inward in deep concentration. To accomplish visualization of all the details, the performers need considerable patience. Hence the phet becomes long, symbolizing the movement of time. This phet is the first soft-dragging phet in phet 2. After that, they call out another phet as an accompaniment to a sequence of visualization. They project their hearts via the lexical syllables YAM24 and RAM,25 which in turn induces a wind and fire mandala. Upon the mandala, there are three human heads as big as Mount Meru. The sound of the phet resumes until the performers reach this locale—“Mount Meru.” So, the phet is prolonged for a while and fabricates the second soft-dragging phet. The last phet begins, and the third subset of the visualization is activated. The third part of the visualization is longer than the second one in which the performers completely sacrifice their bodies. The bodies melt into nectar that washes away impurities and faults. With the blessing of the body, speech, and mind of the Buddhas, an ocean of wisdom nectar with a hundred tastes is invoked. The steam produces various substantial offerings filling the realm of space, and the subjects of offerings are transported with great joy (Taye 1993, 23–24). As the visualizations finally end, the third phet stops. All the three long phets for the different stages of visualizations are soft because the visualizations require a soft and calm state of mind to be discernible (Gyaltshen 2000). However, the third phet occurs only in Rinchen’s sample. According to Gyaltshen and Lodo, they left out the soft-dragging phets at the second and third stage of their visualizations respectively because they were not mindful, and this often happens to practitioners (Gyaltshen 2000; Lodo 2000). The ends of the phets in phet 2 generally have a descending tone. Gyaltshen explains that the relaxation causes these phets to be dropped (Gyaltshen 2000). There is a possibility that downward direction is a natural and habitual human expression of relaxation. The performers feel relaxed when their minds are free of thoughts, or when they reach the purity of mind. The cessation of thoughts is like waves subsiding into the ocean. It is a downward movement similar to the declining movements of relaxing the muscles. Since the intonation of the phets follows the line of mental movements, the ends of the phets consequently droop. For Rinchen’s second soft-dragging phet, he raises the tail after slanting it down. According to the description in Herein is Contained the Condensed Explanation of Offering the Body as a Gift, called “Garden of Joy” (Taye 1993), the

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72 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 performer mentally swings the tip of the hook knife to throw the skull of the corpse into a three-leg pot, points it again to throw the corpse into the skull cup, and finally chops the flesh and bones into bits. The falling and rising melodic mode of Rinchen’s second soft-dragging phet might be a reflection of the visual process. Rinchen unconsciously conforms to the motions in his mind with the sound of his soft-dragging phet. This might be one of the reasons Rinchen descends and later ascends his second soft-dragging phet. In this section, Gyaltshen has five short-accented phets whereas Lodo has two. Gyaltshen’s phets are however softer and weaker than Lodo’s. Gyaltshen and Lodo point out that they obtrude those phets because they have detected interfering thoughts inapplicable to the visualization and want to destroy them. When these thoughts arise, Lodo instantly annihilates them with no mercy. The loudness and forcefulness of the phet are a reflection of his intention to eradicate the invasive thoughts as quickly as he can (Lodo 2000). On the other hand, Gyaltshen remarks that he is not as mindful and alert as Lodo when he reaches phet 2. He detects and reacts to his defiled thoughts more slowly and weakly. So his phets are not as loud, aggressive, and keen as Lodo’s. He almost cannot detect his fourth irrelevant thought, which surfaces among the visualization. As a result, the phet to eliminate that particular thought was very soft and weak (Gyaltshen 2000). Nonetheless, both performers produce semblances of short-accented phets at the end of the section reflecting the similar intentions, strength, and awareness to immediately cut the irrelevant thought. Since their thoughts arise at the same spot at the last sixteenth dramaru-beats, their phets appear at the same location (Lodo 2000; Gyaltshen 2000). Rinchen states that he did not have any thoughts outside the scope of the visualizations, thus he had no short-accented phets at all in this section (Rinchen 1999d). Phet 3 The first similarity shown in Table 4 is found between Rinchen and Lodo. Both of them possess a short-accented phet in their phet 3 while Gyaltshen has none; however, the sound quality and location differ from each other. The function of phet to cut through thoughts has brought about the short-accented phets. The heterogeneity between the two phets is an effect resulting from the varied state of the performers’ minds and diversified time of arriving thoughts. During this phet section, they practice, according to spiritual purposes, resting their minds in equanimity and purity. However, thoughts occur, necessitating a phet to cut them off. For this phet, Lodo is more aware than Rinchen; he detects and reacts to the phet more swiftly and forcefully than the latter. Rinchen’s response is more casual producing a softer and weaker short-accented phet. Here, different attitudes and mental activities have resulted in two distinctive phets.

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Moreover, Rinchen’s thought arises at the fifteenth dramaru-beat whereas Lodo’s occurs at the twenty-ninth. This explains why Lodo has the phets in the middle section whereas Rinchen places them near the beginning (Rinchen 1999d; Lodo 2000). In the early stage of this section, Lodo discharges a soft-dragging phet while Rinchen and Gyaltshen fail to produce any. This anomaly is caused by the remaining visualization from the previous textual section that Lodo has to finish. Right before phet 3, the text instructs the performers to visualize a body offering to the gods and demons of samsaric existence (Lodo 1989, 19). Lodo did not manage to complete the visualization at the time he finished reciting the text, but Rinchen and Gyaltshen did. In this situation, the chod performer usually carries the latter part of his visualization over into the beginning section of phet 3. Lodo proceeds with his visualization in phet 3 and drags a phet. The soft and long duration represents the process of the visualization. While he visualizes, he is aware of not having any other thoughts except those instructed in the text. However a thought appears right after his visualization reaches its end. A shortaccented phet is thus actuated after the soft-dragging phet. Before he closes phet 3, he thinks of putting his mind into a state of equanimity and calmness. He then drags an extremely soft phet and relies on the softness and level pitch to stay in the intended state of mind. This is the reason Lodo has another soft-dragging phet and a total of three phets in phet 3 (Lodo 2000). On the other hand, Rinchen and Gyaltshen do not have any leftover visualizations. Both of them merely use this section to be aware of their thoughts and cultivate a pure mind. They also do not think of resting their minds in equipoise because to be aware and mindful is itself a state of calmness and equanimity (Rinchen 1999d; Gyaltshen 2000). Therefore, their phet 3 does not materialize as a soft-dragging phet. However, Rinchen’s mind is not as pure as Gyaltshen’s in this phet section. He gives rise to a thought, and the circumstance demands a short-accented phet for eradication. He then nurtures serenity. So the shortaccented phet serves as the first and the only one in the entire phet 3 (Rinchen 1999d). Throughout this section, Gyaltshen conserves a pure mind, and therefore does not require a short-accented phet (Gyaltshen 2000). Phet 4 and 5 Table 4 registers ten and two soft-dragging phets in Lama Lodo’s phet 4 and 5; none are recorded in the other phet sequences. A visualization called “Ganachakra” (feast offering) is practiced in phet 4 (Taye 1993, 31). Along with the visualization, the performers dispose a soft-dragging phet to symbolize and support each different stage. Phet 5 is the section where the performers practice being mindful. Any incomplete prior visualization is carried over to this section in the form of soft-dragging phets.

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74 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 There are ten stages of visualization in “Ganachakra.” Detailed information is described in H.E. Jamgon Kongtrul Lodo Taye’s Herein is Contained the Condensed Explanation of Offering the Body as a Gift, called “Garden of Joy” (Taye 1993). The performers have to modulate mentally from one picture to another. Every stage is accompanied by a soft-dragging phet. The performers produce the phet sound to note the transition of stages in the process of visualization. They tug the phet for as long as a set of visualizations lasts. They also utilize softness to calm their minds so that they are in a better condition to make a clear and detailed visualization (Rinchen 2000b). Thus, Lodo displays ten soft dragging phets in phet 4. In advance of phet 5, the performers engage in a mental body offering; Lodo’s extends for two stages from the visualization and the process continues through his phet 5. For each of the stages he pronounces a phet. The two phets become soft and long for the same reason mentioned above (Lodo 2000). As a result, Lodo’s phet 5 contains two soft-dragging phets. Rinchen and Gyaltshen do not conduct “Ganachakra” in phet 4 or have any leftover visualization in the latter section. They omit “Ganachakra” because of the lack of time (Rinchen 2000b; Gyaltshen 2000). It seems that Tibetan Buddhist musical practices, including chod dbyangs, are very flexible with no definite rules. They are not formal musical stage-setups that require perfection. Rinchen explains that the monks are obliged to sacrifice their practices for important business that benefits others as well as for simple “common sense” activities in daily life (Rinchen 2000b). Without any visualization or irrelevant thoughts, they do not need any phet singing. Therefore, there are no phets in Rinchen and Gyaltshen’s phets 4 and 5. Phet 6 and 7 Phets 6 and 7 provide the performers with an opportunity to foster mindfulness; any thought should be cut through instantaneously with a phet. During every section, a thought arises in Lama Lodo’s mind. As earlier, Lodo produces a phet and utilizes its sound as a tool to dissolve each of his thoughts. He manages to maintain his determination and awareness throughout the sections. These two aspects of the mind are the keys that form the strong and sharp phets. Others keep their minds free from any thought in the sections, so they do not have any short-accented phets.

The Impact of the Mental Aspects on Musical Phenomena of the Phet Diverse aspects of the mind have collectively framed the musical nature of phet singing in chod dbyangs. The philosophy of Tibetan Buddhism, especially chod, is a crucial factor in the musical formation and design of chod dbyangs; in particular, the singing style of phet has stemmed from the core of the teachings. Highly

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realized beings26 regard dbyangs as the finest vocal music and have transmitted them to our human world from the pure lands.27 Consequently, we should take additional steps to uncover an existence beyond our scope of knowledge through learning dbyangs. Tibetan Buddhism claims that the mind creates all human activities and provides meanings to all unsubstantial manifestations. The exploration into several selective musical aspects of phet in chod dbyangs outlines a link to mentality and proves the assertion true. Intention of Purifying Mind In Tibetan Buddhist tradition, chod dbyangs is regarded as a musical means to cultivate pure mind toward enlightenment. Pure mind is defined as the clear state of mind with no thought. The practitioners call out phets to eliminate thoughts and rest in purity. Intention of Cutting Thought Several portions of the phet section are meant for the practitioners to watch their minds and use the sound of phet as a mental tool to obliterate thoughts. From this research, it has been established that the intention of the performer to immediately release the thought has resulted in the phet sounding short. The performer’s determination and will have also augmented the sharpness, loudness, and forcefulness of the phet. Comparable intentions have also shaped similar sound qualities among the samples. On the other hand, some short-accented phets sound softer and weaker when the performers are less mindful and attack their thoughts with less determination. As we can see from the above analysis, the intention of cutting thoughts and other accompanied mental activities of the performer have created the musical characteristics and the similarities of the short-accented phet. Other examples also show that when the performers think or feel differently from each other, the sound qualities of the phets will differ from one sample to another. The positions of the short-accented phets also depend on when the performers give rise to their impure thoughts because the phet functions to cut them out. In addition, the number of the short-accented phets is also based on the state of the performers’ minds. When they have more impure thoughts, they call out more short-accented phets to destroy them. From earlier examination, the number of phets in the phet sections seems to be arbitrary. However, this study has shown that practitioners do not have the freedom to sing as few or as many phets as they want. The number of phets depends on the purity of the practitioners’ minds and their visualizations, which will be discussed in the following section. In cases where there is no phet in the phet sections, performers have no thoughts and visualizations, or their minds are totally pure.

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76 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 Visualization Some segments of the phet section are allotted for the practice of visualization. The performers carry out three main processes of visualization: “Transference of Consciousness” or powa, “The Three Cycles of White Feasts Condensed into One,” and “Ganachakra” in phets 1, 2, and 4. Other visualizations are the remaining pieces from the previous visualization preceding the phet sections. These visualizations have been responsible for characterizing the sound qualities of the phet. Visualizations have to be well defined, and the practice calls for the performers’ concentration and sincerity. In order to achieve these goals, performers must stay calm and not be deflected. To calm the mind, they utilize softness as an aid. Loudness distracts the mind and blurs the visualizations. Therefore almost all the phets that guide the visualizations are soft. The soft phets may be long or short in duration relying on the length of the visualizations. However, the phets become short and loud when the performers visualize a short distance and bear strong thoughts or feelings. Different types or natures of visualizations and their different number of stages have caused the performers to exhibit different musical qualities and sound contours and to intone a number of soft-dragging phets from one phet section to another. The relationship between the sound of the phet and the pictures in the performers’ minds has also informed the unique features of the phets. Mental Activity Mental activity has played an important role in molding three other significant sound qualities of the phet and in structuring their locations. They are the levelpitch of most soft-dragging phets, the end fall of the phets, and two very soft and slow phets at the end of Lodo’s phet 1 and 3. Most of the soft-dragging phets in the three samples are maintained at a level pitch. The ones that fall at the end are also dragged at level pitch at the beginning. According to Rinchen, they do not sing the soft-dragging phet in many different pitches because they want to create a peaceful atmosphere by sustaining a level pitch. The level pitch helps the mind not to have any fluctuating emotions. As the mind pays attention to the sound, it eventually follows the sound pattern and keeps a steady state. The mind will then become calm and peaceful. To be calm is one of the purposes of chod dbyangs, and it is required so that the performers can make their visualizations clear without any distractions to putting their minds at equanimity (Rinchen 2000b). The second significant feature is the falling at the ends of some soft-dragging phets. As analyzed earlier, the relaxed feelings might have shaped this feature. Here, relaxation is a result of cessation of thoughts. The phets express the declining motions in the mind as the thoughts subside and the mind relaxes. As a result, the soft-dragging phets fall at the end.

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At the end of Lodo’s phets 1 and 3, there are two phets that are prolonged and at level pitch. These two phets are very soft. The latter is almost inaudible. Lodo explained that he intended to rest his mind at equipoise and nothingness in these two instances, to cultivate a pure mind. The level pitch brings calmness and stability. The softness creates quietness and lessens any distraction. The slowness is a way to calm one’s mind by not stirring any dramatic emotions. It is the most suitable atmosphere for the performer to experience equipoise, nothingness, and eventually calm. Hence, the two phets turn out to be at level pitch, long, and very soft.

Conclusion The previous examinations show four aspects of the performers’ mental states at the time the phets are sung: the intentions to purify the mind, the intentions to cut out thoughts, visualizations carried out during the phet sections, and mental activities during the performance of phets. The four elements structure the similarities and differences among the samples. They also shape the two main sound qualities of the phets, short-accented and soft-dragging, and the frequency of occurrence of the phet. Moreover, they seem to form the falling and the fall-and-rise features at the end of soft-dragging phets, as well as the level pitch of the soft-dragging phet. When the performers have similar intentions or thinking, their phets will have the same or close musical characteristics. On the other hand, their phets sound different whenever they think or feel in different ways. The four elements are different forms of mental state. The intended purpose of chod dbyangs is actually to purify the mind. In order to achieve this, they call out phet at certain parts of the phet sections to destroy any thought that arises. Again, this is the activity of the mind. Apparently, visualizations are pictures or

Figure 11. The mind creates and determines the musical phenomena of the phet.

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78 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 imaginations that also take place in the mind. These four elements, including the actual mental activities of the performers during the occurrence of the phet, are all multiple aspects of the mind. Hence the minds of the performers have directly framed the musical phenomena of the phet. This study reveals the intimate relationship between our mind and the music we produce. It also proves that the mind is the key to the creation of music. Through the understanding of the relationship between the mind and the music, and the control of the mind to determine all the musical qualities and phenomena, musicians are able to attain the highest musical achievements. Any kinds of sounds and music become possible for the musicians to perform. In such a way, one is able to produce the desired musical sounds or quality of a sound through control of the mind. The performer is also capable of playing music of other traditions according to their musical aesthetics and can achieve success in different cross-cultural musical performances. This study provides knowledge that musicians can use to enhance their musicianship and the quality of their music. Practitioners of Tibetan Buddhism explain that our mind initiates all our activities. It also describes all phenomena as manifestations of our own mind (Kalu 1995b, 154). This means that all activities, including music and our perception of things around us, are reflections of our thoughts. From the above philosophy, Tibetan Buddhists consider the mind as the key that determines and creates musical acoustics and aesthetics. Music is also believed to be able to carry and reflect messages. Thus, the Tibetan Buddhist masters have developed a system of vocal music with musical characteristics and natures corresponding to their spiritual purposes. Vocal music, with its spiritual nature, is able to affect the mind of the practitioner as he or she recites it on a regular basis. Tibetan Buddhists do not perform their ritual music for on-stage purposes or for the sake of showing off their musical talents. Practitioners aim to purify their minds through the consistent practice of their ritual vocal music, relying on the fact that music is related directly to the human mind. Lama Karma Rinchen points out “chod is found only in Tibetan Buddhism, not in other Buddhist traditions.” Furthermore, some Tibetan Buddhist practices do not have complete teachings or methods to help the practitioners to reach enlightenment (Rinchen 1999b). A practitioner has to progress from one practice to another. For example, a beginner starts with the Four Ordinary Foundations.28 He then proceeds to the Four Special Foundations29 (Rinchen 2000a, 21). He follows the order of practices until his master introduces him to deeper levels of practices, such as the Vajrayana tradition of four tantras (Buddhist texts that outline the practices of the vajra vehicle), chod, and mahamudra (a meditative system that emphasizes direct realization of the luminous and empty nature of mind and phenomena) (Powers 1995, 232–74).

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Chod is the second most important practice after mahamudra in the Kagyu sect, and it contains the essential teachings and methods for a practitioner to attain full enlightenment (Rinchen 2000b). Kalu Rinpoche explains, “Chod is a profound practice allowing one to quickly reach Buddhahood if one can practice it perfectly” (1995b, 153). Hence, the study of chod dbyangs, including phet singing, may lead to an understanding of the quintessence of Tibetan Buddhism, the development of the highest wisdom and the ability to attain the highest state of enlightenment. Music is believed to be able to reflect thoughts and carry messages in Tibetan Buddhism. Conversely, one may come to understand musicians or composers through reflections of their music and also learn the collective mentality of a nation through the musical styles of a specific country. For example, a musician or composer who likes to perform or compose his music in a sentimental way might be someone who is sensible and romantic. The calm and slow characteristics of Korean or Japanese music may reflect the Buddhist Zen values and philosophies of these nations. During this research, we have been exposed to the thoughts and mental activities of Tibetan Buddhist music performers through chod dbyangs and phet singing. Further studies of Tibetan Buddhist music may lead us to a greater understanding of the life philosophies and cultures of Tibetan Buddhists. Music is thus able to function as a medium for one to access the thoughts of a person or a nation through analysis and understanding. This musical philosophy reflects that of Confucius developed in China around 500 BC. Confucius (551–479 BC) believed that music carries forms of thoughts that are able to influence and affect one’s thinking (Confucius 1963, 50–51). At that time, he encouraged the enjoyment of music that is educational, loving, friendly, and that promotes love for one’s country, such as the songs found in his Book of Odes.30 He condemned music that included the elements of sexuality, violence, revenge, and competition. In his opinion, the former type of music promoted the correct understanding of life and peace among people. The latter created a negative mentality leading to suffering and unhappiness (Chen 1976, 14). Confucius also claimed to be able to know a musician’s personality just by listening to his music (Confucius 1963, 49–50). Through mastering the connection between the mind and music, humans may be able to devise a method to create the most sophisticated musical techniques and achieve the highest musical levels. In addition, cultivating one’s mind and a deeper understanding of others through music, regardless of race, background, culture, and ethnicity, may result in fewer conflicts among countries and greater universal wisdom. If this turns out to be the case then the research conducted here will have been of some lasting value. University Malaysia Sabah

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Notes 1

A Tibetan Buddhist school that has the longest established history of transmission of all of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism. The school primarily relies on the old translations, particularly of tantric texts, and its Tibetan origins can be traced back to Buddhist pioneers at the time of King Trisong Detsen. The original teacher of the doctrines was Samantabhadra (Tib. Guntu Sangpo), who is the “primordial Buddha” (Powers 1995, 319–20). 2 A Tibetan Buddhist school that was founded by Tsong Khapa Losang Drakpa (1357– 1419 AD), one of the great figures of Tibetan religious history. The school contains a comprehensive view of Buddhist philosophy and practice that integrates sutra and tantra, analytical reasoning, and yogic meditation (Powers 1995, 402). 3 A Tibetan Buddhist school that traces its origins to India, particularly to the great adept Virupa, an advanced practitioner, who is the first human to disseminate the most distinctive of the teachings, the practices of “path and fruit” (Powers 1995, 377). 4 A Tibetan Buddhist school that traces its lineage back to the Indian tantric sage Tilopa (988–1069 AD), who is said to have received instructions directly from Vajradhara, the Buddha (Powers 1995, 346). 5 A lay Buddhist practitioner. 6 A Buddhist teaching explaining the ultimate truth and the path toward the realization of emptiness and Buddhahood (Rinchen 1999c). 7 Samsara (Sanskrit) is the major divisions of a world system where all living beings are reborn as they wander in the cycle of transmigration. It consists of god, demigod, human, animal, hungry ghost, and hell (Gomez 1996, 319). 8 Emptiness refers to the intrinsic ultimate nature of reality—all phenomena are empty of inherent existence, mere projections of a mind which “itself ” is empty (Tarthang 1981, 91). 9 (Sanskrit) The Great Vehicle of Buddhism, which opens onto a vast domain; to the observance of ethics that avoids harming, it adds the will to benefit others and to understand emptiness (Kalu 1995b, 18). 10 (Sanskrit) The Diamond Vehicle of Buddhism, which retains the foundations of the Small Vehicle and Great Vehicle, and based on the use of particularly efficient methods of realizations, called the two phases of meditation: creation and completion (Kalu 1995b, 19). 11 Such as His Eminence Kalu Rinpoche, His Eminence Tranggu Rinpoche, Khenpo Tsultrim Gyaltso Rinpoche, His Eminence Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche, His Eminence Druwang Rinpoche, His Eminence Bokar Rinpoche, His Eminence Gyabra Tritsab Rinpoche, etc. 12 Buddhist rituals or prayers. 13 (Sanskrit) Maha means “Great,” a protector of beings. Here, it refers to the Tibetan Buddhist practice of Mahakala (Jaschke 1881, 92, 410). 14 (Sanskrit) Literally means “Great Seal.” This is a meditative system closely associated with the Kagyu school that emphasizes direct realization of the luminous and empty nature of the mind and phenomena (Powers 1995, 452). 15 (Sanskrit) A practice associated with tara, one of the manifestations of the Goddess Dolma or Chenrezig (Das 1979, 339).

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16

A practice specifically of Amitabha Buddha and His Western Pureland. A practice of offerings to the Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, protectors, demons, spirits, and all sentient beings. 18 (Sanskrit) A tantric form of Akshobhya, the 2nd Dhyani Buddha, which was introduced to followers of the Dorje Vehicle by Padmasambhava and stated by him to be president of the Eastern Heaven where he sits on a white lotus. It also means the practice of vajrasattva (Das 1960, 706). 19 (Sanskrit) The major divisions of a world system where all living beings are reborn as they wander in the cycle of transmigration. It consists of god, demigod, human, animal, hungry ghost, and hell (Gomez 1996, 319). 20 (Sanskrit) “Enlightened beings” are ones who have cultivated an altruistic mind and seek enlightenment for the benefit of others (Powers 1995, 449). 21 (Sanskrit) A phrase of mystic contemplation in which the seminal fluid is supposed to be inwardly absorbed into the arteries; also the mystic fluid itself (Das 1979, 576). 22 (Sanskrit) The teachings of Buddhas and other highly realized beings. 23 (Sanskrit) The Yeshes Sems-pa or Dhyani Bodhisattva evolved from the 2nd Dhyani Buddha. It is a semi-wrathful female deity and a Tibetan Buddhist practice referring to Vajrayogini (Das 1960, 704). 24 (Tibetan) YAM means wind (Rinchen 2000b). 25 (Tibetan) RAM means fire (Rinchen 2000b). 26 Ones who have achieved advanced states in Buddhist practice. 27 The realms where Buddhas and Bodhisattvas create and reside out of their wisdom and compassion. 28 “Four Ordinary Foundations” involves the contemplation of four things in our daily life: the value of the Precious Human Birth; the implication of Impermanence; the implications of Action, Cause and Result; and the Shortcoming of Samsara. They are also referred to as the “Four Thoughts that Turn the Mind to the Dharma” (Rinchen 2000a, 21). 29 “Four Special Foundations” is a practice that consists of “Refuge Practice, Vajrasattva Practice, Mandala Offerings, and Guru Devotion” (Rinchen 2000a, 12). 30 A book compiled and edited by Confucius. It is also known in Chinese as Shih Ching and contains somewhat more than 300 odes or songs that he considered to be significant and interesting (Chen 1976, 14). 17

References Allione, Tsultrim 1986 Women of Wisdom. New York: Penguin Books. Amipa, Sherab Gyaltsen 1987 The Opening of the Lotus: Developing Clarity and Kindness. London: Wisdom Publications. Chen, Li-Fu 1976 Why Confucius has been Reverenced as the Model Teacher of All Ages. New York: Library of Congress. Chin, Kung 1997 Buddhism as an Education. Taiwan: The Corporate Body of the Buddha Educational Foundation.

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82 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 Confucius 1963 The Wisdom of Confucius. Mount Vernon: Peter Pauper Press. Das, Sarat Chandra 1960 A Tibetan-English Dictionary with Sanskrit Synonyms. Revised and edited under the orders of the Government of Bengal by Graham Sandberg and A. William Heyde, 1902. Alipore, West Bengal: West Bengal Government Press. 1979 A Tibetan-English Dictionary. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Edou, Jerome 1996 Machig Labdron and the Foundation of Chod. Ithaca: Snow Lion Publication. Ellingson, Ter 1979a “Don rta dbyangs gsum: Tibetan chant and melodic categories.” Asian Music 10(2):112–56. 1979b Mandala of Sound: Concepts and Sound Structures in Tibetan Ritual Music. PhD dissertation University of Wisconsin. Ann Arbor: University Microfilms International. Facchini, Massimo 1983 “The Spiritual Heritage of MagChig LabsgRon.” Journal of the Tibet Society 3:21–26. Gomez, Luis O., trans. 1996 The Land of Bliss: the Paradise of the Buddha of Measureless Light. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Jaschke, H. A. 1881 A Tibetan-English Dictionary: With Special Reference to the Prevailing Dialects. London: The Secretary of State for India in Council. Kalu, Rinpoche 1985 The Chariot for Travelling the Path to Freedom: The Life Story of Kalu Rinpoche. Trans. Kenneth I. Mcleod. San Francisco: Kagyu Dharma. 1995a Profound Buddhism: from Hinayana to Vajrayana. San Francisco: ClearPoint Press. 1995b Secret Buddhism: Vajrayana Practice. San Francisco: ClearPoint Press. Karthar Rinpoche, Khenpo 1992 Dharma Paths. Ithaca: Lion Publications. Lodo, Lama 1989 Chod: Condensed Daily Practice of Offering the Body. San Francisco: Kagyu Droden Kunchab. Palmo, Anila Rinchen 1987 Cutting Through Ego-Clinging: Commentary on the Practice of Chod. Montignac, France: Dzambala. Patrul, Rinpoche 1994 The Words of My Perfect Teacher. Boston: Shambhala. Powers, John 1995 Introduction to Tibetan Buddhism. Ithaca: Snow Lion Publications. Rigzin, Tsepak 1993 Tibetan-English Dictionary of Buddhist Terminology. Rev. ed. Dharamsala: The Library of Tibetan Works and Archive.

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Rinchen, Karma 2000a Chab Dru and Changchub Sem: Taking Refuge and Developing Bodhicitta Mind. Honolulu: Kagyu Thegchen Ling. Scheidegger, Daniel A. 1988 Tibetan Ritual Music, A General Survey with Special Reference to the Mindroling Tradition. Rikon, Switzerland: Tibet-Institute. Tarthang, Tulku, ed. 1981 Hidden Mind of Freedom. Cazadero, CA: Dharma Publishing. Taye, Jamgon Kongtrul Lodo 1993 Herein is Contained the Condensed Explanation of Offering the Body as a Gift, Called “Garden of Joy.” Trans. Lama Lodo. San Francisco: Kagyu Droden Kunchab. Tharchin, Sermey Geshe Lobsang 1986 A Commentary on Guru Yoga and Offering of the Mandala. New York: Snow Lion Publications. Thurman, Robert A. E. 1995 Essential Tibetan Buddhism. New York: Harper Collins Publishers. Trungpa, Chogyam Rinpoche 1991 The Heart of the Buddha. Boston and London: Shambhala. Tsang, Nyon Heruka 1995 Life of Marpa the Translator: Seeing Accomplishes All. Boston and London: Shambhala. Tsukamoto, Atsuko 1993 “The Music of Tibetan Buddhism in Ladakh: The Musical Structure of Tibetan Buddhist Chant in the Ritual Bskan-gso of the Dge-lugs-pa Sect.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 25:126. Wangchen, Geshe Namgyal 1995 Awakening the Mind: Basic Buddhist Meditation. Boston: Wisdom Publications.

Interviews Gyaltshen, Lama Tempa 2000 Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 2 and 10 Jan. 2000. Lodo, Lama 2000 Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Droden Kunchab, San Francisco, California, 7 Sept. 2000. Rinchen, Karma 1998 Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 7 Nov. and 29 Dec. 1998. 1999a Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 17 June and 23 July 1999. 1999b Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 5 July 1999. 1999c Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 11 Oct. 1999.

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84 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 1999d Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 17 Oct. 1999. 1999e Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 7 Dec. 1999. 2000b Interviewed by author. Transcript. Kagyu Thegchen Ling, Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 2 and 10 Jan. 2000. Tenzin, Sonam 1998 Interviewed by author. Transcript. Osal Ling Maui, Hawai‘i, 26 Dec. 1998.

Audio and Visual Recordings Allione, Costanzo 1995 Where the Eagles Fly: Portraits of Women of Power We Will Meet Again in the Land of the Dakini. Directed by Costanzo Allione. 25 min. Mystic Fire Video. Videocassette. Banks, Barbara 1991 Tibet In Exile. Produced by Barbara Banks and Meg Mclagan. 30 min. Video Project. Videocassette. Gyaltshen, Tempa 1999 “Chod Practice.” Recorded by author. Hawai‘i. Cassette. Lewiston, David 1973 Tibetan Buddhism Tantras of Gyuto: Mahakala. Nonesuch H-72055. Compact Disc. 1975 Tibetan Buddhism The Ritual Orchestra and Chants. Nonesuch H-72071. Compact Disc. 1996 Tibet: the Heart of Dharma. Ellipsis Arts CD 4050. Compact Disc. Lodo, Lama 2000 “Chod Puja with Lama Lodo.” Recorded by author. San Francisco. Cassette. Norbu, Chogyal Namkhai 1993 Chod: Cutting Through Dualism. Produced by Matteo Silva and Marc Eagleton. Amiata Record ARNR 0193 S.I.A.E. Compact Disc. Powers, Patrick 1997 Destination, Lhasa. Produced and directed by Andrew Wang. 49 min. Oracle Communication Corp. Videocassette. Rinchen, Karma 1999 “Chod Practice.” Recorded by author. Hawai‘i. Cassette. Wassell, Martin 1991 Heart of Tibet. Directed by David Cherniack. 60 min. Mystic Fire Video. Videocassette.

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Mountain Songs, Hakka Songs, Protest Songs: A Case Study of Two Hakka Singers from Taiwan Tse-HsiungL in Abstract: This article takes as its focus the creative works of veteran social activists Chen Yongtao and Lin Shengxiang, who use their music to promote environmental and cultural goals in Taiwan. In protesting against pollution and political exploitation, these artists express their love for their Hakka homeland using musical references to cultural or natural memories belonging to Hakka specifically, and to Taiwan generally. Drawing on creative practices that stem from Taiwanese social movements of the 1960s and 1970s, they connect their nature-conservancy message to the memories of earlier activists. While the environmental movement in which Lin and Chen engaged quickly developed, the environmental metaphors of their music became an integral part of the collective consciousness of Taiwan’s Hakka minority in their struggle against sociopolitical suppression.

ᴀ᭛ᨬ㽕 ᴀ᭛᥶㿢ܽԡৄ☷ᅶᆊ℠᠟ᵫ⫳⼹㟛䱇∌⎬ҹ⪄๗㟛ᅶᆊ᭛࣪⚎Џ丠ⱘ ℠᳆Ǆ೼䗭ѯ៪‫⼒⚎خ‬᳗䘟ࢩᡫ䅄ⱘϔ⪄៪㋨ᡦᚙⱘ℠᳆㺵䴶ˈܽԡ℠ ᠟᠔䀈∖ⱘ㌖ϡ䲶ᇡᅶᆊ‫ڇ‬㍅⫳⌏ⱘ⏅ࠏᛳᚙˈҹঞᇡᅶᆊॳ䛝ⱘ㞾✊ ⪄๗ⱘ䮰់Ǆ䗣䘢⡍ᅮⱘ䷇ῖᔶᓣ㟛㸼ⓨ‫ڇ‬㍅ˈҪ‫ⱘץ‬㙆䷇⛵ৃ৺䁡ⱘ ‫ݡ‬ᑺ୮䝦៥‫ץ‬ᇡৄ☷݁䳊ᑈҷǃϗ䳊ᑈҷⱘ᭛࣪⼒᳗䘟ࢩঞ݊ᛣ⎉ⱘⴒ ໮㿬ដ㟛ᛳ㿌Ǆ೼⧒೼ˈϔ‫ן‬ቀᮐҪ‫ⱘץ‬ᰖࠏ㺵ˈҪ‫ⱘץ‬䑿ᕅ㟛℠㙆Ёⱘ 䲅ஏ៤⚎ᡫ⠁䘟ࢩⱘ‫ܜ‬ᇢˈᐊ䷬㨫՚㞾ೳഄⱘᅶᆊ䛝㽾㟛࣪䑿ᮐ䲅ஏЁⱘ ‫ܜ‬Ҏⱘ䴜儖ࠡ䘆ࠄϔ‫ן‬Ҫ‫ץ‬᠔ϡ❳ᙝ㗠ҸҎ᠟䎇⛵᥾ⱘᬓ⊏㾦࡯จড় . . .

Introduction Chen Yongtao (䱇∌⎬) and Lin Shengxiang (ᵫ⫳⼹),1 both Hakka singers from Taiwan, are among a number of popular musicians known for social and environmental awareness in their music. Through their songs, either in contemplative or descriptive manner, Chen and Lin sing of the beauty as well as their concerns for the ecological and cultural crisis of their Hakka homeland—a homeland that has undergone drastic change over the past few decades, mainly due to rapid socioeconomic development. They try to draw attention to this © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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86 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 environmental change and its consequences through their lyrics and music, in which their concerns and hopes for the future of Taiwan are provoked. Hakka are a minority subgroup within the Han Chinese majority that exists in both China and Taiwan.2 Throughout history, they have been unjustly persecuted for different reasons in different time periods.3 Traditionally they have been great farmers and first-rate scholars, and to this day they carry with them a strong sense of connection to their families and land. What we may hear in Chen’s and Lin’s music therefore is not only environmental consciousness but also a love for their traditional homelands in Taiwan, inspired by the shared Hakka cultural memories that are idealized in their songs—but jeopardized in reality. Despite their rural tradition, Taiwan’s Hakka people have now largely moved into

Figure 1. Taiwan and its surroundings.

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the general society of Taiwan. In addition to major cities such as Taipei (ৄ࣫), Taichung (ৄЁ), Kaohsiung (催䲘), and their surrounding urban areas, high concentrations of Hakka population can also be found in counties located along the northwest coastal plain as well as in the southern counties of Kaohsiung and Pingtung (ሣᵅ). Huanlian (㢅㫂) and Taitung (ৄᵅ) counties along the east and southeast coasts of Taiwan also have significant numbers of Hakka residents (Council for Hakka Affairs 2008c). According to research done in 2002, the Hakka made up 10.9 percent of Taiwan’s total population at that time (Xu and Chen 2004).4 The remaining Han Chinese population includes the majority Hoklo (⽣Հ) group, who make up over 75 percent of the total population, and the Waishengren (໪ⳕҎ, mainlanders5), who make up about 10 percent. There is also a minority non–Han Chinese population of Taiwanese aborigines, who constitute less than 2 percent of the general population (Xu and Chen 2004). In addition to simply providing an analysis of the music of Chen Yongtao and Lin Shengxiang, in which their cultural-environmentalist ideals would be the sole focus, this paper must also include an examination of the history of Taiwan’s environmental destruction, pollution history, and environmentalist movements, as these have set the background for Chen’s and Lin’s meaningful work. These musicians’ stories should also be understood within the broader context of the history of discontent in Taiwan that began as early as the end of World War II in 1945 (i.e., the beginning of the regime of the Kuo Min Tang, or the Nationalist Party of China; Ё೟೟⇥咼). The subject of the last segment of my discussion will therefore be the ways in which these two singers can be viewed as a continuation of the sociopolitical and cultural movements of Taiwan that began roughly in the 1960s and 1970s.

The Beginning of a Shared Memory During the decades after 1960, when I was growing up, economic growth brought rapid change to my hometown in central Taiwan, Changhua (ᕄ࣪). The first highway, built in the mid-1970s to connect the West Coast cities, was my earliest memory of progress. Soon it was followed by myriad other massive infrastructural projects. One of the most ambitious in Changhua County (ᕄ࣪㏷) was Zhangbin Industrial Park (ᕄ◅Ꮉὁऔ) at Lukang (呓␃).6 The buildings and factories that rapidly appeared as a result of these government projects drastically changed the appearance of the city and the adjacent countryside. While the people of Taiwan have enjoyed an improved economy as a result, this long-expected progress has not always kept up with its promise of improving people’s living conditions. Air pollution—for example, the offensive smell from the chemical plant owned by Formosa Plastics (ৄ☷ล㝴݀ৌ) in the north end of the city of Changhua—has been the most obvious price for the

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country’s recently acquired wealth. Furthermore, exploitative economics and the subsequent destruction of the environment have resulted in the loss of the original wetland of Changhua County (where the industrial park was built) and the richly vegetated grounds where I used to play. I remember those many childhood moments when I would watch the sunset in my quiet farming neighborhood where the creeks flowed. But this is gone. As trees and old houses were leveled, we lost not only the environment but also a way of life that intimately connected us to the memory of the past. When the place (where the original life with all its meanings was situated) disappeared, it became clear that we were moving away from a particular era, and many things from that era became irretrievable.

A Pollution History of Taiwan Liu Xiaoru (࡝ᇣབ), a senior researcher associated with Academia Sinica (Taiwan), claimed in 1994 that over the thirty-year period leading up to the time of her writing, the people of Taiwan had become increasingly proud of their economic success. However, this success was not due solely to the diligence and wisdom of the people but was also largely a result of the exploitation of our limited natural resources. With policies that favored economic growth over everything else, the government did not take into serious consideration the exhaustibility of Taiwan’s resources and the value of its unique natural environment. In past decades, the exploitation of natural resources was not only tolerated; the illegal use of protected resources was actually encouraged. Large-scale destruction of the natural environment has occurred on many fronts (Liu 1994, 574–75). Issues related to water pollution (as explored in Chen’s work) and the exploitation of water resources (in Lin’s work) are among the most concerning effects. According to a government report from 1991, which was a few years before the emergence of the environmentalist struggles that these two singers have concerned themselves with, among the 48 major and secondary rivers in Taiwan, 25 of them were contaminated to various degrees. The major pollution contributors included household sewage, industrial wastewater, and sewage produced by the livestock/farming industry (Zheng 1994, 91). Forests in Taiwan are a valuable asset and are important for the conservation of water resources. However, beginning in 1949, the Nationalist government of China (೟⇥ᬓᑰ), having recently relocated to Taiwan, encouraged largescale deforestation of mountain slopes, initially in order to support the sudden increase in population fleeing communism in Mainland China (Duan 1994). In the 1960s, the exploitation of mountain slopes was further augmented when the island’s economy was directed toward export. The lumber industries and highmountain agriculture were extremely profitable for businessmen and the government. The loss of forests and subsequently their water-conserving capacity

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has been the main cause of the increase in flood and drought catastrophes and the rapid deterioration of water quality in recent decades (Duan 1994, 135–41).7 Despite these pressing problems, the pace of government action in dealing with Taiwan’s environmental crisis has been slow and the results incomprehensive. In the case of fresh water shortages, rather than trying to solve these problems by restoring the original resources, the government has in recent years opted to pursue the acquisition of new water resources.8 It was not until 1987, under domestic and international pressure, that the Office of the Environmental Protection Administration (㸠ᬓ䰶⪄๗ֱ䅋㕆) was established and became operational. The creation of preliminary environmental protection laws and their enforcement came to pass shortly thereafter. One of the contributing factors in this positive development was the notable Lukang Rebellion (呓␃џӊ, to be discussed below), which occurred immediately before the establishment of the administrative office.

Environmentalist Movements, Meinong Dam Protest With the environment rapidly deteriorating, incidents of environmentalist protest occurred more and more often in the 1980s and 1990s, during the period when the world witnessed Taiwan’s miraculously rapid economic development. According to statistics, the number of protests increased from 2 in 1981 to 258 in 1991 (Xiao 1994, 551–63).9 The Lukang Rebellion of 1986–1987 was an early and noteworthy example. DuPont Taiwan Ltd., after acquiring the ROC (Taiwan) government’s permission, was planning to build a chemical plant in Zhangbin Industrial Park (Lukang) for the production of titanium dioxide, which commanded a high price in Asian paint markets at the time. Though the substance is not particularly toxic, the related wastewater contains large quantities of liquid chlorine and is certainly harmful, has a strong odor, and also would have been bad for oyster farming along the coastline near Lukang (Reardon-Anderson 1992, 19–22). The government did not consult the local residents beforehand and was highly criticized for its decision to approve the chemical plant. This issue eventually evolved into a large-scale protest. After nearly a year of struggle, the protest successfully forced the project to be relocated (Reardon-Anderson 1992, 79–92). While it is true that the Lukang Rebellion became tainted along the way by the injection of many controversial secondary agendas, it nonetheless came to serve as a model for later environmental protests. The principle of Zili jiuji (㞾ゟᬥ△, self-salvation action) was neatly exemplified by the Lukang Rebellion.10 The Meinong Dam protest (㕢▗∈ᑿᡫ⠁), in which singer Lin Shengxiang has been involved over the past fifteen years, is another major environmentalist movement in Taiwan that so far shows no sign of ending. The concept of the

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90 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 dam originated in a government long-term economic development plan first proposed in the 1970s. The dam was to be built in the 1980s and 1990s to meet the ever-increasing need of Taiwan’s economic development (Jingji Ribao 1981). This plan also included the construction of another controversial dam, the Majia Dam (⨾ᆊ∈ᑿ), which would submerge two locations with aboriginal cultural significance for the Paiwan and Rukai tribes, as well as the surrounding natural habitat. The Majia and Meinong dam projects touched on common cultural and environmental issues. In both cases, the preservation of minority culture and environmental concerns were among the most fiercely debated topics in the public sphere. Furthermore, in the case of the Meinong Dam, the safety of the township (in consideration of the dam’s situation on an earthquake fault line and its proximity to the town) and the potential ecological destruction of the Yellow Butterfly Valley (咗㵊㖴䈋), which is the natural habitat of many species of indigenous animals and plants, were also major issues (Lianhe Bao 1993). Lin’s hometown of Meinong, a zhen (䦂 township) in Kaohsiung County in Southern Taiwan, is situated in the southwest foothills of the Taiwan Central Mountain Range (Ё༂ቅ㛜) that runs north–south through the middle section of the island and is half-enclosed by the Meinong mountains (㕢▗ቅ㋏) on the northwest and the Lion mountains (⤙ᔶቅ㋏) on the east. The Meinong River (㕢▗⑾) and its tributaries, originating in the Taiwan Central Mountain Range in the north, find their way through the valley where the two mountain ranges meet, just northeast of the town. The sediment brought by the rivers enriches the soil and helped create the traditional agricultural Hakka culture. After running through the heart of the town, the Meinong River continues its southbound journey until it finally joins the Kaoping River (催ሣ⑾). This is the traditional homeland of the Meinong Hakka. Despite its agricultural selfsufficiency, Meinong, like many Hakka towns in Taiwan, is economically less competitive than the Hoklo towns. Nevertheless, the Meinong people have managed to rise to prominence. Instead of excelling in the business sector like the majority Hoklos (⽣Հ), they have become scholars and first-rate farmers, in accordance with their tradition of intellectualism and strong bonds to the land. Gengdu Chuanjia (㗩䅔‫ڇ‬ᆊ, to work in the field and study the teachings of past wise men) is a traditional value that many Hakkas have carried through the generations as a family motto. As Taiwan’s economy improved in the 1970s, opportunities in cities started to entice many young people to leave Meinong and seek a better life elsewhere. Despite their generally lesser economic standing, Hakkas in Taiwan, like their ancestors over thousands of years previous, have made every effort to maintain their unique culture and identity apart from other Han subgroups. The protest against the construction of the Meinong Dam shares some similarities with the Lukang Rebellion. The government’s unilateral decision to

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Figure 2. Photo by author 2009. The Meinong river and its tributaries (Dongshikeng and Jiahe rivers) originate in the Central Mountain Range of Taiwan (Ё༂ቅ㛜) and flow between the Meinong mountains on the left and the Lion mountains on the right of the picture, to reach Meinong. The triangle shows where the proposed Meinong Dam is to be built, should the government project be carried out.46 An agricultural plantation and the town’s temple are visible on the right of the picture; the dam’s obvious proximity and its potential danger to the town are not hard to imagine.

build the dam was grounded on the same economic reasons as the approval of the construction of the DuPont chemical plant in Zhangbin Industrial Park (Lukang). Early in 1957, the area between the two major southern rivers of Kaoping (催ሣ⑾) and Houjin (ᕠ࢕⑾) in Kaohsiung had already been chosen by the government for use in the development of the oil-refinery industry. In order to satisfy the industry’s need for fresh water in large quantities, a supply had to be secured. Though Taiwan is recognized as a country rich in annual rainfall, the Kaoping area (Kaohsiung and Pingtung counties) is much drier than other parts of Taiwan. Now, after decades of social and economic development, regional water shortages and contamination crises in Kaoping have started to make nearly continuous headlines in the major newspapers. When the government hurriedly began to search for new water sources in reaction to civic unrest, however, some experts, including Ouyang Jiaohui (ℤ䱑፴ᱝ), disagreed with

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the government’s solution and suggested that social and industrial developments were not excuses for further exploitation of Taiwan’s already limited water resources. They argued that the problematic management of water resources and economic-environmental policies were more urgent issues and most deserving of immediate attention (Ouyang 1991, 230–43). It is beyond any doubt that the industrial sector has taken advantage of the entire society by exploiting limited and valuable water resources without paying a price that reflects the high social and environmental cost of this exploitation. The plan for the Meinong Dam, like others that were similarly carried out or are to be carried out, was likewise based on the long-term policy of the ROC government, made in accordance with the interests of the steel and oil industries at the expense of Taiwan’s environmental and sociocultural integrity (Qu 1994, 45–51; Meinong People’s Association 1997). This policy is evidently incompatible with the principle of social equality and environmental justice. In the Meinong case, there were no assessments done by the government regarding the potential environmental and ecological impact of construction until the people of Meinong demanded an assessment take place. Investigations conducted by independent researchers yielded worrying results, and the villagers feared that the dam would dramatically transform the regional ecology and subsequently threaten to terminate the local Hakka culture.11 By 1993, negotiation between the Meinong people and the government had led to a fruitless dead end. The government was determined not to show that there might be any possibility of canceling the project, and so the budget for construction was delivered to the Legislative Yuan (ゟ⊩䰶) to be approved. The Meinong people decided to confront the government and make their appeal heard. They asked the government to take measures to prevent further water pollution and to safeguard current water resources from abusive exploitation. They insisted that forest restoration take place in order to protect water resources from further deterioration. They also appealed for a reevaluation of the suitability of the proposed site in regard to the safety of the townspeople and the ecological integrity of the region (Meinong People’s Association, n.d.b). Furthermore, they called for the public’s attention regarding the injustice they and their land had suffered because of the dam construction. They requested public support to stop the Binnan Industrial Park (◅फᎹὁऔ) project, whose investors would be the major beneficiaries of the Meinong Dam—not, as claimed by the government, the residents of the Kaohsiung metropolitan area—once it was constructed (Meinong People’s Association, n.d.a). The protest took place on April 16, 1993, in Taipei, during the spring legislative session. With the support of the Kaohsiung County Government and a sympathetic opposition party, the budget was cut. The project was temporarily thwarted. In the courtyard of the Legislative Yuan, for the first time, the people of Meinong sang their Hakka mountain songs in protest against the Meinong Dam.

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Lin Shengxiang (ᵫ⫳⼹ 1971–) and Zhong Yongfeng (䥒∌䈤 1964–) Lin Shengxiang was born in 1971 to a Meinong Hakka household. According to his biography (Council for Hakka Affairs 2008b) and his own words (interview by author, Meinong, May 8, 2009), he was exposed to traditional Hakka music from a very young age, when there were constantly sounds from religious and semi-religious festivals and rituals of all kinds around him. Some of this music impressed him and later helped form his musical identity. However, it was not until his senior high school year that he began to submerge himself in the pursuit of his own music. Western popular music and Taiwan’s min’ge (folksongs) were both influences, and singers he admires include the band Pink Floyd, Sting, Bob Dylan, and Van Morrison. In addition, the social consciousness of Luo Dayou (㕙໻ԥ, Lo Ta-yu)12 and various other singers from Taiwan was also influential: “He [Luo] says something real in his music, and not just about some unrealistic

Figure 3. Lin Shengxiang during his 2009 concert series. Photo taken by author on April 18, 2009. Used by permission of Lin Shengxiang.

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youthful love” (interview). By 1991, he had learned of Tamkang University’s min’ge tradition and believed that that campus would be the best environment for him and his music. He went to great lengths to ensure he would be admitted into Tamkang. “I actually listed all of Tamkang’s programs that I was eligible for on my choice-of-studies slip in order to ensure that I could get into Tamkang,” Lin told me in 2009. In 1991, he was admitted into Tamkang’s Transportation Management program, and he began his studies in the fall of that year. Tamkang was where some of the first min’ge were sung in the mid-1970s,13 and it was the cradle of several movements that would influence the sociopolitical development of Taiwan during the critical years to come, when Taiwan was to be gradually isolated by the intricacies of international politics. In 1992, while still a student at Tamkang University, Lin won the tenth University Campus Song Competition (໻ᅌජ℠ଅ↨䋑), one of the most important contests of the genre during that period. However, in 1994, as the Meinong Dam protest was escalating, a concerned friend asked him a question about the movement. He did not know enough to provide a good answer and felt very ashamed. His identity as a person from Meinong—and furthermore a person from Meinong of Hakka origins—instilled in him a sense of obligation and responsibility toward his people and hometown, which his friend’s question made him realize he had been neglecting. He decided not only to learn more about, but also to do more for, the anti-dam movement. By the end of that year (1994), Lin had returned to Meinong and was eagerly looking for a way to contribute to the movement. With his band, Guan Zi Yinyue Keng (㾔ᄤ䷇ῖഥ, 1992–1998), he started to hold concerts in honor of the Meinong anti-dam movement. He helped the movement by donating the concert earnings to its efforts. In 1997–1998, he produced his first two albums: Leisure Talk with Villagers (䘢ᑘᇟ㘞, Lin 1998a,b) and Roaming in Formosa (␌Ⲿ㕢呫ዊ, 1999a). These albums include earlier songs, written between 1993 and 1997, many of which were meant for the anti-dam movement. Among the most memorable are “At the Foot of Meinong Mountain” (㕢▗ቅϟ, 1998a) and “The Song of the Anti-Dam Movement” (ড∈ᑿП℠, 1998b), which were inspired by the Hakka musical tradition of shan’ge (ቅ℠, mountain songs). Shan’ge, a Hakka musical tradition and a symbol for Hakka nationalism today, gives Lin’s music a special identity. It carries historical meanings that are closely linked to the Hakka people’s struggles as a minority group in the long history of China. The genre can be traced back to its predecessors in Mainland China, but its form and materials have evolved over a thousand years through cultural interactions with indigenous peoples encountered by the Hakka as they migrated away from Northern China to the south due to the political persecutions. This long migration finally ended during the Ming and Qing dynasties, and the Hakka made their homes in the mountainous area of Southeast China between

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Jianxi (∳㽓), Guangdong (ᒷᵅ), and Fujian (⽣ᓎ) provinces. Shan’ge was further influenced by the daily work of the Hakka on the mountainside: mountain singing was a way to socialize with one another and alleviate the pain of hard work. The singing of shan’ge was at one point suppressed by an official ban from the government of the Qing Dynasty. However, despite the ban, mountain songs were sung in secret, carrying a rebellious spirit between the lines even though outwardly most of the songs were seemingly only about everyday topics such as love and laboring in the fields (Huang 2002, 36–37). In 1999, the seventh year after the beginning of the anti-dam movement,14 many of Lin’s thoughts and opinions had congealed, and a plan for a new musical album was gradually taking form. With the help of friends from the protest organization, Lin started to organize the production of his third album, Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs (៥ㄝህ՚ଅቅ℠, Lin 1999b-d), with his new band, Labor Exchange (ѸᎹῖ䱞, 1999–2003).15 The songs on this album were mostly written in a reflective manner, and they address the then nearly decade-long anti-dam movement. Lin’s collaborator and lyricist for many songs on the album, including the title track “Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs,” was one of the most important leaders of the anti-dam movement, Zhong Yongfeng (䥒∌䈤), who Lin first met in 1994. Zhong is also a Meinong Hakka, a rebellious child born in 1964 to a tobacco farmer’s family. According to Zhong, the social change he experienced in his youth had a tremendous impact on his personal life. He was first brought faceto-face with the negative aspects of this change when he moved to Kaohsiung, the second largest city in Taiwan, to attend high school. This involuntary move cut him off from his previous life in Meinong, which he had cherished since childhood. His first response was one of total rejection: “The capitalist society did not spare anyone. There is no single Taiwanese, regardless of his/her ethnic background, who can ever escape the persecution of the oppressive capitalism that epitomizes our modern society” (interview by author, Jiayi, April 24, 2009). Even today at forty-four years of age, his resentment toward the illnesses of modern society are still evident. Zhong refused to cooperate with his high school, and he was twice kicked out of school for delinquencies. Though he was disappointed by the world around him and the way his own life had turned out, he did not totally abandon himself. A deep contemplation soon followed and later led him to a personal transformation. During these critical years, he started to submerge himself in literature and philosophy in the hope that he might eventually find answers for himself and be “redeemed” from the problems and disgrace he had caused for himself and his family. He found friends in the Russian realists. Dostoyevsky, Chekov, and the Chinese realist writers from the early Republic of China (1912–1949) were among his inspirations. Soon he began to produce his own literary works. At Tamkang University, he actively participated in social

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movements aimed at improving workers’ and farmers’ rights. In 1992, Zhong graduated from Tamkang and came back to Meinong to reconnect himself with his Meinong homeland. He helped organize the Meinong Reservoir (Meinong Dam) Public Hearing. In 1994, he joined in various kinds of work related to the preservation of Meinong’s history and the future development of the township. And, starting in 1996, he officially directed the Meinong People’s Organization (㕢▗ᛯ䛝न䘆᳗). After meeting Lin Shengxiang, he began writing poems that later became songs on the album Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs (Lin 1999b-d). He consciously wanted to bring his songs close to the tradition of shan’ge in its original spirit. In his own words, “Shan’ge is very much like blues music. They are similar for they are workers’ music, intended for dialogues with their society. It [shan’ge] records the history and informs us of the real contents of people’s lives. These ideas of mine were definitely important for me when I was writing my lyrics with Lin” (interview by author, Jiayi, April 24, 2009). The lyrics of Lin’s songs, though original poems by Zhong, are in a different sense conjoined works created by both individuals; they are the result of long discussions between Lin and Zhong, especially on the theme of each song and its main ideas. Although the songs are clearly intended for the anti-dam movement, their themes often engage metaphors drawn from nature—a reflection of the people’s desire to preserve Meinong’s original landscape. However, despite the harmonious feelings that nature imagery usually inspires, Zhong’s use of nature-themed language and symbolism can also be provocative. For example, in “Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs” (Lin 1999b), the antagonism between city and country, between city and nature, and between modernity and tradition are provoked to encourage a fighting spirit: the city is wealthy but boring, full of people but cold; high-rise buildings only serve to block our view; the never-ending flow of cars just irritates us. Although confrontation between the anti-dam protesters and the government was in some sense inevitable and the fighting spirit of the protesters was on the rise, they were willing to adopt a more peaceful, nonviolent approach. In confronting the hostility of the government and the city, they opted to greet it with warmth and acceptance: When you are facing the armed policemen. Don’t be afraid! We are going to treat them like our brothers and sons. If the magnificent Legislative Yuan makes you feel embarrassed. That’s all right. Let’s take it as our sanhe yuan16 in the countryside. Let’s sing our mountain songs. Let’s sing our songs to brighten our eyes. Let’s sing to soothe our upset hearts. Let’s sing to transform the high-rises to green mountains. Let’s sing until the wide avenues become rivers.

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The drumbeats of rock ’n’ roll pound out the rhythm of resistance, while the indigenous kejia bayin (ᅶᆊܿ䷇, Hakka eight-tone band) represents the people and their culture.17 The use of traditional idioms and instruments makes the message more than clear: the music is about the survival of a people and their culture, and that survival in turn relies on the integrity of the physical environment. This use of shan’ge symbolism emphasizes Hakka tradition, culture, and identity. Another song on the same album, “Sing the Mountain Songs to Relieve the Upset Heart” (ቅ℠ଅ՚㾷ᖗ✽, Lin 1999c), expresses the determination of the Hakka people and again references the natural environment of Meinong to represent the strength they derive from their bond with the land: Mountains, stretch beyond one another, Together, they make our Meinong mountains. Hands, reach out to link with other hands, May we form a mountain of ten thousand zhangs! 18

In the song, the beloved homeland surrounded by mountains and rivers has transformed itself to become a co-fighter, accompanying the people in protest. The strong mountains become a support for the people. “No matter how vicious the government is, the work will be carried out” (Lin 1999d). The use of naturalistic metaphors creates the impression that the people and the natural environment of Meinong have become one. They have shared the same past and will certainly share the same future. The unity of people and their land arouses an awareness of our bond with nature. In contrast to the album Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs, Lin and Zhong’s third collaboration, Planting a Tree (。‍, Lin 2006a,b), clearly demonstrates that they are gradually moving toward a more peaceful approach. It is rather tempting to say that the indignation and combative momentum of the earlier period were transformed into a contemplation of the protest movement and its meanings over the preceding seven years. The emerging awareness no longer centers entirely on guarding the Meinong homeland but stretches out to encompass philosophical concerns as well. In these songs, human beings are no longer occupying center stage. Instead, trees, animals, earth, and heaven come to the limelight. Themes concerning the harmonious coexistence of humans and nature (and their shared destiny) become more prominent than ever. In these songs, the “nature” they embrace is extended to include beings as well as nonbeings. In “Planting a Tree” (Lin 2006a), the planted tree is intended as a symbol for those who have left home and for those who have stayed behind in the countryside. The tree is also planted so worms escape danger, birds spend the night, the river takes a shady respite from the scorching sun, the raindrop rests its foot, and the southern wind sings mountain songs.19 In “Organic” (᳝″,

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2006b), Lin sings of his hope that humans might find a way to truly share the land with nature in harmony. The song tells the story of a young farmer, his devotion to organic farming, and the opposition he faces. The misuse of chemical fertilizers and agricultural pesticides in Taiwan has never been more serious than in recent decades. Statistics from 1981 show that at that time, Taiwan used more agricultural pesticides per acre (37.40 kg) than any other East Asian country. This amount is almost double the amount used by Japan in the same year (Xu 1994). Due to the use of agricultural pesticides, substances such as trihalomethanes (THMS) and other cancer-inducing agents have contaminated the water. In addition, the long-term use of fertilizers has caused the earth to become rapidly acidified and degraded in its potency (Xu 1994, 338–39). Unfortunately, Taiwan’s farmers and agricultural industry have been slow to change their ways; accidental poisoning by agricultural pesticide residue is still occasionally heard of today. In facing this agricultural crisis, concerned individuals, in addition to advocating a nontoxic and environment-friendly lifestyle through organic farming, have even started devoting themselves to the actual work of revolutionizing local agriculture through organic methods and thereby actively preventing further poisoning of the land. Their efforts are winning recognition from the wider public; organic farming has become more popular among consumers and has been adopted by more and more farmers as well as by independent households in their gardens. Lin’s song “Organic” not only addresses the current agricultural revolution, it more importantly suggests a possible future where we can afford good health and morality. “Worms are thus the best endorsers of our organic produce. They are better than our government seal” (Lin 2006b). Thus, our future is not only contingent upon our government but also upon the restoration of a harmonious relationship with the environment. The song concludes: “As I ride through the field on my motorcycle, the wind blows and caresses my thoughts. [It is my honesty I offer] to the heavens, and to the earth.” As heaven and earth are where the people of Taiwan believe that gods reside, this is almost a religious moment.

Songs from the Soul, the Land, and Nature: Chen Yongtao (䱇∌⎬ 1956–) Songs from the Soul, the Land, and Nature: this is the second subtitle of Chen Yongtao’s album, A-Tao de Ge [Songs of A-Tao]: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan (䰓⎬ⱘ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇, Chen 2004a-f). Born in 1956, Chen Yongtao is Lin’s senior by fifteen years.20 Until the age of thirteen, Chen spent his entire childhood in the countryside where there were rivers and all that a natural environment can provide. He had a musical family. His parents and grandparents were all good singers. Hakka folk tunes and shan’ge were a

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part of everyday life, and the music of his childhood formed his most important personal memories, memories that would later become a source for his musical creativity (Council for Hakka Affairs Executive Yuan ROC 2008a). He started his own musical pursuits in his high school years as Lin did, picking up a guitar and singing. In fact, it is not atypical for young people to start their musical explorations through guitar and song in some sort of min’ge style in Taiwan. This is a legacy derived from the American influence in the 1960s. At the time when Chen began his musical explorations in the 1970s, the Campus Folksong Movement had just started picking up steam in Taiwan, and had a major impact on him. “The guitar allows me to speak for myself ” (interview by author, Zhubei, March 31, 2009). Chen’s comment expresses a not-so-uncommon attitude for min’ge singers to hold toward their music. During his military service, from 1977–1979, he began to compose his own songs with great enthusiasm, though he now considers those early songs to lack connection with the true contents of human life and thus possess “. . . no particular significance of any kind with minimal value for publication” (interview by author, Zhubei, March 31, 2009).

Figure 4. Chen Yongtao, photo taken by author on March 31, 2009. Used by permission of Chen.

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In order to fully appreciate the messages in his music, it is worth noting that Chen actively participated in environmentalist activities and nature preservation efforts beginning in his early twenties. While enrolled as an evening part-time student at the World College of Journalism (Ϫ⬠ᮄᇜ) in 1979, he worked full-time for Yewai (䞢໪), a then popular outdoor leisure/sport magazine. This professional career as a journalist afforded him the opportunities to have firsthand contact with Taiwan’s natural environment and its crises. In addition to environmental issues, the rapid social change of the 1970s and 1980s also plays a prominent role in Chen’s story and is an important theme in his music. Migration from the countryside to the city was a common experience shared by many of his generation. As the economy improved, there were more opportunities within cities. Chen grew up in a small Hakka farming village, Guanxi (䮰㽓) of Hsinchu County (ᮄネ㏷) in northwestern Taiwan. He first moved to Hsinchu City (ᮄネᏖ) at the age of thirteen, and later lived in Taipei (Council for Hakka Affairs 2008a). Though Chen’s move may not have been prompted by economic reasons, his later career in Taipei and his subsequent disappointment with the city followed a pattern experienced by many others coming from the country. Many of them left their homes in the countryside to pursue success in the cities, only to find that economic success did not fulfill their dreams of an ideal life. Their love for their previous homes and farmlands remained unchanged. Their longing for the past is well illustrated by the popularity of Chen’s songs, the themes of which hark back to the “good old days” before the industrial age. Despite such frustrations with city living, however, few of these migrants had the courage to resume their old way of life as Chen did. At the age of thirty-six (1992),21 he moved to Sanzhi (ϝ㡱), Taipei County, to start his new career as a sculptor; this was his first attempt to get away from the city. His workshop was called “Metal Liberation” (䞥ቀ㾷ᬒᎹ԰ᅸ). According to Chen, metal is the metaphorical human essence that is entitled to be liberated from oppressive modern society (interview by author, Zhubei, March 31, 2009). In 1996, in order to comfort his ailing grandfather (who only spoke Hakka and Japanese), Chen started composing Hakka songs. With very few popular Hakka songs in circulation, Chen’s songs were enthusiastically received by many Hakka listeners who had longed for songs in their native tongue. The popularity of his songs grew very fast. With the help of friends, in 2000 he released his album Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan (䰓⎬ⱘ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇, Chen 2004a-f), which further articulated his environmentalist thoughts. Most of Chen’s songs on this album are lyrical and soothing, extolling gentle sentiments and sweet memories of the past. However, the songs are never short of sharp, if indirect, criticism. It is clear that Chen wanted to reexamine his beloved Taiwan, its progress, and the losses sustained through decades of development.

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Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan, the album’s first subtitle, suggests that it may be easier for him to see certain things from a distance. In particular, songs like “Here Comes the Blinding Spirit” (Ⳇ⼲՚њ, Chen 2004a), “What to Do” (ӄ㨯✲, 2004b), and “Nothing Else I Can Do” (⛵༜ԩ, 2004c) serve as such examples. By referring to traditional folk tales, customs, and cultural events, and contrasting and comparing them with the ills of modern society in Taiwan, he criticizes the prevailing materialism of the country. In his opinion, the modern-day people of Taiwan, obsessed with their dreams of material success, have lost their souls, living rather like beings possessed by mongshing (the blinding spirit),22 without really knowing “what to do.” In “Here Comes the Blinding Spirit,” by using traditional mythology as a metaphor, he casts materialism as a modern mongshing that has blinded and misled the people. Chen longs for the past. He believes that Taiwan’s modernization has resulted in the alienation of humans from their traditional way of life in which were preserved some irreplaceable human experiences from the past. The traditional way, which he values and promotes in his songs, is a way of life in unity with nature and without burden. Proximity to nature and references to his childhood are among the most common themes in his songs. By retelling his stories, he wishes to bridge our present lives with the forgotten past and reconnect us to the naturalistic values we have lost on our way to modernity. In “Dreaming” ⱐ໶, 2004d), he dreams of life back when there were trees with flowers; when rivers still flowed, teeming with fish; when children could still have fun in the water (Chen 2004d). The same dream is carried further in another song on the album, “The Sunrise Tribe” (᮹ߎ䚼㨑, 2004e). Chen dreams of a tribe unknown to outsiders, whose home is not shown on any map. On his journey there, old trees watch and stones smile. The tribe lives in a place where electricity is not needed, and the water supply comes from the melting snow. This place is about the laughter of beloved relatives. It is about the songs on the mountains. It is about a river. It is the story of occasionally passing meteors.23 The ideal way of life for Chen is one in which there is harmony between both humans and nonhumans. In his songs, animals and plants are ubiquitous; they have made more than sixty appearances in his work as a whole. Among the nonhumans, some common characters include trees (phoenix trees, dragon trees, and yotong trees), fish (carp, bass, and jie fish), wild birds (eagles, doves, crows, and egrets), and insects (firebugs, ladybugs, and butterflies). They are all species native to Taiwan. There are also domestic animals, such as dogs, cats, chickens, and ducks. In his songs, these animals seem to have human lives. Through their presence, Chen creates a sense of harmony imbued with a philosophical touch of Taoism. In the song “Water Way” (∈䏃, Chen 2003a), he depicts an idealized land where humans yield to the river: it paints a picture in which humans, as passing boaters or fishermen, fleetingly coexist with nature, while nature (the

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river) is a constant. It is reminiscent of Taoist-inspired Chinese brush paintings, in which humans are but small dots on the canvas, almost invisible amidst the magnificent shan shui (mountains and water).24 Similar Taoist aesthetics in fact already exist in the song “Spring Rain” released in 2000 (᯹∈, Chen 2004f). Lines like “The paddy field under the mountain” and “A lone farmer in his palm-leaf raincoat” properly invoke the Taoist imagination. Chen himself has commented on the lifestyle conveyed in this song. He says that it is a kind of life that attracts no attention—a lifestyle without the complications of the city, of money, or of material abundance. This is a life that quietly follows nature’s rhythm (Chen 2004f). In another example, the characters in “The Fiery Afternoon” (➅☿☿ⱘϟᰱ, 2003b)—including old trees, mountain trails, an old man with his simple house, a lazy dog, a hen and her chicks, wild ducks, and a deserted farm house—remind one of the Yuan Dynasty poet, Ma Zhiyuan (侀㟈䘴) and his poem “Autumn Thoughts” (⾟ᗱ),25 which has long been considered a Taoist masterpiece. The word Chan (⽾, Chan Buddhism), as employed to introduce this song in the descriptive booklet of his album, neatly underlines the particular Taoist quality of his music.26 This harmony, he believes, should also prevail in our relationships with the other ethnic groups on the island. “Following the Wind” (䷚乼℠, Chen 2003c), from the album Water Way (2003), illustrates this point. Using the metaphor of sailing a boat, Chen introduces a new ethnic group with each reprise of the song’s single melody (often in their respective native languages), and symbolically “sails” to their homelands. Taiwan is evoked in its entirety not only through naming the individual groups of people but also through tactful reference to many geographic areas, signifying the importance of both the bond between different ethnic groups and the bond between humans and land. In a comic fashion, he suggests a comparison of our survival on this island with the sailing of the boat. The funny and mischievous music in reggae rhythm conjures up the ideal of a joyful unification of the peoples of the island. As the old Chinese saying goes, when sharing the same boat, we should cooperate with each other and help each other survive. And certainly, Chen’s portrayal of the survival of all of the people living in Taiwan is both joyful and comic. On the other hand, in “White Crane” (ⱑ厈, Chen 2003d) from the same album,27 he satirizes the ill-managed modernization of Taiwan, its pollution problems, and its subsequent ecological destruction. Using a wry yet sad melody, he contrasts the straight, wide road—the symbol of modernization—with an impoverished farmer who was forced to sell off his mud house and the mountain slope on which he relied to earn his living. He also contrasts profit-driven industries with an uprooted tree waiting to be sold and with a pond too polluted to hold fish and frogs. His sarcasm can also be heard in “Nothing Else I Can Do” (⛵༜ԩ, 2004c). Commenting on Taiwan’s discouraging social changes, he

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draws his inspiration from a traditional Hakka prayer from the past while using his revised lyrics to express frustration. He laments: My respectful Earth God and Earth Goddess, today, I have nothing with which to make a decent offering to you—just a bowl of pickled vegetables and a bowl of eggplants. If you don’t like these, there is nothing else I can do. The river has changed. . . . There is no more shrimp or fish. The only thing I have is this little crab and a spiral shell. If you don’t like it, there is nothing I can do.

Chen, Beipu (࣫ඨ), and Emei Lake (ኼⳝ␪) In 1997, Chen returned to his Hakka community in Hsinchu County in northwestern Taiwan. He arrived in Beipu (࣫ඨ), and there found the perfect spot for his performances over the next three years: the local temple, Ci Tien Gong (᜜໽ᆂ). He performed free concerts on a weekly or biweekly basis. He sang his own songs in Hakka and achieved great popularity. As usual, the themes featured in his concerts were Hakka culture and the environment. In November 1998, he moved to Emei (ኼⳝ), a neighboring xiang (town),28 but he eventually found that industrial pollution had invaded the remote countryside: Emei Lake had become a sewage destination for the livestock industry. Cleaning up Emei Lake soon became his next mission. Instead of simply making his statement through songs, he opted to dramatize the case by staking his career on the restoration of the lake. In 2003, he declared that until the lake was clean, he would not sing again (Li 2003). When I first visited Beipu, it was ten years after Chen had arrived there. People still remembered him vividly, however, and apparently still appreciated his music. Beipu is also a small Hakka mountain xiang in the eastern part of Hsinchu County. The town center is comprised of only a few streets. The narrow alleys and centuries-old buildings might conjure up dreams of the old days in Taiwan. I assume that these buildings would have had to have been found here, in a poor area of Taiwan that commands no commercial value, or they and the tradition they represent would not have been preserved. Emei is about half an hour’s drive away from Beipu and is an even quieter and more mountainous area, with rolling hills and rivers winding through the valleys. This is where irrigation reservoirs were built. Emei Lake is one of these reservoirs and is among the most popular destinations for tourists and local residents. Its degradation has become an issue of great concern for locals, especially as the pollution was caused by sewage from an illegal livestock industry upstream. The pig farming industry has grown as fast as Taiwan’s economy. The number of pigs kept by the industry in Taiwan is often more than seven million, many of which are for export (Xu 1994, 332–35). In a public hearing held on the future of Emei Lake, Chen pointed out that the cause of this undesirable situation for the lake was

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“strongly connected to corrupt local politicians, whose interests have long been enmeshed with those of the pig farming industry” (interview by author, Zhubei, March 31, 2009). Utilizing the popularity and admiration that Chen had won through the years, he was able to influence government authorities and push them to work on the enforcement of the laws that keep the pig farming industry clean. He has also gained support from high-tech industries who have provided technical assistance in effectively cleaning the lake water (Cao S. 2004). Since the release of his last album Water Way (∈䏃) in 2003, his public appearances as a singer have been largely reduced, although in the meantime he has continued to appear where the environment needs him.29 As he has said, his music is not for profit but for contemplating one’s life. Chen’s life is intricately connected with his music and his beloved Taiwan; I assume that he will continue to work toward the realization of his environmental ideals through his songs and to sing for the future of the land, its people, and their lives.

Upon Returning to Xiangtu (Country Soil): Environmental Music Reconsidered When I was considering how I might draw together these stories, I reflected on the idea that it is through history that we find the meaning of human life, within relevant historical and social contexts, and it is in the inseparable connections between historical events and individuals that we find human contents. Through their music, Lin and Chen have influenced our ways of thinking about our relationship with the environment. For this last portion of the discussion, therefore, it thus appears important for me to reconsider Lin, Chen, and their music in connection with the recent history of Taiwan, in the hope that the sociopolitical and sociocultural meanings of their music within their relevant historical contexts may be better understood. The end of World War II was an important historical point in Taiwan’s history. Post–World War II Taiwan experienced a drastic, society-wide change as the fifty-year Japanese occupation ended with the war and was replaced by Chinese claims to the island. Both Japanese colonialists and Chinese rulers imposed prejudiced cultural policies that were meant to suppress the native culture of Taiwan, for various reasons. In response, intellectuals rose up and involved themselves in sociopolitical and cultural movements in various ways. In the following section, I want to focus on the cultural movements of postwar Taiwan, especially the Grassroots Literary Movement (䛝ೳ᭛ᅌ䘟ࢩ) that began in the 1960s and the Folksong Movement (⇥℠䘟ࢩ) of the 1970s and 1980s. This was the sociopolitical and cultural context in many respects crucial to the formation of Chen’s and Lin’s environmental music identities. The literary movement that began in the 1960s, Xiangtu Wenxue Yundong (䛝ೳ᭛ᅌ䘟ࢩ, Grassroots Literary Movement), has had a far-reaching effect

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on many political, civil, literary, and art movements that followed. Though this is partly lost in the English translation, Xiangtu Wenxue Yundong can be understood in part as a collective effort in pursuit of a national identity. The rise of this literary movement may be attributed to several factors. From a more distant perspective, there is a historical background for us to consider, as well as some more recent and direct influences that led to the emergence of the movement. China and its Nationalist government (೟⇥ᬓᑰ) regained control of Taiwan in 1945 after the Second World War that terminated the fifty-year Japanese occupation of Taiwan.30 After being defeated by the Communists and being subsequently forced out of the Chinese mainland, the Kuo Min Tang (೟⇥咼, Nationalist Party, KMT) government retreated to this island province in 1949.31 Under the martial law imposed by the KMT,32 the people of Taiwan were not allowed to enjoy the democracy they had expected upon the retrocession of Taiwan. They were generally excluded from the making of government policies regarding their future. Though the literary movement can be traced further back to the Japanese colonial period and the cultural suppression imposed by the Japanese, the suppression of Taiwan’s native culture by the Kuo Min Tang was equally severe, if not even more so. The native tongues of the people of Taiwan were strongly discouraged. Social gatherings were suspected as potential anti-governmental activities. Religious festivals, as well as popular artistic expressions (Taiwanese opera, for example), were contemptuously regarded as low forms of culture. The KMT regime, with the recovery of Mainland China as first priority, made all efforts to repress anything distinctively native to Taiwan. Prejudicial cultural policies were justified under a glorious “China” ideology and were carried out on the grounds of assuring the loyalty of the islanders to the KMT regime. Using the same excuse, the government imposed shortsighted plans for Taiwan’s development, made with little or no regard for the degradation of the environment or the general best interest of the people of Taiwan. The regime of the Kuo Min Tang started to weaken in the 1970s, and weakened further in the 1980s. This changing course was punctuated by important political events, including the expulsion of the Republic of China from the United Nations in 1971,33 the death of military superman Chiang Kai-shek in 1975, and the severance of the United States–ROC (Taiwan) relationship in 1979. Pressure from China and ambiguous international relations have further demoralized the island’s people. As the Kuo Min Tang’s control over the island started to loosen, many intellectuals began to consider the future of their nation. They not only worried about the disappearance of their original homeland due to decades of capitalist exploitation and ill-intended government economic policy but were also concerned about the future of their nation and the survival of its culture. Two catchphrases, “Return to Reality” (ಲ⅌⧒ᆺ) and “Care for the People

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[here on this island]” (䮰ᖗ໻ⴒ),34 emphasized the interests of this land and its people and sharply contrasted with the government’s propaganda: “Return to the Mainland” (ডᬏ໻䱌) and “Save our Mainland People” (㾷ᬥ໻䱌ৠ㚲). The intellectuals’ concerns for the future of Taiwan came into direct confrontation with the requisite national ideology imposed by the KMT regime, especially after their failed decades-long pursuit of a unified China (Hsiau 2008, 202–8). As the political climate inside and outside of the island was constantly changing, intellectuals actively involved themselves in cultural activities and movements. Ignoring the censorship imposed by the KMT government, writings intended to disseminate progressive political and cultural thoughts appeared in various kinds of publications. Among them, several like-minded magazines were particularly influential for the people and important in instigating social change. However, despite the fact that participants in this cultural movement in general may have shared the same goal of restoring the nation’s dignity, issues centering on one’s national identity are never resolvable with one simple, straightforward answer for all people. How we view ourselves is not only a political question but more so a complicated cultural and historical one. Therefore, while some tried to reaffirm their worth by siding with the glorious past of Chinese culture, others more realistically accepted the fact that the island—where their life and therefore their future survival was bound—and its indigenous cultures should take priority. These two groups split and channeled themselves into two or more separate courses of cultural self-identification, which could be best typified by the two major movements that occurred roughly simultaneously in the 1960s and 1970s as a direct response to the change of Taiwan’s position in national and international spheres: Wenhua Fuxing Yundong (᭛࣪ᕽ㟜䘟ࢩ, Chinese Culture Restoration) and Xiangtu Wenxue Yundong (Grassroots Literary Movement). The aim of Wenhua Fuxing Yundong was to restore the national pride and dignity of Taiwan through the promotion of high Chinese culture. This governmentsponsored cultural movement was often carried out through government authorities (Hsiau 1991, 91–110).35 For example, Confucian educational materials from Chinese classics, a common heritage of all Chinese, were integrated into middle and high school curricula, while educational materials for the studying of regional cultures and the traditional values of Taiwan were nearly completely missing from the curricula. Conversely, Xiangtu Wenxue Yundong, in contrast, was connected to literary circles formed by individuals and disseminated through magazines such as Wenzi (᭛ᄷ), Daxuei (໻ᅌ), Xia Chao (໣╂), Li (ヴ), Taiwan Wenyi (ৄ☷᭛㮱), and others. Xia Chao, a Tamkang University–based literary magazine and a successor of Wenzi, was a firm advocate of Chinese–Taiwanese nationalism. It was one of the most important idea disseminators or incubators responsible for the rise of several ensuing sociopolitical and

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cultural movements, including the Folksong Movement (Hsiau 2008, 203–32; Zhang 2003, 123–42).36 The Min’ge Yundong (⇥℠䘟ࢩ, Folksong Movement), with its catchphrase “chang ziji de ge” (sing one’s own song), shared both the Chinese Cultural Restoration Movement’s and the Grassroots Movement’s projects, as well as their contradictions.37 With origins in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Min’ge Yundong has had a long life, and its ideals continue to be preserved on university campuses across Taiwan. A lone singer with an acoustic guitar is the typical image. The origins of its singing style are certainly not from Taiwan. Quite ironically, it was imported from America, whose cultural domination was exactly that which the movement was trying to avoid when it began in the 1970s. By modeling themselves after American rock ’n’ roll, country, and folk singers, including Bob Dylan and John Denver, Taiwanese musicians not only transplanted musical styles but also the fashion and rebellious identity of the American artists (Han 1981, 188). In their songs, Min’ge Yundong singers found a way to express their individuality as well as their concerns about society. Faced with American imperialism as a common enemy, the government supported Wenhua Fuxing Yundong (᭛࣪ᕽ㟜䘟ࢩ, Chinese Culture Restoration) and the (somewhat) independent Xiangtu Yundong (Grassroots Movement), which, although not entirely at peace with each other, shared a common goal: the restoration of national identity and dignity. Intellectuals viewed reformation in all aspects of social life as the most urgent issue of the day. As Yang Xian (἞ᓺ), one of the leaders of the early min’ge movement, put it, “We want to sing to invoke an ideal, a new social morality” (ଅ䝦ϔ‫ן‬ᮄ⧚ᛇ, ϔ‫ן‬ᮄ乼⇷) (Han 1981, 196). They believed this min’ge movement was about the future of their nation, even though the perceived “nation” and its possible future was never clearly articulated or even considered a necessity by everyone involved. As a matter of fact, the ideals of the Wenhua Fuxing Yundong, Xiangtu Yundong, and Min’ge Yundong remained those of the intellectually privileged. Whether or not they and their imagined nation(s) were in accordance with the actual day-to-day concerns of the people was not always considered. Despite their good intentions, the later development of Min’ge Yundong was more or less trapped in a naïve “healthy realism” for various reasons.38 Capitalized production and government censorship (i.e. implementation of cultural policies to regulate publication) were among the most important factors. In contrast to their counterparts, the “corruptive” liu xing gequ (⌕㸠℠᳆, pop songs) that were customarily condemned as mimi zhi yin (䴵䴵П䷇, corruptive sound), min’ge, although meant to represent the “health and optimism” of society, could not avoid but faithfully mirror society’s immediate sociopolitical constraints.39 Under the combined influences of their ideals, government mandates, and the commercial market, for min’ge singers youthful love, nature

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themes, and correct nationalist sentiments were among the few choices available to them (Zhang 2003, 167; 184–85; 190–202). The refreshing youthfulness of these singers was taken as a symbol of hope. Their simple dress, lack of makeup, and untrained vocal style represented the progressive ethics deemed necessary for the new era (Zhang 2003). Their use of nature themes was meant not only to promote “health” but also to evoke their beloved xiangtu (country soil), where they found their origins and cultural roots. In research done by Yang Zujun (἞⼪⧎, 1982),40 songs with nature themes represented 11.67 percent of her total sample, the theme of homesickness was found in 8.33 percent, and songs with patriotic or nationalistic themes comprised another 8.33 percent (Yang 1982, 14).41 These combined themes became the irreducible common basis for all min’ge. During the following decades, the legacy of min’ge was carried on by way of its form, style, performance practice, and a belief in “genuineness”—genuine voices of genuine individuals. The creation of myths continued. The form, style, ideals, and history of min’ge have shaped min’ge singers just as much as the singers have shaped these elements themselves. The singers were thus endowed with a voice and a particular identity associated with the genre. Chen did not emerge from this movement as a professional singer at the height of the min’ge period. Like many aspiring young singers of his age in Taiwan, he participated in the movement as an amateur and experienced the peak of the movement firsthand while he was in Taipei as a professional journalist and a student in late 1970s and early 1980s. Lin, more than fifteen years younger than Chen, had no direct contact with the original min’ge movement but from his high school years has sung in min’ge xicanting (campus-song feature restaurants). As I have already said, min’ge never really died; it lives on among college students and enthusiasts. As Lin’s alma mater and the original site of the Min’ge Yundong and Grassroots Movement, Tamkang University must have had a tremendous influence on him in all respects. “There are three lines of the min’ge [movement] in its later development. I mean to carry on the line that was first started by Li Shuangze [ᴢ䲭╸],” Lin confessed (interview by author, Meinong, May 8, 2009). Li Shuangze was the most legendary min’ge singer and is commonly regarded as representing the true spirit of the early min’ge, the pure idealized pursuit of one’s national and cultural identity, when the movement first started in the 1970s.42 Lin further stated, “I probably would not call myself an adherent of the Grassroots Movement. [But,] I heard Lin Qiang [ᵫᔋ]43 sing in Hoklo when nobody had done that before, and I was deeply impressed. And then I thought, well, maybe I could also do the same in Hakka. It is my Hakka rock ’n’ roll. Then, here came the environmental movement. I just jumped in.” For Lin and Zhong (as well as other similarly inspired musicians and lyricists), min’ge represents the original spirit in which their searches for their national roots were

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redirected toward personal engagement in environmentalist work, in the form of propagating a naturalistic ideal of protecting their homeland. In Chen’s case, min’ge takes on a somewhat different flavor. Traits of min’ge in his music are prominent in terms of its performance style and the message carried within, either in a symbolic or metaphorical fashion. “I often sing without any support from anyone. All I need is a guitar and a couple of amplifiers if necessary. The performance costs me nothing. I mean to say what I feel—Taiwanese people have been taught to be obedient and to be ‘square’ [following instructions without questioning].” He drew with his index fingers a square in front of him. For Chen, min’ge is rather a personalized and individualized musical language through which his concerns for the land and the people are expressed. Chen’s individualized voice is especially notable when compared with that of Lin’s and Zhong’s. Chen’s melodies (with only a few exceptions) cannot be easily associated with the Hakka musical tradition or any ethnic musical tradition from Taiwan, though his pursuit is often the country, the traditional way of life as remembered from the past. This is true despite his occasional use of traditional Hakka melodies and instrumentation, which unfortunately are usually given less than substantial functions. Instead, African-American music, stylistically and idiomatically, is often referenced. In fact, the influence of African-American music has been fundamental to his music, as he himself has acknowledged. For instance, in “Following the Wind” on the album Water Way (∈䏃, Chen 2003c), the prevalent reggae rhythm that lasts throughout the entire song is worth noting. I would like to suggest that, although it may or may not have been a conscious choice made by Chen, the use of the foreign reggae style might serve to help him remain musically detached from his object of interest. This detachment, a musical stance commonly felt in his songs, is necessary for Chen. It is expressed in his songs and through his Songs of A-Tao album subtitle Eight Hundred Meters Away From Taiwan. It also makes sense considering his Taoist inclinations. In “Following the Wind,” instead of introducing the ethnic musical styles that we might normally expect when Taiwan’s ethnic groups are referenced in respective strophes, the foreign reggae style, neutral to all ethnic groups in Taiwan but also humorous enough to provoke the necessary sentiment of the lyrics, works well as a symbol for the joyful unification of the people. It is quite common for Chen to restrain from showing off his Hakka identity (though Hakka identity today could mean a form of valuable cultural capital), despite the fact that he never really makes an effort to hide it either. During my interview with him, he made it quite clear. When he was asked whether he considered himself a supporter or devotee of Hakka cultural restoration work, Chen replied, “I do not consider myself as a ‘Hakka’ singer and do not consider

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myself a cultural worker, either. . . . I was once approached by a Hakka nationalist after one of my Hakka song performances. This guy bluntly confronted me and said, ‘You are not Hakka today.’ All I could do was give him a bitter smile.” Yet, he further explained, “My music is derived from the places and the people I encounter. When I am here with Hakkas, I naturally sing in Hakka and sing about the life of Hakkas. If I went to Europe, I would want to sing something relevant to the people there.” Though the love for the homeland is genuine, he needs a safe distance from what he loves. The detached stance is a necessary component. His music is not a sociopolitical engagement or meant to be protest music, like the music of Lin and Zhong (Chen’s protest was in fact carried out by refusing to sing, as in the Emei case). His music is rather a reflection, a contemplation by a conscious and conscientious person, the result of Chen’s individualized life experiences, and an achieved awareness, which can serve as a guide for the rest of us. In contrast to Chen’s refined and individualized musical style, Lin and Zhong’s songs have a unique voice with a taste of caogen (㤝ḍ, grassroots). As I have mentioned, by following the pattern of Lin Qiang (ᵫᔋ), he started to sing in his own mother tongue and intentionally to integrate his Hakka cultural and traditional musical heritage into his own music. “I am especially grateful that I speak Hakka and have my Hakka musical heritage with me,” Lin said. The intent to go back to one’s roots is not only apparent in his lyrics but also in the music. Like Chen, Lin acknowledges the musical quality of the Hakka language that affords him his own unique voice apart from other min’ge singers. Demonstrating on guitar, he explained how he followed the linguistic rhythm of the Hakka language when composing his own melodies. The same mindfulness is echoed by Zhong Yongfeng, Lin’s lyricist: “It is the Hakka language, not Mandarin, that brings the spirit of the local Hakka people to my songs. It is a language cultivated through the life of our ancestors for hundreds of years here in Meinong.” Such effort brings their music closer to the indigenous Hakka culture they aim to associate themselves with. Lin and Zhong’s songs employ slang and informal language to a large degree, depicting the good and bad times of the locals.44 This particular kind of language, combined with regional music styles and tastes— such as the vocal tradition of shan’ge and the vulgar but amusing nasal vocal style that is commonly heard in traditional music—rightly reflects the many nuances of their life rhythm. Lin and Zhong’s direct participation in the antidam and Hakka cultural revival movements is also important in giving them a voice among the people. Their songs deal with real stories from real people, not esoteric philosophical discussions, and often the singer himself is the narrator–participant in these song–stories. For listeners from Taiwan, it is sometimes simply so raw and intimate that it is impossible to avoid being deeply touched by Lin’s pure sincerity.

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In Closing Xiangtu (䛝ೳ, country soil) is the symbolic homeland, longed for by the culturally suppressed people of Taiwan, where the worth of the people and its culture are acknowledged and reaffirmed. It carries within itself, in spite of its protesting nature, much of the people’s love as well as their hope for their island homeland. This word Xiangtu readily lends itself to multiple interpretations for the people of Taiwan, due to the particular sociopolitical and cultural circumstances the people and the land have gone through in recent history. Its meaning may not be fully captured in its English translation. As heard in the songs of the two singers discussed here and many other similarly intended min’ge, xiangtu for different individuals may be associated with different contexts and diverse intents. The messages conveyed in such emotionally overlaid songs as those by Lin and Chen go far beyond what their simple melodies may assume. They are one’s pursuit of identity, the preservation of culture, and the social responsibilities that conscious intellectuals took on. This music is definitely not just about naturalistic ideals alone. The pursuit of xiangtu—the longing for an indigenous land of one’s own or the protection of the environment—is thus one issue that takes various forms, centering on one’s place of significance.45 The story of the Meinong Dam protest has not yet ended. As the government has never really abandoned the project of building the Meinong Dam, the Meinong Hakkas’ efforts to safeguard their land and their unique culture and identity will continue. At the close of this paper, I would like to acknowledge the work and genuine effort that these artists have made. Their great love for our island homeland and their deep reflection on its people and their life, their contemplation on the relationship between humans and the land, and the contradiction between the old and the modern, the harmonious past and the exploitative present—all of these efforts are deserving of our applause. Our island homeland has always been and will continue to be an inseparable part of its people and their future. As it is crucial for a people that their tradition survives confrontation with unavoidable change, efforts toward cultural maintenance will certainly require that the land remain intact. And, until the integrity of the place is restored, the dignity of the people cannot be found again.

Acknowledgments I offer my sincere gratitude to Aaron Gervais and William Brent who both helped me edit this article. I also wish to thank my academic adviser, Nancy Guy, who first introduced me to ecomusicological research and who has offered useful guidance during the course of my research. Chien-kuo University, Taiwan

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Notes 1

The surname precedes the given name, following traditional Chinese practice. Han is the name of the majority ethnic group living within the boundaries of China. The name Han Chinese (⓶⇥ᮣ) was most likely derived from the Han Dynasty (202 BCE–220 CE), and this group is primarily responsible for the Chinese civilization that has developed continuously for more than 3000 years. 3 During the early Qing Dynasty (1636–1912 CE), a prejudicial government order was issued against immigrants from Chaozhou and Huizhou (approximately southern Fujian and Guangdong provinces), preventing them from moving to Taiwan. The excuse given was that the government wanted to prevent the piracy and rebellious maneuvers that many Hakkas were purportedly involved in along the southeast coast of China. Chaozhou, Huizhou, and their adjacent areas were where most of today’s Taiwanese Hakkas originated. Though the government order was later lifted, it remarkably delayed the arrival of the Hakka ethnic group in Taiwan. As a result, they were left no choice but to take less favorable lands than the dominant Hoklos (cf. Huang 2002). 4 There are different ways of defining the ethnic composition of Taiwan, which may result in a different proportion of Hakkas in comparison to the total population in Taiwan. The same applies to the description of other ethnic groups in Taiwan. See Xu and Chen 2004 for a more detailed analysis. 5 Unless otherwise noted, all translations in this work are my own. 6 Lukang is less than 10 kilometers to the west of Changhua. Zhangbin Industrial Park was later considered an unsuccessful project because of its failure to attract a continuous flow of capital and investments. 7 According to Duan, droughts and floods occurred twice as often in the 1970s compared to the 1950s. In addition, the uncontrolled use of agricultural pesticides, especially since 1950, has also been an important contributor to the deterioration of soil quality. 8 Government policies for responsible forest management did not come into effect until 1975, with “The Three Principles for Managing Taiwan’s Forests” (ᵫᬓϝॳࠛ). This was the first serious step taken by the government to protect Taiwan’s forest resources from exploitative economic development projects (cf. Wu 2001). 9 Several changing elements in the political environment of Taiwan also contributed to the sudden increase in frequency of environmentalist protests. These included the loosening-up of the control of the antidemocratic Kuo Min Tang (Nationalist Party) government since the death of Chiang Kai-shek, the lifting of martial law in 1987, and a series of democratic reforms in the 1980s through the 1990s. 10 Zili jiuji (㞾࡯ᬥ△) is a form of civil movement that declares a lack of trust in the government, emphasizing the strength and determination of the local people involved in protecting their own local interests. I first heard this term in 1987. It is possible that it was first invented for the Lukang Rebellion. According to Xiao Xinhuang (㭁ᮄ✠ 1994), this term was commonly employed starting in the mid-1980s to describe the independent nature of environmentalist protests and movements. 11 ᅶᆊড∈ᑿᅷ㿔˖ᰖ㟇Ҟ᮹, ໪ᭉᏆ⛵, প㗠ҷПⱘॏᰃ㍧△㟛⼒᳗᭛࣪ວ䖿Ǆ ᔅࢶᮣ㕸⛵⊩೼ᬓ⊏㟲ৄߎ丁, ҹ䖆ゟᴀⱘᅶᆊᮣ㕸, ᳈಴ᬓᑰ⢴ᖗⱘ࠱༾䖆ὁᬓㄪ, 䘐ᕫ䍄ᡩ⛵䏃, —ᅶᆊᮣ㕸Ꮖ䗤┌䍄৥⍜༅ⱘᮣ㕸ⱘੑ䘟Ǆৄ☷᳔ᕠϔ‫ן‬ᅶᆊॳ䛝 2

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—㕢▗, ⚎ᅶᆊ᭛࣪ⱘֱᄬᦤկњ᳔དⱘ᪮咲, བҞॏ䴶㞼㕢▗∈ᑿⱘᔋࠊࢩᎹ, 㸏‿ⱘᬓᑰϡᇞ䞡⇥ᛣ, ҹ↿ϡ⬭ᚙⱘᬓ⊏᠟↉, 㽕ᇛᅶᆊॳ䛝↔⒙Ǆ (The Hakka Anti-Meinong Dam Declaration: Today, there are no longer invaders and oppressors. In their place, there are economic and sociocultural suppressions. The minority people are deprived of opportunities to participate in the political realm. The Hakkas and their agricultural lifestyle are facing a dismal future of extinction due to the unmerciful government and their agricultural policy that cares for no people’s welfare. Meinong, the original homeland of Hakkas, would serve as the best location for the preservation of Hakka culture. However, the construction of the Meinong Dam is being forced upon us. The government, with its arbitrary policies, does not respect the will of the people. With their political maneuvers, they want to terminate the original homeland of the Hakkas.) (Meinong People’s Association 1999a) 12 Luo Dayou (Lo Ta-yu) first started his professional career as a rock/min’ge singer in the 1970s and was an important pioneer in bringing themes into Taiwan’s popular music that reflect the social realities of a changing Taiwan. His sharp criticisms of the social illnesses brought by rapid change are often heard in his poetic and reflective lyrics. His musical style became a model for many rock and min’ge singers of his generation and the generations after him in the 1970s and 1980s. One of his best known songs (1982), “The Small Town Lukang” (呓␃ᇣ䦂), speaks of social change in Taiwan and its effects through a first-person narrative in which the contrast between the city and the country, the alienation from one’s original life in the country, and the abrupt cut-off of human– human and human–land relations, are vividly depicted. 13 Though the term min’ge means “folksong” in a literal sense, it is not equivalent to folksong as normally used to denote any traditional form of popular music. Min’ge is a fairly new genre, developed in the 1970s on Taiwan’s university campuses, with a historical background shaped by different social, cultural, and political elements. Min’ge can address various themes, with youthful love, the love for one’s own homeland, and nature among the most popular. The ideals carried within the genre (especially those of early min’ge) are manifested through its pursuit of social reforms in addition to the pursuit of one’s national and cultural identity. More about min’ge will be covered in the latter part of this paper. 14 According to Zhong Yongfeng, the movement first began in 1992 when an initial public hearing was organized. 15 The name Labor Exchange commemorates a unique, cooperative harvest-time tradition in Meinong, in which people pitch in to help with extra labor. 16 Sanhe yuan (ϝড়䰶) is a type of traditional Chinese bungalow house. 17 Kejia bayin, a traditional Hakka musical ensemble, literarily means “Hakka eight tones.” Ba means “eight.” According to some performing artists, there were traditionally eight different instruments and eight performers at a time, though presently the musical form may exceed this formation, adding more performers and instruments. The suona (a shawm) is usually the lead instrument and is accompanied by either a string or a wind ensemble (cf. Hong W. et al. 2004, 55–58). 18 Zhang (Ϝ) is a Chinese unit of length. 1 zhang ⫽ 3 13 meters. 19 This is not a literal translation of the lyrics; I have reorganized and reworded the original to generate the necessary contextual fluidity.

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20

Chen’s first album, The Thing for the First Time (丁ᫎⱘџᚙ), was released in 1997 and included songs written during his earlier sojourn in Taipei. He moved back to his home county of Hsinchu in 1996. 21 In Chen’s own words, he was “thirty-seven” at that time. The Chinese method of age-counting assumes that a person is already one year old at the time of birth. 22 The word mongshing is spelled in accordance with Hakka pronunciation. 23 This is not a citation from the original text. It is rather an adaptation of the original text, modified for textual fluidity. 24 Shan shui hua is a popular style of Chinese painting, in which landscapes of natural objects like mountains and rivers are depicted. The painting tradition is most associated with the gentry and their Taoist inclinations. 25 In the poem, a dead cane stalk, an old tree, and a half-sleeping crow are poetically and symbolically employed to express feelings of listlessness and inactivity (jing) in an ambience of boundlessness invoked by the word tienya (໽⎃, the unattainable far-off end of the world). 26 The teachings of Chan Buddhism intersect with those of Taoism. 27 Pak-hok in Hakka (the “white crane” in Mandarin) here is the egret, a species of indigenous wild bird in Taiwan. 28 An administrative unit smaller than shi (Ꮦ, city) and larger than cun (ᴥ, village). It is about the equivalent of zhen (䦂, township) but with a more sparsely distributed population. 29 Chen’s first reappearance as a singer was in April 17, 2005, when he was invited to sing in the Hsinchu Spring Festival for the promotion of Hakka culture (IC FM 97.5, 2005). 30 The Japanese ruled the island from 1895–1945, after Taiwan was ceded by the Qing imperial court to Japan through the Treaty of Shimonoseki, signed in 1895. 31 The Kuo Min Tang (೟⇥咼, Nationalist Party) was then the ruling party of the Nationalist government (೟⇥ᬓᑰ). 32 The martial law imposed by KMT was lifted in 1987. 33 The Republic of China (ROC) is the political entity that was founded by the revolutionaries led by Sun Yat-sun in 1912. After the loss of the Chinese mainland to the communists in 1949, Tai-pong-jin-ma (Taiwan and its offshore islands, and Jinmen and Mazu of Fujian province) was the only territory of China controlled by the regime of Chiang Kai-shek, the leader of the ROC Nationalist government. Chiang’s regime proclaimed that its government was the only legitimate government for the whole of China. 34 These two phrases are given in Hsiau A-chin’s book, in his description of Taiwan’s literary–social movements from the 1970s (cf. Hsiau 2008). 35 Although the government-sponsored Wenhua Fuxing Yundong (Cultural Restoration Movement) may have been largely unsuccessful, some of its political and cultural ideals were shared by individuals in other camps. For example, some Grassroots Movement devotees may not support a culturally and politically independent Taiwan. Instead, they may be inclined toward views or ideas regarding shared cultural roots between Taiwan and China. 36 The distinction between the different cultural-movement groups is not always clearcut. Participants who sided with the Grassroots Movement often divided themselves

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according to their somewhat subtle differences in political and cultural opinion. Ways of identifying one’s national and cultural roots were often the most debated focuses. These differences are expressed through the different Grassroots Movement literary publications. 37 I have used the term min’ge (folksongs), rather than xiaoyuan gequ or xiaoyuan min’ge (campus songs, campus folksongs), to denote the early ideals of the genre as they existed in the mid-1970s, when the movement began. 38 “Healthy realism” was promoted by Henry Gong Hung (啨ᓬ) in the 1960s and 1970s. Gong, then the general manager of Central Motion Pictures Company (Taiwan) (1963–1972), advocated a new form of cinema that was not only “realist” but also “healthy,” presenting movies to the audience devoted to the description of the bright side of society instead of its dark side, in order to build hopefulness. Although Gong may have had good intention, critics viewed healthy realism as essentially being government propaganda (National Motion Picture Archive). 39 Yang Zujun in 1982 describes min’ge (presumably its later form) as unrealistic and pessimistic. “Healthy realism,” a term I borrowed from cinema to depict the pretentious nature of this later min’ge development, was mostly the result of the censorship imposed during the KMT’s rule in the 1970s. The pretentious “healthy reality,” a social image constructed by government propaganda, was certainly not only unreal but also unhealthy (pessimistic). 40 Yang was one of the earliest participants in the Min’ge Yundong. 41 The love theme is the most popular of all. Songs with such a theme make up 35 percent of Yang Zujun’s total sample. 42 Li Shuangze’s two songs “The Young China” (ᇥᑈЁ೟) and “The Formosa” (㕢呫ዊ), argues Zhang Zhaowei, represent the two directions of nationalism in Taiwan and the search for a Taiwan-based cultural identity among college students during the period when the country was gradually being isolated by drastic changes in international politics in the 1970s. Li, a Chinese-Filipino born in China in 1949, was a student at Tamkang University, majoring in mathematics with a great interest in arts and architecture. In one 1975 concert, he stepped onto the stage with a bottle of Coca-Cola and asked his audience whether they had anything other than American songs to sing. He touched upon a sensitive question regarding Taiwan’s national and cultural dignity and identity at a time of great change for the people of the island. He died in 1977, ironically in an attempt to save some Americans from drowning right off of Tamshui shore (cf. Zhang 2003). 43 Lin Qiang revolutionized the Taiwanese (Hoklo) popular songs by introducing rock ’n’ roll into the genre at a time when Taiwan-based nationalism was on a rise in the late 1980s. Phenomenally successful, his songs gave a new identity that is modern and international to a genre that used to be appreciated only by the older generations and was thus heavily associated with a sense of backwardness. 44 There are interesting examples consisting of lines borrowed from people’s everyday language: “Dumb dog wishes for a taste of goat’s testicles” (from “The Night Buses” on the album Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs) and “If you have trouble relieving yourself, do not release your anger onto the toilet bowl” (from “A-cheng Goes to Southeast Asia” on The Night March of the Chrysanthemums) (cf. Lin 1999d, 2001).

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45

Environmentalist protests in Taiwan are often associated with people’s concerns for the preservation of local culture and cultural identity. This is also very much reflected by some social science research, such as that of Xiao Xinhuang. In “Local Environment Protests and Movements, their Characters and Transformation 1980–1991,” Xiao says, “After martial law was lifted, environmentalist protests continued to maintain a strong connection with their respective localities, as before. The main body of protesters has been drawn from the people from the particular locale in question, while the resources employed have been likewise drawn from the social and religious organizations strongly associated with its geographical proximity and social connections.” (Xiao 1994, 570–73) 46 The government’s official construction plans are unavailable at this point; this information has been confirmed by Zhong Yongfeng and other protest leaders.

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IC FM 97.5 2005 “Xinxhu xhi chun yinyue jie chuntian fuhuo” ᮄネП᯹䷇ῖ㆔ — ᯹໽‧ᕽ⌏ [Hsinchu Spring Music Festival: Spring, Resurrection]. http://www.ic975.com/ project/spring2005/artist_at.htm (accessed April 4, 2009). Jingji Ribao ㍧△᮹ฅ 1981 “Zhengfu jiang yi qianyi yishang zizin Xingjian gedi shuiku 22 zuo” ᬓᑰᇛ ҹगۘҹϞ䊛䞥㟜ᓎ৘ഄ∈ᑿ 22 ᑻ [Government Budgets More than a Hundred Billion for Constructing 22 Dams across the Land]. 18 February. http://udndata.com/library (accessed March 22, 2009). Li Cinglin 2003 “Zhuxian Emei Hu Yanzhong Yoyang Hua” ネ㏷ኼⳝ␪ಈ䞡‫۾‬仞࣪ [Eutrophication, Emei Lake of Hsinchu County in a Serious Condition]. Lianhe Bao, 21 July. Lianhe Bao 㙃ড়ฅ 1984 “Huang die cui gu gui li qi jing jiang cheng li shi mingci” 咗㵊㖴䈋⩄呫༛ ᱃ेᇛ៤⚎⅋৆ৡ䀲 [The Beauty of Yellow Butterfly Valley May Become History]. 30 April. 1993 “Jian meinong shuiku xian zuotan: shiguan renwen shengtai anquan” ᓎ㕢 ▗∈ᑿ‫ܜ‬ᑻ䂛˖џ䮰Ҏ᭛⫳ᜟᅝܼ [More Talks May Be Necessary before the Construction of the Meinong Dam: About Cultural, Ecological and Safety Issues]. 12 March. Liu Xiaoru ࡝ᇣབ 1994 “Chanye zhengce yu huanjing wenti” ⫶ὁᬓㄪ㟛⪄๗ଣ丠 [Industrial Development Policies and Environmental Issues]. In Huanjing baohu yu chanye zhengce ⪄๗ֱ䅋㟛⫶ὁᬓㄪ [Environmental Protection and Industrial Development Policies], ed. Taiwan yianjiu jijin hui [Taiwan Research Fund], 574–96. Taipei: Qianwui. Meinong People’s Association (Meinong ai xiang xiejinhui) 㕢▗ᛯ䛝न䘆᳗ n.d.a “Bu fu shehui gongping” ϡヺ⼒᳗݀ᑇ [It Is Not in Accordance with Social Justice!]. http://mpa.ngo.org.tw/why-no-dam/reason/ reason3.htm (accessed April 15, 2009). n.d.b “Fan shuiku shiyi da liyou” ড∈ᑿकϔ໻⧚⬅ [Eleven Reasons for Objecting to the Construction of the Meinong Dam]. http://mpa.ngo.org.tw/book/ enddam.htm (accessed March 23, 2009). 1997 “Weishenmo yao gai meinong shuiku” ⚎⫮咐㽕㪟㕢▗∈ᑿ [Why Do We Need the Meinong Dam?]. http://mpa.ngo.org.tw/why- no- dam/ record/971225a.html (accessed March 23, 2009). 1999a “Kejia fan shuiku xuanyian” ᅶᆊড∈ᑿᅷ㿔 [Hakka Anti-dam Declaration]. http://mpa.ngo.org.tw/why-no-dam/record/990403-2.html (accessed April 13, 2009). 1999b “Kejia ren dui meinong shuiku xuanzhan” ᅶᆊҎ৥㕢▗∈ᑿᅷ᠄ [Hakka People Declare War against the Construction of the Meinong Dam], 3 April. http://mpa.ngo.org.tw (accessed March 23, 2009).

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Zhang Zhaowei ᔉ䞫㎁ 2003 Shei zai nabian chang ziji de ge: Taiwan xiandai minge yundong shi 䂄೼䙷䙞ଅ 㞾Ꮕⱘ℠: ৄ☷⧒ҷ⇥℠䘟ࢩ৆ [Who’s There Singing His/Her Own Song?: A History of the Modern Folksong Movement in Taiwan]. Taipei: Gunshi Wenhua Zheng Qinlong 䜁ℑ啡 1994 Shui ziyuan liyong yu chanye fazhan ∈䊛⑤߽⫼㟛⫶ὁⱐሩ [Water Resources and Industrial Development]. In Huanjing baohu yu chanyei zhengce ⪄๗ֱ䅋㟛⫶ὁᬓㄪ [Environmental Protection and Industrial Development], ed. Taiwan yianjiu jijin hui [Taiwan Research Fund], 83–105. Taipei: Qianwui. Zhongguo Shibao Ё೟ᰖฅ 1998 “Fandui bin nan kaifa bai ren bei shang kangyi” ডᇡ◅फ䭟ⱐⱒҎ ࣫Ϟᡫ䅄 [A Hundred People Head North to Protest Against Binnan Project]. 15 June.

Sound Recordings Chen Yongtao 䱇∌⎬ 2003a “Shui lu” ∈䏃 [Water Way]. Shui lu ∈䏃 [Water Way]. Chunshui chubanshe. 2003b “Re huo huo de xia zhou” ➅☿☿ⱘϟᰱ [The Fiery Afternoon]. Shui lu ∈䏃 [Water Way]. Chunshui chubanshe. 2003c “Shun fong ge” ䷚乼℠ [Following the Wind]. Shui lu ∈䏃 [Water Way]. Chunshui chubanshe. 2003d “Baihe” ⱑ厈 [White Crane]. Shui lu ∈䏃 [Water Way]. Chunshui chubanshe. 2004a “Mangshen Laile” Ⳇ⼲՚њ [Here Comes the Blinding Spirit]. A-Tao de ge: likai Taiwan babai Mi 䰓⎬ⱘ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇ [Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan]. Chunshui chubanshe; originally released 2000. 2004b “Yang ge sha” ӄ㨯✲ [What to Do]. A-Tao de ge: likai Taiwan babai Mi䰓⎬ ⱘ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇ [Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan]. Chunshui chubanshe; originally released 2000. 2004c “Wu naihe” ⛵༜ԩ [Nothing Else I Can Do]. A-Tao de ge: likai Taiwan babai Mi 䰓⎬ⱘ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇ [Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan]. Chunshui chubanshe; originally released 2000. 2004d “Fa meng” ⱐ໶ [Dreaming]. A-Tao de ge: likai Taiwan babai Mi 䰓⎬ⱘ℠: 䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇ [Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan]. Chunshui chubanshe; originally released 2000. 2004e “Ri chu buluo” ᮹ߎ䚼㨑 [The Sunrise Tribe]. A-Tao de ge: likai Taiwan babai Mi 䰓⎬ⱘ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇ [Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan]. Chunshui chubanshe; originally released 2000.

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122 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 2004f “Chun shui” ᯹∈ [Spring Rain]. A-Tao de ge: likai Taiwan babai Mi 䰓⎬ⱘ ℠˖䲶䭟ৄ☷ܿⱒ㉇ [Songs of A-Tao: Eight Hundred Meters Away from Taiwan]. Chunshui chubanshe; originally released 2000. Lin Shengxiang ᵫ⫳⼹ 1998a “Meinong shan xia” 㕢▗ቅϟ [At the Foot of Meinong Mountain]. Guan zi yinyue keng: Guo zhuang xian liao 㾔ᄤ䷇ῖഥ䘢ᑘᇟ㘞 [Sons of Bodhisattva Guanyin’s Music Pit: Leisure Talk With Villagers]. 1998b “Fan shuike zhi ge” ড∈ᑿП℠ [The Song of the Anti-Dam Movement]. Guan zi yinyue keng: Guo zhuang xian liao 㾔ᄤ䷇ῖഥ䘢ᑘᇟ㘞 [Sons of Bodhisattva Guanyin’s Music Pit: Leisure Talk With Villagers]. 1999a Youdang Meilidao 䘞㬽㕢呫ዊ [Roaming in Formosa]. 㾔ᄤ䷇ῖഥ [Sons of Bodhisattva Guanyin’s Music Pit]. 1999b “Wo deng jiulai chang shange” ៥ㄝህ՚ଅቅ℠ [Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs]. Wuo deng jiulai chang shange ៥ㄝህ՚ଅቅ℠ [Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs]. Tree Music & Art, TMCD 310. 1999c “Shange changlai jie xin fan” ቅ℠ଅ՚㾷ᖗ✽ [Sing the Mountain Songs to Relieve the Upset Heart]. Wuo deng jiulai chang shange ៥ㄝህ՚ଅቅ℠ [Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs]. Tree Music & Art, TMCD 310. 1999d “Yie xing ba shi” ໰㸠Ꮘ຿ [The Night Buses]. Wuo deng jiulai chang shange ៥ㄝህ՚ଅቅ℠ [Let Us Sing the Mountain Songs]. Tree Music & Art, TMCD 310. 2001 “A-cheng xia nan yang” 䰓៤ϟफ⋟ [A-cheng Goes to Southeast Asia]. Juhua Yiexingjun 㦞㢅໰㸠䒡 [The Night March of the Chrysanthemums]. Tree Music & Art, LEB-002. 2006a “Zhongshu” 。‍ [Planting a Tree]. Zhongshu 。‍ [Planting a Tree]. Tree Music & Art, TMCD 339. 2006b “Youji” ᳝″ [Organic]. Zhongshu 。‍ [Planting a Tree]. Tree Music & Art, TMCD 339.

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Book Reviews

Musicians from a Different Shore: Asians and Asian Americans in Classical Music. Mari Yoshihara. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2007. xiv, 269 pp., photographs, notes, selected bibliography, index. ISBN 978-1592133321 (Cloth), $64.50; ISBN 978-1592133338 (Paper), $22.95. Born in New York, raised in Tokyo and California, and studying piano intensively from the age of three until she changed course to major in American Studies (which she now teaches at the University of Hawai‘i), Mari Yoshihara is perfectly situated to turn a critical and highly informed eye on the world of the East Asian performers of Western classical music who fill the music schools and orchestras of North America and Europe. As she notes in the Preface (xii): When I first began this project . . . I thought I would rely on the familiar academic concepts and categories, such as class, race, gender, imperialism, and hegemony, to analyze Asians’ investment in classical music.

However, the direction and focus of the project soon evolved: As I watched Asian musicians dedicate themselves to music despite constant disappointments, frustrations, and self-questioning, as they pursued their artistic goals, and as I heard the passion with which they talked about their relationship to music and their audience, I had to question the relevance of those academic categories to what the musicians really do . . . the profound and real connections that music—and musicians—create among people of different parts of the world seemed irreducible to categories like race, nation, and imperialism. (xii)

The end result is a balanced study that is simultaneously empathetic and critical, one that should be welcomed not only by specialists in Asian music, but also to a wide variety of scholars and students in ethnomusicology, Asian and Asian American studies, anthropology, and cultural studies. Chapter 1 (“Early Lessons in Globalization”) traces the history of Western music in East Asia, from Mateo Ricci and Commodore Perry through modernday music education, leading to what Yoshihara calls the “reverse flow” from Asia to the West, represented by the Suzuki Method, Yamaha pianos, and the ascendance of Asian performers to the world stage. The historical background provides a context for understanding the increasing numbers of Asian students © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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who populate schools of music such as Juilliard, Manhattan, and Mannes; the remaining chapters are devoted to an ethnography based primarily on interviews conducted in New York City (at the three schools just mentioned, along with NYU). Each of the four ethnographic chapters focuses on a single theme (“roots and routes,” gender, class, and individuality), but they are nicely interconnected both in the many extended passages devoted to the voices of performers and in Yoshihara’s analysis. While the vast majority of the performers encountered here are of East Asian descent, their backgrounds and nationalities are quite varied: The musicians discussed in this book include Asian Americans who were born and raised in the United States; Asian-born musicians who came to the United States to advance their careers; children of Asian parents whose careers and lives cross national boundaries; Asian musicians who have lived in parts of the world other than Asia and the United States, such as Oceania, Europe, or Latin America, and thus have multiple cultural identities; and those of mixed, part-Asian ethnic heritage. (7–8)

In selecting the performers whose voices and ideas appear in the book, Yoshihara has achieved a good balance among musicians of Japanese, Korean, and Chinese ancestry, but given her Japanese cultural and linguistic background, it is inevitable that the contextual and historical commentary related to Japan is sometimes richer and more detailed than similar passages on the other regions. As she correctly explains, the vast majority of “Asian” performers of Western classical music in the United States are of Japanese, Chinese, or Korean ancestry. Singaporean pianist Margaret Leng Tan provides one of the few glimpses of a more expansive notion of “Asia,” suggesting that her familiarity with gamelan music has been extremely advantageous in her interpretation of John Cage’s works for prepared piano (166–70). To those who have interacted extensively with Asian classmates, students, and colleagues specializing in Western music (as I have in Shanghai and Hong Kong), the lack of interest in indigenous Asian music expressed by many of Yoshihara’s informants is hardly surprising nor is the disdain expressed by a Taiwanese violinist: “There must be a reason why Western classical music is played by the whole world but not Chinese music, right? It’s just a lot more beautiful and it’s got a lot more culture.” She thus attributes the global spread of Western music and the relative isolation of Asian music not to differences in the systems of music production and dissemination or to political, economic, or social structures but to the quality of the music itself. (194)

As Yoshihara notes, because of the expectations for innovation, Asian composers living in the West have a much greater incentive to explore (or even exploit)

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“ethnic” elements in the musical materials and programmatic aspects of their work. Performers’ engagement with this phenomenon is much more limited, most commonly in the form of the ubiquitous “folk songs” (Yoshihara mentions “Arirang,” “Sakura,” and “Mo Li Hua,” forming a perfect trio of “usual suspects”), and even this limited involvement is often criticized: Both male and female musicians also often spoke contemptuously of “successful” classical musicians who, according to them, have gained popularity either by selling their ethnicity (by appearing in ethnic garb or playing ethnic music, for example), by telling stories of their difficult upbringing . . . [or] by flaunting their sexuality . . . (162)

However, several examples of performers who are actively engaged with Asian music are noted: conductor Kent Nagano explains his involvement with the collaborative project Manzanar: An American Story (a multi-media production on the Japanese internment in World War II; 93–94), pianist Jennifer Shyu is planning research on Taiwanese indigenous music (84); and the University of Hawai‘i faculty members (including ethnomusicologist and flautist Fred Lau) in Trio Xia feature an “innovative repertoire of both Chinese and Western music” (83). One of the most interesting paradoxes in the perspectives of the performers appears in their contrasting (and perhaps contradictory) attitudes toward European and American classical music. Over and over again, they refute the idea that a European cultural background is essential for achieving stylistic authenticity in the performance of Chopin or Mahler, yet many assert an authority in the performance of Copland or Gershwin precisely because of their familiarity with American cultural sensibilities. This leads to one of the book’s most revelatory (and provocative) passages: The assertiveness with which these musicians declared their ability to distinguish between the “right” and “wrong” ways of playing American music is striking, especially in contrast to the nuanced way in which the same musicians responded to the question of authenticity in playing European music . . . Notably, these musicians, whose interviews as a whole conveyed their multifaceted, fluid sense of identity as both Asian and American, almost unquestioningly claimed an American identity when they were discussing their understanding of American music . . . Especially for Asian Americans whose place in American society has historically been challenged on legal, economic, and social terrains, such an assertion of cultural belonging performs a powerful work of claiming citizenship in America. (196–97)

These cultural negotiations are further complicated by the multicultural nature of “American” music itself: “Many other Asian musicians, even those who were raised mostly in Asia, made similar remarks, even as they qualified them by saying that, like most classically trained musicians, they were far from versed in jazz and other forms of American music” (196).

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I have two minor criticisms of this otherwise exemplary study. The first is technical; the placement of all citations in endnotes (rather than in author-date citations within the text) requires a great deal of thumbing back and forth, since the reader cannot tell whether an endnote contains a simple citation or an important elaboration of the text. This is especially unfortunate in that the endnotes include many highly informative discussions of previous scholarship related to the book’s subject matter. The author has pulled together a surprising number of sources, many not well known (at least to me), related to the ethnomusicological and/or culturally aware studies of Western classical music, but these are scattered throughout the endnotes. It would have been useful to have a concise literature review in one place; giving an overview of this previous research would have done many readers a great service. My second criticism has to do with interpretation. Yoshihara seems to have intentionally avoided essentialization of musicians according to national origin. However, given the very different political, economic, social, and aesthetic histories of Western music in Japan, China, and Korea presented in the opening chapter—and that often reappear in the autobiographical passages—it would have been interesting to hear at least some preliminary observations on the legacy of these differences as manifested in the lives, attitudes, and musical choices of performers from these three countries—and the ways in which these, in turn, differ from their US-born counterparts. Although the author makes no claims to being an ethnomusicologist, this book is nevertheless one of the best ethnographies of a music culture that has appeared in recent years. Its intelligence, humanity, incisiveness, wit, and clarity make it a model study that all aspiring ethnomusicologists would do well to imitate. J. Lawrence Witzleben

University of Maryland, College Park

Music in Egypt: Experiencing Music, Expressing Culture. Scott L. Marcus. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006. xxiv ⫹ 200 pp., 43 illustrations, 2 maps, music, glossary of Arabic terms, bibliography ⫹ 1 CD (80 min.). Global Music Series. ISBN 978-0-19-514644-8 (Hardcover), 978-0-19-514645-5 (Paperback). This book is an accessible introduction to the Egyptian musical soundscape which features seven performance traditions in Egypt—the call to prayer (adhan), the Upper Egyptian folk mizmar ensembles, Sufi religious music (madh), the art music of the late-nineteenth–early-twentieth centuries (takht), the art music of the mid-twentieth century (Umm Kulthum and the long song), wedding procession

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I have two minor criticisms of this otherwise exemplary study. The first is technical; the placement of all citations in endnotes (rather than in author-date citations within the text) requires a great deal of thumbing back and forth, since the reader cannot tell whether an endnote contains a simple citation or an important elaboration of the text. This is especially unfortunate in that the endnotes include many highly informative discussions of previous scholarship related to the book’s subject matter. The author has pulled together a surprising number of sources, many not well known (at least to me), related to the ethnomusicological and/or culturally aware studies of Western classical music, but these are scattered throughout the endnotes. It would have been useful to have a concise literature review in one place; giving an overview of this previous research would have done many readers a great service. My second criticism has to do with interpretation. Yoshihara seems to have intentionally avoided essentialization of musicians according to national origin. However, given the very different political, economic, social, and aesthetic histories of Western music in Japan, China, and Korea presented in the opening chapter—and that often reappear in the autobiographical passages—it would have been interesting to hear at least some preliminary observations on the legacy of these differences as manifested in the lives, attitudes, and musical choices of performers from these three countries—and the ways in which these, in turn, differ from their US-born counterparts. Although the author makes no claims to being an ethnomusicologist, this book is nevertheless one of the best ethnographies of a music culture that has appeared in recent years. Its intelligence, humanity, incisiveness, wit, and clarity make it a model study that all aspiring ethnomusicologists would do well to imitate. J. Lawrence Witzleben

University of Maryland, College Park

Music in Egypt: Experiencing Music, Expressing Culture. Scott L. Marcus. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006. xxiv ⫹ 200 pp., 43 illustrations, 2 maps, music, glossary of Arabic terms, bibliography ⫹ 1 CD (80 min.). Global Music Series. ISBN 978-0-19-514644-8 (Hardcover), 978-0-19-514645-5 (Paperback). This book is an accessible introduction to the Egyptian musical soundscape which features seven performance traditions in Egypt—the call to prayer (adhan), the Upper Egyptian folk mizmar ensembles, Sufi religious music (madh), the art music of the late-nineteenth–early-twentieth centuries (takht), the art music of the mid-twentieth century (Umm Kulthum and the long song), wedding procession

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music of the Delta (zaffa), and present-day pop music traditions (Hakim and sha’bi and shabab). Although the study offers few fresh insights, the material is ably covered through detailed descriptions of performance contexts, audiences, economic factors and the stories and quotes of individual performers. Following the paradigm of the Oxford Global Music Series, three themes— the pervasive religious referencing in Egypt, the melodic and rhythmic systems, and perceptions of on-going change as normative—posit an underlying commonality to these traditions. Three other chapters focus on the first two themes: Music and Islam presents the age-old and on-going debate on the appropriateness of music in Islam, while two additional chapters introduce the reader to the melodic principles of (eastern Arabic) modes (maqamat) and the rhythmic principles (iqa’a’t). While Marcus explains that his sampling is not comprehensive, rather seeks to “highlight the diverse segments of a complex and multifaceted society” (xvi), a list of traditions not covered, such as the folk ballads (mawwawil), the pentatonic music of the Canal Zone and of the Nubians (exceptions to the maqam system), Qur’anic recitation, the epic singers, and aghani habta (so-called low class/“vulgar songs”), would serve to further inform the reader of the remarkable range of this diversity. A number of features make this text useful to an undergraduate course on Arabic music: while the theoretical melodic system of Arabic music is amply explained elsewhere in the literature and in online lessons, Marcus’s choice of a single melodic mode, maqam Rast, for all musical examples, gives body and breath to material otherwise not easily digestible. The listening examples provide in-depth insight into the performative range and parameters of the melodic mode as do the blow-by-blow commentaries on what the listener is hearing. Learning is enhanced with a number of exercises that actively engage the student in singing along or reciting drum beats. The audio examples of each tradition advance the reader’s understanding of both the theory and practice of maqam Rast and of the rhythmic modes. Additionally, transcriptions using modified Western staff notation are available at http://www.music.ucsb.edu/faculty/marcus. I would note that while it is true that the maqam system is common to music in the larger eastern Arab World, in terms of basic principles, it has a wider range extending to Turkey and Iran. Moreover, the modes of Iraq and Syria diverge from the Turkish influence that has helped to shape Egyptian maqam practice. What could easily be considered a fourth underlying theme is the prestige of language and poetry in Egypt and in the Arab World. Marcus gives it its due by directing the student to the importance of the lyrics by placing the transliterated Arabic and translated English lyrics side by side. Apart from the obvious benefits of providing the student with insight into the culture through the content and form of a particular song performance, the translation provides insight into how the performer uses repetition to “play” with the textual and musical forms. The

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author’s detailed commentary of each CD track further guides the listener to an understanding of the melodic and rhythmic structure, as well as the variations, improvisations, and audience reactions. I have some issues with the choice of themes and how they are integrated into the material. It is axiomatic that culture is dynamic, always changing. Changes to instruments, musical repertoire, and forms and to audience behavior and contexts are a part of natural processes. The theme of constant musical change and acceptance, even expectation of change, could be rephrased as a question: how is Egypt’s musical heritage positioned and how does it affect change? Egypt is a class-bound society and a discussion of the class aspects of music in Egypt could have explained some of the “why” of the changes documented. Folk music is in danger because of its low status among educators and cultural policymakers. While the government sponsors a national dance troupe and several traditional music groups, the “art” is often compromised in favor of the image to be marketed. Other groups depend on foreign institutions committed to preserving Egypt’s rich heritage and the two best websites that promote and feature folk music: http://www.egyptmusic.org and http://www.elmastaba .org are only in English. The Upper Egyptian wedding and festival music flourishes because it is embedded in rituals that affirm the Egyptian identity, and traditional musicians come into their own every year during Ramadan when the collective Egyptian psyche is geared up to celebrate its heritage. Economics make it the exception, not the rule, that sons take up their fathers’ professions. A superficial look at the soundtracks of television commercials shows that folk music sells mobile phones to the peasants, while symphonic sounds sell chic, luxury items and pop music targets to the young and hip. Keyboards, special effects like reverb, loudspeakers, in short, the glitz associated with progress and modernization (and with the pop super stars) offer seductive means to counter the image of traditional musicians as backward, illiterate bumpkins, and this is changing the tastes of listeners and audiences. Tourism offers employment, but, as is happening with the blues (conversation with Elijah Wald) and with Qur’anic recitation, when audiences lack informed expectations, the music moves from art to product or symbol. In some instances, the integration of themes seems to force the cultural contextualizing as in the statement that “weddings are a time of religious affirmation as evidenced by songs grounded in Muslim verbal expressions” (149–50; italics mine). Religious expressions abound in spoken Arabic, but many of them (wi-n-nabi or “please!” or “I beg you”-literally, “by the Prophet” and w-allahi, used to give emphasis) carry the same religious weight as “God! That’s beautiful!” or “For the love of God, tell me!” The ubiquitous phrase in sha’ allah (God willing) is an automatic tag for any intention or future event and is used by Muslims and Christians alike. Likewise, I would say that Upper Egyptians sing in their

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dialect, not to “claim the whole as an expression of [Upper Egyptian] culture,” but because that is their language. The chapter on Music and Islam is a summary of the on-going debate about the appropriateness of music to Islam. In the absence of authoritative directives, the issue cannot be finally resolved; as in past centuries and contexts, it is a matter of personal opinion and, occasionally, of government legislation. The comments of musicians and non-musicians in this chapter reflect the presence of this issue in the general consciousness. Predictably, it is the musicians and music educators who refute the inadmissibility of music in an Islamic community, and I would venture to say that, for most of them, it is not an issue. That Egyptian society manifests increasing adherence to the more conservative religious views of the spectrum is indisputable. However, the phenomenon of professional entertainers leaving the field because of religious scruples has abated somewhat and is more complex than the question of whether music and dance are appropriate or not. Just as salient is the Islamic perception that women should not publicly appear before strangers, as well as the influence of Amr Khaled, a preacher who has reached out and touched many young people across class and economic boundaries. Finally, the perception or suspicion that Saudi funding of media plays a role is widespread, if not confirmed. In spite of these lacunae, the book should be of interest to both students and general readers of Islamic culture. It is a welcome addition to the literature of the region, and gives immediacy and detail that counter media stereotypes of Arabs. Kristina Nelson

Cairo, Egypt

Songs for the Spirits: Music and Mediums in Modern Vietnam. Barley Norton. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009. xvi ⫹ 256 pp., photos, figures, tables, appendix, notes, bibliography, indices, DVD. ISBN 978-0-25203399-5 (Hardcover). Barley Norton’s study of lên đồng mediumship rituals in northern Vietnam expertly interrogates the interaction between the music performed for the ritual called chầu văn, embodiment, and politics in contemporary Vietnam. Norton draws from his wealth of experience conducting fieldwork research to illustrate how musicians and mediums associated with the Four Palace Religion or Mother Religion creatively enable communication with a pantheon of spirits during the ritual of lên đồng. He balances descriptions of music from festival, temple, conservatory, and theatrical performances, depictions of the numerous subjectivities of those musicians, mediums, and officials with whom he conducted his

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dialect, not to “claim the whole as an expression of [Upper Egyptian] culture,” but because that is their language. The chapter on Music and Islam is a summary of the on-going debate about the appropriateness of music to Islam. In the absence of authoritative directives, the issue cannot be finally resolved; as in past centuries and contexts, it is a matter of personal opinion and, occasionally, of government legislation. The comments of musicians and non-musicians in this chapter reflect the presence of this issue in the general consciousness. Predictably, it is the musicians and music educators who refute the inadmissibility of music in an Islamic community, and I would venture to say that, for most of them, it is not an issue. That Egyptian society manifests increasing adherence to the more conservative religious views of the spectrum is indisputable. However, the phenomenon of professional entertainers leaving the field because of religious scruples has abated somewhat and is more complex than the question of whether music and dance are appropriate or not. Just as salient is the Islamic perception that women should not publicly appear before strangers, as well as the influence of Amr Khaled, a preacher who has reached out and touched many young people across class and economic boundaries. Finally, the perception or suspicion that Saudi funding of media plays a role is widespread, if not confirmed. In spite of these lacunae, the book should be of interest to both students and general readers of Islamic culture. It is a welcome addition to the literature of the region, and gives immediacy and detail that counter media stereotypes of Arabs. Kristina Nelson

Cairo, Egypt

Songs for the Spirits: Music and Mediums in Modern Vietnam. Barley Norton. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009. xvi ⫹ 256 pp., photos, figures, tables, appendix, notes, bibliography, indices, DVD. ISBN 978-0-25203399-5 (Hardcover). Barley Norton’s study of lên đồng mediumship rituals in northern Vietnam expertly interrogates the interaction between the music performed for the ritual called chầu văn, embodiment, and politics in contemporary Vietnam. Norton draws from his wealth of experience conducting fieldwork research to illustrate how musicians and mediums associated with the Four Palace Religion or Mother Religion creatively enable communication with a pantheon of spirits during the ritual of lên đồng. He balances descriptions of music from festival, temple, conservatory, and theatrical performances, depictions of the numerous subjectivities of those musicians, mediums, and officials with whom he conducted his

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130 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 research, and thought-provoking theoretical asides in order to highlight the effect of modernity upon lên đồng. He supplements his articulate analyses with an impressive DVD featuring video clips of lên đồng rituals, theatrical productions developed from ritual contexts, and twenty-eight musical examples. The monograph consists of three sections. The Introduction and first two chapters comprise the first section; the third, fourth and fifth chapters comprise the second section; and the remaining chapters, including the Epilogue, comprise the final section. In the Introduction, Norton describes a typical lên đồng in the contemporary period and remarks on how his role as both observer and observed influence the study. The first chapter traces the history of lên đồng and chầu văn from the colonial period to the present. Many, including French authorities, revolutionary writers living under colonial rule, and Communist officials viewed lên đồng as a practice of “fickle” or “temperamental” (đồng bóng) individuals who wasted money on costumes and offerings for the spirits (26). The second chapter reveals how individuals experience lên đồng and outlines the main theoretical perspectives of the study. Norton cites extensively from Gilbert Rouget’s Music and Trance: A Theory of the Relations between Music and Possession and even finds terms in the Vietnamese language that express the distinction made by Rouget between “possession” and “obsession”—namely tỉnh táo and mê, respectively. Norton therefore establishes his study as one of music and ritual; however, he also employs Thomas J. Csordas’s concept of “cultural phenomenology” to foreground the medium’s “bodily engagement with the spirits” (56). The application of this concept is crucial, Norton suggests, as mediums “adopt culturally constituted modes of somatic expression for the presence of embodied spirits and for the interactions with ritual participants” (57). The music produced in ritual settings, which he describes in the next section, enables this corporeal interaction. The second section investigates Norton’s theorization of the “songscape” in lên đồng, or the demarcated space and time organized by chầu văn for a particular spirit. The interaction between the musicians, as well as between the musicians and the mediums, produces the “songscape,” actualizes the spirit, and enables communication between the spirit and ritual participants. The third chapter introduces the “songscape” as a theoretical term and describes the defining musical characteristics of chầu văn. In a short but instructive passage, Norton invites the reader to read comparisons of two rituals and then view video extracts of these rituals on the accompanying DVD. This allows readers to not only hear chầu văn and view a medium’s “embodied possession” in context but also understand how the ritual actors interact with one another. In the fourth chapter, Norton describes how musicians establish the “songscape.” They purposely make use of sounds to specify the gender and ethnicity of the spirit, and which of the four palaces the spirit inhabits. For example, musicians evoke

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sounds of instruments associated with ethnic groups living in Vietnam in order to produce an aural representation of ethnic cohesion or a “pan-ethnic minority identity” subsumed under nationalist rhetoric (123). In other words, the sonic evocation of ethnic minority spirits in the “songscape” imagines “national unity through diversity” (126). In the fifth chapter, Norton analyzes musical structures of select chầu văn pieces to show how musicians follow a “way” (lối) or use a “backbone” to improvise songs. The “backbone” both underlies and metaphorically depicts the same “direction or movement” in different realizations of the same song (134). If the second section provides the rationale for the title Songs for the Spirits, the final section provides the subtitle, Music and Mediums in Modern Vietnam. In the final three chapters, Norton seeks to understand the impact of modernity upon lên đồng in contemporary Vietnam. In the sixth chapter, he methodically analyzes the embodiment of gender in and the constructions of sexual orientation that have emerged from lên đồng performances. Constructions of gender are particularly important since both male and female spirits possess mediums; therefore, the medium must be able to embody the appropriate gestures, manners of dress, and ways of speaking associated with both genders. While mediums do not destabilize constructions of gender in performance, Norton argues that they are able to explore “culturally sanctioned” gender identities, and sometimes, these explorations influence the performance of a medium’s identity in everyday life (175). Due to their “spiritual agency” and their role as intermediaries between the spiritual and mundane realms, female mediums oftentimes challenge patriarchal structures in everyday life (178); however, women are not afforded opportunities to explore alternative sexualities. Only male mediums, Norton argues, can express homosexuality in public, and importantly, they have an increased willingness to do so when they “identify…with Western homosexual identities defined by sexual practice” (186). The “effeminacy” expressed by male mediums possessed by female spirits in lên đồng bleeds into some men’s everyday expressions of their “modern gay identities” (187). In the seventh chapter, Norton analyses the impact of increased interaction with global capital flows. The increased prosperity of many ritual participants has led to more extravagant ceremonies, and some worry that this expression of wealth diminishes the efficacy of lên đồng. Norton finds however that lên đồng has actually increased in popularity as individuals develop concerns over the speed of economic and social change in contemporary Vietnam. This chapter also describes the emergence of theatrical (or non-sacred) performances imitating lên đồng, and in particular, the popularity of these performances domestically and abroad. In the Epilogue, Norton reinforces a major point of the monograph—specifically, that in the face of increased attention to modern beliefs, lên đồng has proved versatile. “Spirits have retained their relevance in

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modern Vietnam because of their capacity to speak to diverse issues and concerns” (223). In general, Norton presents a skillfully researched analysis of lên đồng and chầu văn, and his discussion of sexuality and gender constructions in the sixth chapter is particularly confident; however, three elements of the monograph prompt critique. The first involves the discussion of the “way,” the second involves the invocation and subsequent suspicion of Judith Becker’s discussion of possession and trance, and the last involves the extensive use of theory throughout the monograph. In the fifth chapter, Norton describes how one of his instructors used metaphor to speak about how musicians improvise melodies. This “creative articulation” (136) occurred when “Hung was prompted to ‘find the way’ . . . to develop a more effective method of learning and teaching music orally” (145). I am greatly intrigued by this analysis of metaphor; however, it seems incomplete. Unlike other studies of implied melodies, such as Marc Perlman’s Unplayed Melodies: Javanese Gamelan and the Genesis of Music Theory, the development of the “way” theory, Hung claims, did not emerge from his knowledge of Western music theory or pedagogical methods based upon memorization of notated melodies, such as those taught at the Hanoi Conservatory; instead; it developed organically from studying music orally. Norton seems unsure whether to accept Hung’s explanation for the development of the “way” theory, and rather than refuting the claim or attempting to encompass it into a new theory, he states rather generally that “processes of modernization” have encouraged theorizing by Vietnamese musicians. In the context of Vietnam’s increased engagement with modernity, I wonder if Norton has observed the articulation of an alternative and engaged modernity, or a modernity not defined as hegemonic structure imposed by the West. In the second and fourth chapters, Norton considers Judith Becker’s work on trance in Deep Listeners, Music, Emotion, and Trancing but appears reluctant to apply any claim relating to the impact of music upon neurological processes. Since the mediums with whom he worked claimed that they were emotionally stimulated during lên đồng, he concedes, “it is possible that chau van induces aware possession in part through music’s power to arouse emotions” (112). Given that he is familiar with Becker’s work, I am surprised that although he thoroughly interrogates the ways musicians perform and the ways mediums and musicians interact, he does not analyze the way musicians, mediums, and disciples of lên đồng listen. Becker notes that “[w]e listen in a particular way without thinking about it, and without realizing that it even is a particular way of listening” (Becker 2004, 71; emphasis in original). All participants have a “habitus of listening”—a concept defined by Becker and with which Norton does not engage—and I surmise that a rigorous examination of this concept, which “underlines the interrelatedness of the perception of musical emotion

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and learned interactions with our surroundings” (ibid.) would produce a more nuanced theorization of lên đồng possession and “songscape” production. Finally, it sometimes seems that the monograph does not have a clear theoretical goal, which I believe is partly due to the abundance of provocative theoretical asides. Norton invokes many theoretical perspectives that tend to bind certain chapters as discrete units thereby obscuring the manuscript’s telos. I do not believe these theoretical asides should be discarded, as they often highlight subtleties that the reader may not otherwise recognize; however, the expansion of certain theoretical discussions, particularly those of greater complexity, and the frequent reference to these theories throughout the text would have given the monograph a more focused direction. For example, Norton invokes cultural phenomenology in the second chapter presumably to better understand “culture and experience insofar as these can be understood from the standpoint of bodily being-in-the-world” (Csordas 1999: 143); however without extended engagement with the concept at the beginning of the text and then consistent references to it throughout the text, one does not recognize the complex ways cultural phenomenology relates to music production. Although I have articulated some minor critiques of the monograph, Barley Norton has paved new and exciting ground for scholars of contemporary Vietnam, especially for those ethnomusicologists and anthropologists who bemoan the lack of engaging studies. Through an adept negotiation of Vietnamese language sources, the problems associated with conducting research in Vietnam, and the numerous voices of those musicians, mediums, and scholars with whom he consulted, he has produced a compelling study, and I look forward to further studies that are now possible given the new theoretical doors that Norton has opened for the study of Vietnamese music. Alexander M. Cannon

University of Michigan

References Becker, Judith 2004 Deep Listeners: Music, Emotion, and Trancing. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Csordas, Thomas J. 1999 “Embodiment and Cultural Phenomenology.” In Perspective on Embodiment: The Intersections of Nature and Culture, ed. Gail Weiss and Honi Fern Haber. New York and London: Routledge. Perlman, Marc 2004 Unplayed Melodies: Javanese Gamelan and the Genesis of Music Theory. Berkeley: University of California Press. Rouget, Gilbert 1985 Music and Trance: A Theory of the Relations between Music and Possession. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.

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134 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 Popular Music of Vietnam: The Politics of Remembering, the Economics of Forgetting. Dale A. Olsen. New York and London: Routledge, 2008. xviii ⫹ 286 pp., photos, illustrations, figures, notes, glossary, bibliography, indices. ISBN 978-0-415-98886-5 (Hardcover). Current Vietnamese popular music has hitherto received little attention from scholars and this publication represents the first book-length study on the subject. Using the term popular music “in a general sense to incorporate all of the music genres loved by Vietnam’s youth between 1990 and 2005” (3), Olsen argues that through memory politics, events such as the American/Vietnam War and the subsequent unification of Vietnam in 1975, along with đổi mới, the “renovation period” from 1986 when the Vietnamese government introduced a market economy system, and President Clinton’s lifting of the trade embargo in 1994, “all subconsciously influence, affect, and drive the musical expressions and preferences of Vietnam’s young people and the Vietnamese music industry” (2). This creates a dichotomy between the politics of remembering, or, conscious references to and remembrance of Vietnam’s turbulent past, and the economics of forgetting, which refers to the use of music as an agent to look toward a brighter and more prosperous future, that is returned to throughout as evidence supporting his argument. The book is organized into ten chapters. The first, a “Prelude,” introduces the research. Chapter 2 provides necessary historical, cultural, and political background to the music. Chapter 3, “Vietnamese Pop Music Stars and the Bumpy Road to Stardom,” focuses on the main female and male pop stars of the period with brief biographical sketches of each. Similarly, Chapter 4 provides an outline of the era’s most famous rock, pop-rock, and pop music bands. Songwriters and their attempts at enhancing awareness and understanding of issues such as drug use, the handicapped, and HIV/AIDS are the subjects of Chapter 5. In Chapter 6, performance venues for small-scale concerts are discussed. Chapter 7, “Disseminating Popular Music: Pop and Rock Music Concerts, Festivals, and Shows,” examines larger performance events. This is followed, in Chapter 8, by a discussion of the dissemination of audio and visual recordings, including issues of copyright and piracy. Karaoke establishments are dealt with in Chapter 9. Finally, Chapter 10 summarizes and concludes with some considerations for the future of popular music in Vietnam. There are no accompanying recordings due to copyright restrictions but, although not referred to in the book, readers can legally access recordings by most of the musicians and composers discussed on websites such as MySpace and YouTube. Throughout the work, Olsen includes a number of insightful excerpts from his and his students’ field notes that serve as cultural translations for a foreign

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readership. The following illustrative example, written by Olsen, is from a concert at the Youth Culture House in Ho Chi Minh City: Most of the audience seems to be made up of teenagers, although there are some people in their 20s. I’m certainly the only foreigner here. . . . Two hosts (a young man and a young woman) have appeared and the concert is beginning with a dance/ singing group of twelve young people in blue and white clothes. The music track is prerecorded and the singers are lip-synching. Next two girls are singing, and it’s really loud—thank goodness I have some tissue paper to wad up and stick in my ears. Now a boy in a black suit dances with a school girl, accompanied by boy dancers in white pants and shirts with red ties—this is the cuteness factor, but for boys! The audience hardly claps at all. (178)

In addition to these field notes, other sources include: interviews with some of the musicians in question, conducted either in English or in Vietnamese with a translator; excerpts from the Việt Nam News (a national government-run daily newspaper); analysis of audio and video recordings; and analysis of Vietnamese song texts translated into English. In Chapter 1 Olsen proposes a theoretical framework entitled the “Popular Music Continuum (and Arc of Culturation)” (8). This is formed by combining two interrelated ideas: culturation, or, the process of continually recreating one’s own culture (see Olsen 2000); and, “Vietnamization,” defined as “the process of bringing local musical colors into an otherwise Western-influenced palette” (8). The continuum runs from traditional to contemporary and is used throughout to categorize popular musicians and composers. When applied to the singer Duy Mạnh, for example, Olsen writes the following: “Because of the sentimental love themes woven throughout the majority of his songs and music videos, Duy Mạnh’s approach to pop music is near the contemporary end of the Popular Music Continuum, and because of his occasional use of Chinese musical and visual characteristics, his style reveals culturation” (68). This framework provides much needed cohesion to the study and researchers might also find it useful for categorization and comparison in other musicscapes. One of the principal characteristics of current Vietnamese popular music is its mimetic appropriation of other popular musics. When addressing this issue Olsen uses the terms Americanization and Globalization to contrast with Vietnamization. There are shades of ethnocentrism here as his use of the term Americanization tends to localize and simplify what is a much more diverse musical palette. As an Irish resident of Hanoi, for example, I am acutely aware of the ubiquitous presence of recordings by Irish popular musicians such as Boyzone, Westlife, and the Corrs. Another imported cultural trend of note is Latin dance and its accompanying music, which has recently become very popular throughout the country. Furthermore, nearly a century of French1 and a millennium of

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Chinese presence in the country are underemphasized by using the term Americanization. Olsen’s research is based on three summers spent directing a studyabroad program for American university students in 2002, 2004, and 2005. This straddling of two worlds—a temporarily transplanted American college campus and everyday life in Ho Chi Minh City—combined with the memories of a highly educated American who lived during the American/Vietnam War overtly influence the writing and distract from the main subject of the book. A further problem for me with this book is its lack of direct testimony from the young Vietnamese consumers of popular music. Compounding this further is Olsen’s reliance—due, as he says, to his lack of proficiency in the Vietnamese language (10)—on excerpts from the Việt Nam News. Given his emphasis on censorship, it seems remarkable that he would choose one of the most doctored newspapers in Vietnam as a principal source. Also, not a single Vietnamese language text is cited throughout the work. This results in a (mis)representation of the perspectives of the millions of members of Vietnam’s popular music audience who are otherwise mute. The orthography is also negatively affected by Olsen’s lack of language skills. Although, in an admirable move, diacritic markings are included on all relevant Vietnamese language terms, there are countless misspellings. Probably the most unfortunate example occurs when the incorrect diacritics for the phrase áo dài (“long dress” or “school uniform”) form the phrase áo dái (“penis shirt”) (117). Despite these shortcomings, it is the factual aspects of Popular Music of Vietnam, to which much of the writing is devoted, that are its greatest asset. The author’s undoubted experience in ethnomusicological research and writing are evident throughout this impeccably organized piece, making it particularly useful as a reference work. It might also serve as an “area” text for a class on popular music in Asia. Olsen’s synthesis of previously scattered details on the subject should make this book a valuable historical document for future generations in an area ripe for further research. Lonán Ó Briain

University of Sheffield

Notes 1

In an earlier volume of this journal, for example, Jason Gibbs wrote about early French influences on popular music in Vietnam (2003/04, 57–83) but Olsen makes no reference to this article.

References Gibbs, Jason 2003/04 “The West’s Songs, Our Songs: The Introduction and Adaptation of Western Popular Song in Vietnam before 1940.” Asian Music 35(1):57–83.

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Olsen, Dale A. 2000 “Globalization, Culturation, and Transculturation in American Music: From Cultural Pop to Transcultural Art.” In Reflections on American Music: The Twentieth Century and the New Millenium, eds. James R. Heintze and Michael Saffle, 265–90. New York: Pendragon Press.

Music in Central Java: Experiencing Music, Expressing Culture. Benjamin Brinner. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. xix ⫹ 172 pp., illustrations, map, music, bibliography ⫹ 1 CD. Global Music Series. ISBN: 9780-1951-4736-0 (Hardcover), 978-0-1951-4737-7 (Paperback). This book offers a deep understanding of court gamelan music and wayang kulit in Central Java from the perspective of ethnomusicologist and musician Benjamin Brinner. Though packaged as an introductory textbook, it will provide insights not only to students encountering this style of gamelan music for the first time but also to those already knowledgeable about Indonesian music but without specialist knowledge of Central Java. Overall, this book is less an introduction to the Javanese gamelan than it is a thorough discussion of the musical structures, processes, and legacy of court-influenced Central Javanese gamelan over the last three decades. The book begins with a brief introduction to the significance of gamelan in Central Javanese society (Chapter 1) focused on the court music traditions of the Kraton Surakarta and Istana Mangkunagaran palaces in Solo. With its brief overview of social occasions for gamelan music and interspersed vignettes on Indonesian history, this chapter provides most of the book’s social and cultural background for gamelan in Central Java. Most of the remaining context is in the conclusion (Chapter 8), an engaging biography that elucidates the legacy of the musician K.R.T. Wasitodiningrat, or Pak Cokro. This biography opens a discussion of the interconnectedness of the arts in Java. The chapter also describes the development of arts academies and conservatories, and the proliferation of Javanese gamelan in the United States. The rest of the chapters may be divided into two units. The first is an explanation of the workings of Solonese-style gamelan (Chapters 2–5). The second and third chapters introduce the foundations of gamelan music. Concepts are introduced in categories of time (rhythm and irama) and melody, an idea that stems from a “widely cited classification of the instruments of the gamelan” by Martopangrawit, who “recognizes two basic subsets: the instruments that cradle the melody and those that cradle the irama” (28). Following this idea, Chapter 2 introduces concepts of cyclic time, gong cycles, drumming, and the

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Olsen, Dale A. 2000 “Globalization, Culturation, and Transculturation in American Music: From Cultural Pop to Transcultural Art.” In Reflections on American Music: The Twentieth Century and the New Millenium, eds. James R. Heintze and Michael Saffle, 265–90. New York: Pendragon Press.

Music in Central Java: Experiencing Music, Expressing Culture. Benjamin Brinner. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. xix ⫹ 172 pp., illustrations, map, music, bibliography ⫹ 1 CD. Global Music Series. ISBN: 9780-1951-4736-0 (Hardcover), 978-0-1951-4737-7 (Paperback). This book offers a deep understanding of court gamelan music and wayang kulit in Central Java from the perspective of ethnomusicologist and musician Benjamin Brinner. Though packaged as an introductory textbook, it will provide insights not only to students encountering this style of gamelan music for the first time but also to those already knowledgeable about Indonesian music but without specialist knowledge of Central Java. Overall, this book is less an introduction to the Javanese gamelan than it is a thorough discussion of the musical structures, processes, and legacy of court-influenced Central Javanese gamelan over the last three decades. The book begins with a brief introduction to the significance of gamelan in Central Javanese society (Chapter 1) focused on the court music traditions of the Kraton Surakarta and Istana Mangkunagaran palaces in Solo. With its brief overview of social occasions for gamelan music and interspersed vignettes on Indonesian history, this chapter provides most of the book’s social and cultural background for gamelan in Central Java. Most of the remaining context is in the conclusion (Chapter 8), an engaging biography that elucidates the legacy of the musician K.R.T. Wasitodiningrat, or Pak Cokro. This biography opens a discussion of the interconnectedness of the arts in Java. The chapter also describes the development of arts academies and conservatories, and the proliferation of Javanese gamelan in the United States. The rest of the chapters may be divided into two units. The first is an explanation of the workings of Solonese-style gamelan (Chapters 2–5). The second and third chapters introduce the foundations of gamelan music. Concepts are introduced in categories of time (rhythm and irama) and melody, an idea that stems from a “widely cited classification of the instruments of the gamelan” by Martopangrawit, who “recognizes two basic subsets: the instruments that cradle the melody and those that cradle the irama” (28). Following this idea, Chapter 2 introduces concepts of cyclic time, gong cycles, drumming, and the

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irama concept. Next are introduced tuning systems, instruments, melody, and elaboration (Chapter 3). These introductory chapters are followed by discussions of more complex musical concepts. Chapter 4 introduces songs and singing, particularly the sindhen and gérong parts. This discussion begins with a short statement about the social relationships between female singers and the usually male instrumentalists. The chapter also discusses macapat songs and meters. The discussion is highly detailed and obscured by the difficulty of pairing the illustration of poetic meters in Javanese (Figure 4.1) with the English translation of the texts provided elsewhere. The fleeting mention of Ki Nartosabdho in this chapter (82) made this reader wish for a more extended portrait that would add an engaging personality to this chapter. Chapter 5 explains in detail the elaboration of melodic parts— particularly the gendèr, gambang, and rebab—and goes on to explain how these are learned and derived. These two chapters are the most technically detailed. The second unit of chapters offers an engaging and ethnographically rich introduction to wayang kulit (Chapters 6–7). This begins with a discussion of the structure of the performance event, dramatic conventions, character types, and stories (Chapter 6). It continues with a detailed look at a particular performance of the play “Brajadenta Balela” and the way in which music fits into the structure of a wayang kulit performance (Chapter 7). The section offers particular attention to music for “motion” (the flexible and expandable structures of gendhing lampah, 126–32) and “emotion” (the types of sulukan available to the dhalang, 124–26). The vignette describing Brinner’s experience at a wayang performance is an example of the enjoyable and engaging performance descriptions that enrich the book (97–102). The book also includes a compact disc and useful study activities for readers. The recording contains thirty-eight tracks, most recordings by Brinner that have been tailored to the book. The disc includes useful demonstration recordings that feature drum patterns, comparison of tuning systems, isolated gong cycles, and examples of elaborating instrumental parts. Long tracks feature full-length recordings of lancaran “Singa Nebah” (sléndro and pélog), ladrang “Asmaradana,” and extended excerpts from wayang performances. One drawback is that the excerpts of popular music (dangdut and campursari) last only thirty seconds; it is also disappointing that a DVD is not included with the book, given its focus on the interconnectedness of Javanese gamelan with dramatic forms like wayang. (A video performance of a klenèngan would nicely illustrate the instruments of a gamelan.) The study activities, conveniently set apart from the text in shaded boxes, are particularly useful. These range from short essay questions to basic listening exercises (for example, illustrating gong cycle patterns, the irama concept) to advanced listening exercises that require transcription of elaborating parts or drum patterns.

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Three themes weave the book together: flexibility, appropriateness, and interconnectedness. Brinner elaborates the themes clearly and consistently throughout, thus offering a useful pedagogical framework around which students encountering gamelan anew can structure their understanding of new sounds, musical structures, and ideas. This is also one area where the book speaks to musical context since the themes not only refer to musical but also social and cultural values. “Interconnectedness,” for example, parallels the “concept of social harmony (rukun), identified as essential to the functioning of Javanese society” (24). The book is presented as an introductory text for North American college students as an installment in Oxford’s Global Music Series. Minimal use of staff notation also makes the book useful in classes that include students uncomfortable with that notation. However, for the instructor of an undergraduate course with no prerequisites, Chapters 1–3 and 6–8 comprise the core of this book as an introduction to music in Central Java.1 Chapters 4 and 5, which give more detail than will be possible to make easily accessible in an introductory course, are better suited to a seminar on Central Javanese court music or for use in a performance ensemble. While this volume uneasily fills the niche of an introductory text because of its high level of detail, it does offer an alternative to similar materials (e.g., Lindsay 1979, Sutton 2009) in that it has more to offer students interested in musical performance or in-depth study. The title suggests an overview of music in Central Java, but the book’s main subject is court gamelan and related Central Javanese arts. The cover blurb disingenuously suggests that the book “offers a broad survey of other music found in Central Java” (cover). The closest to a snapshot of the current music-culture in Central Java is a short paragraph that, beyond gamelan-related music, names only dangdut (2–3). Moreover, although Activity 1.1 (3) asks for an essay comparing kroncong, dangdut, and campursari, it remains for an instructor to explain these genres, to provide examples, and to help students new to Javanese music divine categories of comparison that are useful and productive. Thus, the book generally seems too advanced for an introductory world music course. Students in a recent class where I assigned this book (an undergraduate introduction to Indonesian music with no Javanese performance component) found certain elements confusing or too detailed. For example, instruments are introduced in groups according to their musical roles (e.g., punctuating gongs, drums, melody, and elaboration), but there is no clear section that introduces all of the instruments of the ensemble (an illustration clearer than Figure 3.5, which places the names of each instrument far from the photograph, would help). Students in the class did not gain a strong grasp of each instrument from the book. Fortunately, the accompanying CD includes recorded excerpts that clearly point out the sounds of individual instruments. The section on melodic elaboration

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140 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 provides an example of surprising complexity for beginners. In describing a section of bonang elaboration, Brinner suggests that the player “abstracts (or ‘flattens’) the balungan by thinking ahead to the second note of each pair, playing that note twice, in octaves, off the beat (which is much simpler to do than to explain)” (66–67). Later in the same passage, the technique of mipil elaboration is introduced. Illustrations of these examples use staff notation (Figure 3.9). As Brinner suggests, all of this is much simpler to do than to explain, and perhaps this section is best left for a beginning performance class. This book furnishes a subtle and detailed perspective on Central Javanese gamelan in a concise (172 pp.) and affordable ($24.95) volume. It does not present new research or theoretical analyses, but it offers valuable discussion of musical processes and personalities. From the perspective of a beginning student, however, the number of Javanese musical terms and level of musical detail may be overwhelming. Knowledgeable instructors will be able to fill in gaps, but the advanced material would seem most beneficial for a class based on hands-on performance of Javanese gamelan. Jesse A. Johnston

Bowling Green State University

Notes 1

This issue of heavy detail is underscored by the presence of a downloadable “Instructor’s Manual” by J. Bryan Burton available from the OUP Website but, oddly, never referenced in the printed text (http://www.oup.com/us/companion.websites/9780195147377/).

References Lindsay, Jennifer 1979 Javanese Gamelan. Oxford in Asia Paperbacks. Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press. Sutton, R. Anderson 2009 “Central Java.” In Worlds of Music: An Introduction to the Music of the World’s Peoples, shorter version, 3rd edition, ed. Jeff Todd Titon, 215–31. Belmont CA: Schirmer Cengage Learning.

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Recording Reviews

Raja Edepus. Directed and produced by William Maranda. DVD. 92 minutes. Vancouver BC: Villon Films, 2009. Available from http://www.villonfilms .com. Making of “Raja Edepus.” Directed and produced by William Maranda. DVD. 27 minutes. Vancouver BC: Villon Films, 2008. Available from http://www .villonfilms.com. If, at first glance, ancient Greek tragedy and contemporary Balinese dancedrama seem unlikely theatrical companions, the production Raja Edepus puts any such doubts to rest. Produced by William Maranda with artistic direction by Nyoman Wenten, Raja Edepus is a compelling Balinese rendering of the ancient Sophocles drama, Oedipus Rex. Created for live performance at the Bali Arts Festival in 2006, Raja Edepus is now available to a wider public through two DVDs: one, a recording of the show, and the other, a documentary about the performance’s preparation. The live production fuses musical and dramatic techniques used in contemporary Balinese theater with techniques thought to have been used in ancient Greek theater. As Maranda describes on the Making of “Raja Edepus” DVD, the two types of theater—though separated by 2500 years and much of the earth— have significant features in common. Maranda explains that he was inspired to initiate this project after attending performances of the Balinese gamelan in residence at the University of British Columbia; he was struck by the fact that Balinese theater uses masks—a device familiar to Maranda from his previous work on ancient Greek theater. Masks, in both Balinese and ancient Greek theater, are used to impart information to an audience about the masked character’s persona and ethos (his or her social status, level of affluence, personality, etc.). Despite the different religions, histories, and cultures of the ancient Greeks and the Balinese, Maranda points out that their world-views are remarkably compatible: broadly speaking, both societies believe in the power of fate, and in a panoply of divinities involved in its orchestration. And indeed, although Maranda does not mention this, both societies also use theater to articulate these world-views, imbuing theatrical performance (especially in ritual settings) with the power to reveal cosmological truth. © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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142 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 The Making of . . . DVD, featuring Maranda (both talking to the camera and briefly conversing with two Balinese artists who worked on Raja Edepus), does not make clear precisely who made each decision during the show’s artistic creation. However, Maranda’s discussion of the creative process—supplemented by photographs and video clips—suggests that he collaborated in significant part with a cadre of expert Balinese performers and designers. It seems that, on Maranda’s initiative, this inter-artistic team of mostly Balinese directors treated the Sophocles play as the show’s basic “script,” which they subsequently infused with Balinese elements in the months leading up to the performance. The directorial team inflected Oedipus Rex with a variety of Balinese concepts and theatrical devices, some subtle and some more striking. Most notably, they added to the cluster of Sophocles’s speaking roles a large, powerful kecak ensemble and an active, dynamic gamelan. As can clearly be seen on the DVD of the Raja Edepus performance, each of these two ensembles is employed strategically throughout the show, to great dramatic effect. The kecak ensemble in particular seems to fulfill a variety of important dramatic functions, a few of which I outline here. First, the kecak performers supplement and support the Greek Chorus. Although the production clearly differentiates the kecak chorus from Sophocles’s Chorus (the two groups wear different costumes, gather in discrete groups for much of their time on stage, and one group recites the text of the Chorus while the other chants kecak syllables), the kecak performers add weight to the Chorus’s commentary. As a crowd of neutral, non-“speaking” performers, the kecak ensemble—physically present throughout the show—seems to bolster the Chorus’s commentary. They act as observant and anonymous members of the group, making the Chorus seem even more “present” as a synecdoche of society. Second, the kecak ensemble (as well as the gamelan) sonically expresses the dramatic pace of the production. The almost continuous music alerts the audience to the level of dramatic intensity underlying any given character’s speech. The tempo and texture range from slow and calm to quick and highly agitated, speeding up with each small-scale dramatic climax, and building to a frenzy at the end, when Edepus realizes that he has fulfilled the prophecy. Because of the close relationship between the drama’s pace and the characters’ agitation, the Balinese ensembles seem to embody not only the dramatic structure but also the actors’ emotional subtexts throughout the production. In this way, Raja Edepus’s use of musical tempo and texture to enhance dramatic “mood” clearly bears some similarities to techniques used in Western incidental music and fi lm soundtracks. The music that they produce, however, is more fully integrated into the drama than most incidental and film music—perhaps not surprising, considering the tightly knit integration of music and dance in most Balinese dance genres, which feature both musicians and dancers constantly responding to the

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other in any given performance. The kecak performers do not simply provide background soundscape to Raja Edepus; they are staged as part of the diegetic world, visibly taking part in scenes with the Sophocles-derived characters. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the kecak group acts like a physical human current, driving the main actors offstage, and sweeping them into new positions on the stage. One of the most powerful moments of this kecak-character interaction occurs during the scene in which Edepus, having just spoken with Tiresias, now mistakenly believes that Creon conspired with Tiresias to accuse him falsely of Laius’s murder. He confronts Creon in a fury. As both Edepus and Creon accuse each other of deceit and treason, the enormous kecak crowd splits in two, one side lifting Edepus onto its shoulders and the other lifting Creon. The two crowds, actors on top, circle each other, revolving around the stage slowly and angrily. Edepus and Creon continue to argue. This dramatic moment, already serious in the original play, is notably intensified by this staging, which employs the kecak chorus to corporeally embody an unnamed powerful force—something simultaneously inside and outside the human world, literally lifting Edepus and Creon and sweeping them around in repetitive circles of miscomprehending, angry confusion. Is this force the manifestation of an internal, psychic rage? Is it fate? Is it the will of a divinity? Another moment of similar significance occurs when the horrified Edepus, fully cognizant for the first time that he has unknowingly committed horrific crimes, prepares to gouge out his eyes. The kecak chorus swarms him, surrounds him, and finally descends upon him in frenzied chant, concealing him from the audience (at which point, the actor is able to take off his crown and change into the mask that depicts bloodied eyes). Eventually the kecak crowd disperses so that Edepus may emerge, transformed. The kecak chorus makes this transformation possible, both symbolically (as they drive him to the realization) and literally (as they hide the actor from the audience). In sum, the kecak performers move the action forward in Raja Edepus, figuratively and literally. They support the Chorus, by virtue of their very presence on stage, and they embody the dramatic pace, through the tempo and texture of their rhythmic chanting. But perhaps their most powerful contribution to this production of Sophocles’s drama takes place during the times when they physically interact with the actors, literally pushing the characters forward. In such instances, the kecak ensemble appears to physically manifest a force stronger than humanity. And despite the commanding, authoritative nature of both Edepus and Creon as characters (on the surface, at least), it is ultimately the kecak chorus that reveals them to be vulnerable, and pushes them where destiny has decreed they must go. In this way, the creators make extraordinarily palpable the tension between divinely ordained fate on the one hand, and human “power” (or ultimately, powerlessness) on the other.

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144 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 Overall, the DVD of the Raja Edepus performance is clear and thorough. Produced with high-quality image and sound, it offers the viewer a good sense of the show as a whole. Six different camera angles are used, and the viewer is shown both close-ups (usually of the actors’ faces/masks) and wide shots, displaying the brilliantly choreographed crowds that are a hallmark of this production. The rhetorically gifted actor-dancers speak Indonesian, which is translated in the (English only) subtitles. The recording seems to show nearly the entire performance, with the exception of four instances, when the scene fades out and a caption appears on a black screen, explaining the current dramatic situation. About fifteen seconds later, the caption fades back to the performance. It is unclear exactly how much of the actual production is cut, but Maranda’s comments on the Making of . . . DVD suggest that it might be as little as ten minutes. Aside from those few minutes (which are presumably cut with the aim of creating a more streamlined video), only two other elements of the performance are not captured on the recording: first, the audience—and thereby the theater as a whole—is never shown, making it impossible to fully grasp the nature of the theatrical space in which Raja Edepus was performed. Although the viewer can hear the audience reacting to the performance, it is unclear precisely how many people are in attendance, what the theater looks like, and so on. In addition, the gamelan, seated to the side of the stage, does not appear onscreen very often. Apart from these minor issues, however, we are given a thorough and beautifully shot view of the performance. After a brief introduction of still photographs of Bali, the video recording begins precisely when the performance starts and ends precisely when it is finished. The DVD is not divided into tracks—something that might have benefited teachers interested in using this recording in a classroom setting; nor is it supplemented by any “special features” or liner notes. Although such features may have facilitated the DVD’s use in educational settings, their absence in no way detracts from the value of this exceptional performance (especially since one can purchase the Making of . . . DVD for details about the creation process). Ultimately, the main point of this DVD seems to be to let the viewer see without distractions the main stage action of this unique performance, and to this end, it succeeds admirably. The Making of “Raja Edepus” DVD makes a useful companion to the performance DVD. It integrates video clips and still photographs from the creation and rehearsal process with video clips from the performance itself. It also features Maranda as a “talking head,” discussing the production from both before and after the performance. In addition, we are shown brief clips of him talking with two of his collaborators—a Balinese mask maker and Balinese costume designer (whose remarks are translated on the video in English subtitles). We never see commentary by the other collaborators on the project—notably absent is Nyoman Wenten, the artistic director—nor do we ever see the show’s

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performers outside of the rehearsals or performance. As a result, this DVD is mainly a window into Maranda’s perspective on the project. The anecdotes he recounts about the project illustrate the wonder experienced by a Western artist upon first becoming immersed in Balinese culture. He tells about an incident during rehearsals in which the actor playing Tiresias suffered a TIA attack—a problem regarded by Western medicine as a physical malady (a sort of miniature stroke), but believed by Maranda’s Balinese collaborators to have been caused by a spiritual problem (this actor had accidentally picked up a sacred stick without properly performing a ritual for it). After the actor, Kaseno, was sprinkled with holy water and taken to the hospital, he recovered and went on to play Tiresias in the final performance. Maranda’s discussion of this incident, and Bali’s worldviews and artistic traditions in general, might sound a bit simplistic to scholars of the area. However, it is clear that Maranda has great respect for Balinese arts and culture, and the strength of this DVD lies not in its specialist discourse, but in its insight into a directing artist’s thought process regarding a brilliant and moving cross-cultural theatrical project. This pair of DVDs is bound to appeal to a variety of viewers. Through the video recordings, scholars are given access to an incomparable performance, one that demands further analytical thought from theater specialists and Bali specialists alike. Teachers will be able to make great use of these DVDs as classroom material for a multitude of courses. And students, connoisseurs of Balinese arts, and non-academic viewers who are interested in Bali or theater will each find something of great value here. Lynda Paul

Yale University

La Voix des Ancêtres / The Voice of Ancestors—Karakalpakistan. Compil. Frédéric Léotar. Vincennes (France): BUDA Records 3017797, 2009. Music of the World series. One compact disc (55 minutes, 22 seconds) and one DVD (15 minutes). Karakalpakistan is an autonomous republic of Uzbekistan, which occupies the western portion of that country, south of the Aral Sea. That region of Central Asia was almost unknown to the West until the 1980s when the rest of the world heard of the Aral Sea ecological disaster in which the sea almost disappeared as a result of numerous Soviet irrigation projects from the 1960s which diverted the rivers that fed it, nearly emptying it. Today, fortunately, the sea is slowly recovering. Though the musical culture of Karakalpakistan is similar in many respects to those of other cultures in Central Asia—in particular Kazakhstan

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performers outside of the rehearsals or performance. As a result, this DVD is mainly a window into Maranda’s perspective on the project. The anecdotes he recounts about the project illustrate the wonder experienced by a Western artist upon first becoming immersed in Balinese culture. He tells about an incident during rehearsals in which the actor playing Tiresias suffered a TIA attack—a problem regarded by Western medicine as a physical malady (a sort of miniature stroke), but believed by Maranda’s Balinese collaborators to have been caused by a spiritual problem (this actor had accidentally picked up a sacred stick without properly performing a ritual for it). After the actor, Kaseno, was sprinkled with holy water and taken to the hospital, he recovered and went on to play Tiresias in the final performance. Maranda’s discussion of this incident, and Bali’s worldviews and artistic traditions in general, might sound a bit simplistic to scholars of the area. However, it is clear that Maranda has great respect for Balinese arts and culture, and the strength of this DVD lies not in its specialist discourse, but in its insight into a directing artist’s thought process regarding a brilliant and moving cross-cultural theatrical project. This pair of DVDs is bound to appeal to a variety of viewers. Through the video recordings, scholars are given access to an incomparable performance, one that demands further analytical thought from theater specialists and Bali specialists alike. Teachers will be able to make great use of these DVDs as classroom material for a multitude of courses. And students, connoisseurs of Balinese arts, and non-academic viewers who are interested in Bali or theater will each find something of great value here. Lynda Paul

Yale University

La Voix des Ancêtres / The Voice of Ancestors—Karakalpakistan. Compil. Frédéric Léotar. Vincennes (France): BUDA Records 3017797, 2009. Music of the World series. One compact disc (55 minutes, 22 seconds) and one DVD (15 minutes). Karakalpakistan is an autonomous republic of Uzbekistan, which occupies the western portion of that country, south of the Aral Sea. That region of Central Asia was almost unknown to the West until the 1980s when the rest of the world heard of the Aral Sea ecological disaster in which the sea almost disappeared as a result of numerous Soviet irrigation projects from the 1960s which diverted the rivers that fed it, nearly emptying it. Today, fortunately, the sea is slowly recovering. Though the musical culture of Karakalpakistan is similar in many respects to those of other cultures in Central Asia—in particular Kazakhstan

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146 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 and Turkmenistan—Karakalpaks have been able to maintain a unique cultural heritage linked to both the nomadic and the sedentary aspects of their culture. Karakalpak cultural traditions include literature and many different styles of music, the most prominent being a bardic tradition, of which more than one hundred epics have been identified. Some of these epics consist of more than eighteen thousand stanzas. The most important point to mention about this CD is that it is the first digital recording of Karakalpak music ever produced in the West. It is the result of fieldwork by French (and now Canadian) ethnomusicologist Frédéric Léotar, a specialist in the music of Central Asia who has engaged in fieldwork in Uzbekistan, Kirghizstan, Kazakhstan, and Tuva. His main field of interest is the evolution of Turkic music among the different cultures of that region of the world, as well as the organologic studies of some of the instruments that are common to these cultures. The songs and pieces heard on this CD were recorded in 2007 and were not initially collected for that purpose. Léotar recorded them as part of his field studies on the agricultural and pastoral traditions of Karakalpakistan, as well as the forms of music considered traditionally “popular” by the Karakalpaks. The well-presented, twenty-four-page booklet, both in French and English, is unfortunately too condensed, as is the case for a large number of booklets presenting non-Western music (sometimes these booklets can be even smaller). It presents a music that is unknown and about which we want to learn more. BUDA Records is not affiliated with any institution, thus does not have the funding some institutions may have to produce more extensive booklets. For those interested in learning more about Karakalpak music, I thought it would be appropriate to list a few of Léotar’s articles in the bibliography below. This first CD of Karakalpak music is dedicated to the epic genre (called dastan, a Persian word) of the bardic tradition, a tradition that has greatly influenced all other forms of Karakalpak music. Léotar indicates that there are three types of bardic styles in that culture: the jyraw, the baksy, and the qyssakhan. The jyraw is the oldest tradition, being based on heroic and fantastic narratives of their nomadic past. Epics are sung solely by men but in a guttural voice, reminiscent of some of Tuva’s khoomei. They will as well sing songs that have didactical aims or historical values. These bards accompany themselves solely with the kobyz, a 2-stringed fiddle, which was traditionally used by shamans. Its body is archedshaped, uncovered in its front. The kobyz is commonly found throughout Central Asia. The baksy bards can be both men and women and sing romantic epics; this bardic tradition is similar to one of the Uzbek and Turkmen bakshi. They accompany themselves on the dutar (two-stringed lute); accompaniment often doubles with the girjek, a fiddle. The dutar is similar to the Turkmen dutar and the Kazakh dombra. For their part, the qyssakhan bards sing in a similar way as

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the baksy, except that the lyrics of their songs are based on classical literature or excerpts from lyrical epics, with a major distinction from the two other bardic genres: they sing a cappella. The CD presents songs from these three bardic genres, each song being clearly indicated in the booklet as to which genre they belong. Léotar selected songs from both erudite and popular styles. The pieces of the jyraw bards are from nomadic traditions, while the songs from the baksy tradition are from the sedentary tradition. In a personal communication, Léotar indicates that somehow the instruments these two bardic traditions use have become emblematic of their styles: the kobyz for the nomadic life and the dutar for the sedentary life. He indicated to me as well that one of the most interesting points to mention about these two important musical traditions is that it is being maintained by talented young bards and musicians, both women and men, which is not necessarily the case in other musical cultures of Central Asia. The CD is accompanied by a short bonus DVD that lasts 14 minutes and 50 seconds. It contains six songs, three of which are not on the CD (songs 1, 3, and 4) and three others that are on the CD (songs 2, 5, and 6). The first selection shows a mother singing a lullaby to her baby boy. The text praises her newborn baby and his new life just starting, while at the same time viewing him already within the context of a successful future as an adult. The third song is melody performed on a small clarinet named sybyzgy, made of reed. And the fourth one is a kind of rhythmic melody played by putting the sybyzgy on the cheeks. The player plays rhythms with his fingers using the mouth cavities as a resonating chamber while imitating the rhythm of an ambling horse. When this song is introduced on the DVD, there is a suggestion that the listener compare this short piece with track 17 on the CD, which presents a similar sound imitation. The first half of the CD presents primarily songs from the bardic traditions, while the second half presents mainly instrumental pieces. From the beginning, we cannot avoid noticing a voice tone color that is reminiscent of Tuva’s khoomei, yet it is obviously not a song from that region. In some other songs, we can hear melodic lines and accompaniments similar to Kazakh and Turkmen musics. There are also some pieces that appear to be unique to the Karakalpak cultures. It is not really possible for me to make a comparison with other forms of Karakalpak music, since it is the first CD coming from that region. One thing that might strike a listener on hearing this CD for the first time is the number of women’s songs. Léotar indicated to me that the place of women in the Karakalpakistan culture is similar to that in the Kazakh, the Turkmen, or even the Kirghiz’s one, thus more prominent than in Uzbek culture, even though Karakalpakistan is part of Uzbekistan. Women of the Uzbek region generally sing the more popular types of songs, such as lullabies and wedding songs, in particular.

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148 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 This CD is the first in a series of recordings from Central Asia that will be produced by BUDA Records and edited by Frédéric Léotar. They will each be accompanied by a bonus DVD. In addition, a PDF file can be found on the CD and accessed from one’s computer, which contains translation of all the songs in Karakalpak (a language nearer to the Kazakh than the Uzbek language), French, and English. Bruno Deschênes

Montreal

References Léotar, Frédéric 2008a Karakalpakistan: La Voix des Ancêtres (Asie intérieure 1). CD, DVD, and PDF. Vincennes (France): Buda Records. 2008b “Musique méconnues d’Asie centrale.” Les Cahiers de l’Orient 89:133–140. 2008c Review of “Qaraqalpaq Fol’klory.” Central Eurasian Reader 1:569:329. n.d. “Les conceptions syncrétiques de l’au-delà chez les Karakalpaks ‘de Boukhara’: Du nourrisson-‘Aquday’ à l’enfant-‘bala.’” Études Mongoles Sibériennes Centrasiatiques et Tibétaines 40. (forthcoming).

Gamelan of Central Java VIII: Court Music Treasures. Felmay FY8119. Recorded and produced by John Noise Manis. San Germano AL (Italy): Yantra Productions, 2004 and 2007. Notes by John Noise Manis and Sumarsam. Compact disc. Gamelan of Central Java IX: Songs of Wisdom and Love. Felmay FY8120. Recorded and produced by John Noise Manis. San Germano AL (Italy): Yantra Productions, 2004 and 2007. Notes by John Noise Manis and Sumarsam, with translations by Rosella Balossino and essay by Ilario Meandri. Compact disc. Court Music Treasures and Songs of Wisdom and Love are two additions to a series of recordings of Javanese gamelan music that now numbers eleven volumes, with another two planned. The series represents the better part of the “notfor-profit recording activity” of Yantra Productions, which now also includes recordings on Lyrichord, Arion and ARC (http://www.gamelan.to/ [accessed January 19, 2010]). With all of this activity, Yantra Productions is responsible for a major portion, if not the majority, of the recordings of Javanese gamelan music currently commercially available in a digital format. As with the series overall, there is much in these two volumes that is of value, but there is also much that is frustratingly arbitrary. To acknowledge the valuable first: Court Music Treasures presents recordings of performances on two historically and culturally significant gamelan, Kyai

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148 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 This CD is the first in a series of recordings from Central Asia that will be produced by BUDA Records and edited by Frédéric Léotar. They will each be accompanied by a bonus DVD. In addition, a PDF file can be found on the CD and accessed from one’s computer, which contains translation of all the songs in Karakalpak (a language nearer to the Kazakh than the Uzbek language), French, and English. Bruno Deschênes

Montreal

References Léotar, Frédéric 2008a Karakalpakistan: La Voix des Ancêtres (Asie intérieure 1). CD, DVD, and PDF. Vincennes (France): Buda Records. 2008b “Musique méconnues d’Asie centrale.” Les Cahiers de l’Orient 89:133–140. 2008c Review of “Qaraqalpaq Fol’klory.” Central Eurasian Reader 1:569:329. n.d. “Les conceptions syncrétiques de l’au-delà chez les Karakalpaks ‘de Boukhara’: Du nourrisson-‘Aquday’ à l’enfant-‘bala.’” Études Mongoles Sibériennes Centrasiatiques et Tibétaines 40. (forthcoming).

Gamelan of Central Java VIII: Court Music Treasures. Felmay FY8119. Recorded and produced by John Noise Manis. San Germano AL (Italy): Yantra Productions, 2004 and 2007. Notes by John Noise Manis and Sumarsam. Compact disc. Gamelan of Central Java IX: Songs of Wisdom and Love. Felmay FY8120. Recorded and produced by John Noise Manis. San Germano AL (Italy): Yantra Productions, 2004 and 2007. Notes by John Noise Manis and Sumarsam, with translations by Rosella Balossino and essay by Ilario Meandri. Compact disc. Court Music Treasures and Songs of Wisdom and Love are two additions to a series of recordings of Javanese gamelan music that now numbers eleven volumes, with another two planned. The series represents the better part of the “notfor-profit recording activity” of Yantra Productions, which now also includes recordings on Lyrichord, Arion and ARC (http://www.gamelan.to/ [accessed January 19, 2010]). With all of this activity, Yantra Productions is responsible for a major portion, if not the majority, of the recordings of Javanese gamelan music currently commercially available in a digital format. As with the series overall, there is much in these two volumes that is of value, but there is also much that is frustratingly arbitrary. To acknowledge the valuable first: Court Music Treasures presents recordings of performances on two historically and culturally significant gamelan, Kyai

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Kaduk Manis and Kyai Manis Rengga, which belong to the Kraton Surakarta, the principal court in the Central Javanese city of Surakarta (also known as Solo). The recordings are extremely clear, with a good balance between parts— though with what sounds like fairly close microphone placement (no details are provided on recording equipment or techniques). This comes at the expense of fully capturing the exquisite acoustics of the pendhapa Sasono Sewoko, the main open-walled pavilion of the Kraton (Palace). Also included is an excellent recording of an archaic Gamelan Carabalen that presumably also belongs to the Kraton Surakarta (the instruments are not identified). Songs of Wisdom and Love, with its focus on sung poetry, includes among its fourteen tracks six examples of unaccompanied macapat, a form that is not well represented on existing recordings. Macapat is one of the most significant categories of traditional Javanese poetry that, generally speaking, is most often sung. In technical terms, macapat poetic meters are defined in terms of the number of lines, the number of syllables per line, and the final vowel sound of each line, but they are more readily distinguished by their associated melodies. The six examples on Songs of Wisdom and Love nicely complement the only other commercial recording of macapat in a digital format that this reviewer is aware of: Java: Vocal Art, a 1969 recording on the Auvidis label that was reissued on CD by UNESCO in 1989 (UNESCO D8014). Whereas that recording presents an excerpt of a literary performance of macapat, in which a narrative is recounted through multiple stanzas, each sung using the same basic melody, Songs of Wisdom and Love gives a sense of the musical variety of macapat. Each of the six examples of unaccompanied macapat is of a different meter with a different melody. They provide a useful point of comparison with four examples of macapat accompanied by gamelan in a form called palaran. In this form, the unmetered vocal melody is loosely coordinated with an accompaniment in the srepegan structure, which features the steady pulsing of structure-marking gongs and gong chimes (kenong, kethuk, kempul) and the rippling patterns of the panerusan—the diverse group of elaborating instruments including gender (thin-keyed metallophone played with padded mallets), gambang (xylophone), celempung or siter (plucked zither), and suling (bamboo flute). There is in palaran a high degree of interaction between performers, with the instrumentalists following the pace of the vocal melody, but the singer then timing his or her cadences to coincide with a stroke of gong signaled by the kendhang (drum). The comparison between unaccompanied macapat and palaran is most readily made between tracks 2 and 3, which feature the same macapat meter, Megatruh, using basically the same melody. The recording could have gone further to include an example of a gendhing sekar—a category of gamelan composition that emerged in the nineteenth century in which macapat melodies are set in larger formal structures such as ketawang and ladrang, and in which the vocal

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and instrumental melodies are more closely coordinated. But even without this, the recording is a welcome addition. Having acknowledged what is of value, I now turn to what is frustrating. Generally speaking, the notes have improved appreciably since the fi rst few volumes—where, as Sarah Weiss noted in her review of volumes 2 and 4 (2009), they were quite uneven, tending toward the impressionistic. The improvement has much to do with producer John Noise Manis having enlisted the help of those who are either scholars or performers, or both. In the case of the two volumes reviewed here, Sumarsam from Wesleyan University provides very informative commentaries on the musical aspects of the recorded selections—including an insightful reflection on the contrast between the “aural musical practice” of older generation kraton (palace) musicians and the formally educated musicians on the present recording. Unfortunately, no such notes are provided concerning the literary aspects of Songs of Wisdom and Love. The texts themselves are printed alongside English translations by Rosella Balossino (who seemingly has no involvement in Javanese literature beyond the translations she has prepared for Yantra Productions). There is a note on translating from old Javanese that effectively acts as a disclaimer: Balossino speaks of her efforts as “instances of possible—in some parts refinable—translations.” But there is nothing whatsoever to allow the reader/listener to understand these texts in more general terms: no indication of where and when the texts were composed, by whom, for which audience, for what purpose, or how they have been used since. Only in the single case of Pathetan “Ageng” slendro nem—identified as “a dhalang song taken from the 10th century Bharatayuda poem in ancient Javanese language”—is there even a vague indication of the source of a text. There is nothing, in other words, to offset the radical decontexualization of these texts that are, in most cases, short fragments from multi-stanza poems. It is hard to argue with the “desire to get glimpses of the world contained in old Javanese poetry” which led Balossino to undertake her translations. But there are different ways to approach this. A scholar would address at least some of the aspects listed above. The presentation here is instead akin to an unannotated edition of fragments of poetry by Sappho—intriguing, but not particularly illuminating. It is, I believe, fairly characterized as an aesthetic approach, and as such it is representative of the approach of this series of recordings as a whole. Yantra Production’s website for its recordings of “Gamelan of Java” includes a three-line motto: the music is timeless the sound is beautiful (the notes are different) (http://www.gamelan.to/ [accessed January 19, 2010])

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The notes indeed are, for the most part, quite different from what one normally finds in recordings of non-Western musics. They do now typically include some kind of contribution from a bonafide expert, though this often takes an unorthodox form, such as an interview (volume 5) or a critical review (volume 3). Even Sumarsam’s notes to the volumes reviewed here are labeled commentaries, suggesting that his input was likewise sought only after the recording was made. Just as often, however, they include contributions from writers with no obviously relevant expertise, other than sharing Manis’s preoccupation with the issue of how “Westerners” understand Javanese gamelan music. In the case of Songs of Wisdom and Love, there is “an unusual Western-slanted essay on Javanese music” by Ilario Meandri (for whom no biography is provided). The tone of the essay is pseudo-philosophical in contemplating the possibility that “we like this music because we do not understand it,” demonstrating no familiarity on the part of the author with Javanese culture but instead offering as cultural points of reference works by Western authors and composers such as “Borges” and Benjamin Britten. It is not, however, only the notes that are different. The recordings, the performances, and even the musical pieces themselves are also frequently different— sometimes interesting, more often subtly dissatisfying, and other times simply bizarre. They are not as explicitly experimental as other projects undertaken by Manis, such as one he calls “Musica Coniuncta” that involves mixing pieces from different musical traditions. One sample available online (http://www .yantrasoundproductions.org/pagina2.html [accessed January 19, 2010]) superimposes Nyi Cendhani Laras (Manis’s preferred pesindhen who, as he comments in the notes to Gamelan from Central Java [ARC Music EUCD1902, 2004], has a “western-ear-friendly” voice) singing macapat “Pangkur” with Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. But while the Gamelan of Central Java series does not depart as conspicuously from traditional practice, it frequently enough involves a certain amount of tinkering—far more than most documents of traditional music. The act of producing an audio recording inescapably involves making decisions that, if nothing else, frame how the music is presented. In the case of Yantra Productions, however, the unusually active role taken by Manis approaches that of a popular music producer—though the spirit in which he assumes this role is perhaps more analogous to the owner of a private contemporary art gallery. (In fact, Manis speaks in the notes to Songs of Wisdom and Love of having “curated” the collection.) In the most striking and problematic case, Modes and Timbres (volume 3, FY 8073, 2004), Manis openly acknowledges his exercise of artistic direction. On each piece in that recording, he brazenly specified unusual combinations of instruments, in many cases omitting key parts. He does so in the face of the preeminent musician Martopangrawit’s dictum (which he quotes) that “unnecessary innovation, adding or deleting something from the tradition,

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152 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 is improper.” More to the point, he does so in violation of the remarkably consistent principles that underlie what limited variation does exist in instrumentation. Manis’s idea is that highlighting different “timbral groups” might succeed in overcoming the “‘wall’ between Central Javanese gamelan and the common Western musical taste,” and thus further “the objective of increasing the number of appreciators among Western music lovers.” The recording is not without interest as a curious experiment, and it does allow one to very clearly hear certain instrumental parts that normally can be hard to pick out. But it absolutely cannot be taken as representative of standard Javanese performance practice. On most volumes, Manis only indirectly acknowledges his exercise of artistic direction, through the credits that note his responsibility for “Musical Design.” His interference is less extreme, resulting in less obvious distortions. But because it more insidiously misrepresents traditional Javanese performance practice, it is in some ways more disturbing. The volumes reviewed here represent many of the problems that make the series as a whole so frustrating. On the level of the selection of pieces, Manis indulges his obsession with certain rather specialized categories of ensemble and/or repertoire, including at least one example on nearly every volume. Gendhing kemanak—pieces in which a chorus sings a melody along with the spare accompaniment of kemanak (a pair of bananashaped idiophones), kendhang (drum), and structure-marking gongs and gong chimes—of which there are only a small number, are represented on four volumes in the series, including both reviewed here. Archaic gamelan pieces, of which there are even fewer, played either on archaic or modern instruments, are represented on three volumes, including both reviewed here. Pieces for loud instruments only, whether gendhing bonang or pieces from the repertoire of the semi-archaic gamelan sekaten, are represented on six volumes, including one on Court Music Treasures and two on the other volume recorded at the Kraton Surakarta (volume 6). Other artistic choices more directly misrepresent in ways that may not be so immediately obvious to a listener less familiar with Javanese music but that nonetheless go against important Javanese aesthetic values. One of these values is expansiveness. Individual pieces of gamelan music, especially the more “classical” pieces associated with the courts, can be quite long—twenty minutes or more. In less rarefied settings, shorter pieces are expanded or combined with longer pieces into suites that can last close to an hour. Even the shortest pieces presented independently of a suite blend into the meta-compositional schemes of musical events that flow for several hours. Contrary to this principle, Manis presents pieces as atomized units, sometimes—as in the case of Gendhing Gambirsawit on Court Music Treasures, in “an abbreviated version.” On this CD, as Sumarsam observes, there is no attempt to “simulate the ways in which gamelan is practiced in a typical klenengan (traditional gamelan playing) . . .

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rather, it is a selection of ‘classical’ court style pieces, each to be appreciated on its own.” Songs of Wisdom and Love goes even further, presenting each macapat and palaran as an individual track, which reinforces the impression from the notes that the single stanzas are self-sufficient poems. More directly contradicting Javanese performance practice, Manis includes a bawa, a poem sung as an introduction to a gamelan composition, as a self-contained song (track 12), and the first section of Gendhing kemanak “Duradasih,” the gendhing kemanak proper, without Ketawang “Kinanthi Duradasih,” a piece for full gamelan which any Javanese performance would always include. Though not as egregious as the severe editing on Gaya Yogyakarta (volume 5) which was roundly criticized by Roger Vetter (2008), the excerpting here displays a similar insensitivity to Javanese performance practice. Another important value is sonic fullness, a quality reflected by the Javanese word ramé, which can mean noisy in an undesirable sense, but more often has the positive connotations “bustling” and “lively.” On several tracks on the two volumes reviewed here, there are again alterations to standard instrumentation, not as severe as those on Moods and Timbres, but presumably with a similar goal of making the music more palatable to “Western musical taste.” In the case of Pathetan “Ageng” slendro nem on Songs of Wisdom and Love, a song normally sung by a dhalang accompanied by a small ensemble of soft instruments (rebab [bowed lute], gender, gambang, and suling) is performed by a single performer, Ibu Pringgo Hadiwiyono, who sings and accompanies herself on gender. This is not something that would ever be done in performance. It is, however, something that is routinely done for the purpose of study. Given that Ibu Pringgo is one of the most important representatives of the so-called female gender style, this is at least a valuable document, if not a fully satisfying performance. There is less positive to say about two other instances of altered instrumentation. The recording of Palaran “Pangkur” on Songs of Wisdom and Love includes senggakan, short phrases sung by a group of male singers that, as Sumarsam explains, “make the piece more exciting.” Any listener familiar with more representative performances would be hard-pressed, however, to characterize this one as exciting. Senggakan are included, but the noisier elements of keplok (interlocking clapping), siter, and suling are omitted. These parts are not strictly essential, but their absence leaves the performance empty and somewhat flat. Without them, the senggakan seem stiff and contrived. Even when they are expected, they should convey some semblance of spontaneity. Even more dissatisfying is the recording of Gendhing Bonang “Dhenggung Turularé” on Court Music Treasures. As Sumarsam explains in his notes, the “climax” of a gendhing bonang comes toward the end of the piece when musicians must produce a loud sound from their instrument in fast tempi. The intense percussive sound of bronze instruments is where musical delight lies.

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The increase in dynamic comes especially from the section of three to as many as twelve saron and demung, thick-slab-keyed instruments, that plays the skeletal balungan melody in unison. In this recording, this section is seemingly reduced to a single demung, with the result that the performance is unable to reach the kind of climax that Sumarsam describes. The recording thus pales in comparison to others released on the King Records from Japan—a recording of the same gendhing bonang played on a gamelan at the Mangkunegaran palace in Surakarta (Music of Mangkunegaran Solo I, KICC 5184/KICW1075), and of different gendhing bonang played on the same gamelan recorded on Court Music Treasures (Gendhing Bonang, Court Music of Surakarta III, KICC 5238/ KICW1077). These far superior recordings are not out of print, but are unfortunately no longer distributed in North America. Manis’s inclination to tinker does not invariably produce less than satisfactory results. But when the results are more interesting, it is because his suggestions stimulate the creative impulses of the musicians with whom he works, in particular those associated with STSI (now ISI) Surakarta, the state-sponsored performing arts academy in Solo. An example is the opening track on Songs of Wisdom and Love, in which a female chorus singing a metered version of macapat “Asmaradana” and a male vocalist singing an unmetered version of macapat “Pangkur” are quite effectively superimposed onto the archaic Gendhing “Kodok Ngorek.” As Sumarsam notes, “juxtaposing different elements of traditional material/idioms is one of the common practices in creating new gamelan pieces or arrangements” at STSI/ISI. But his other comment, that he does not know “the process by which the STSI musicians came up with this creation,” points to the lack of acknowledgement for creative input from the musicians. Indeed, the only indication besides Sumarsam’s commentary that this is something other than a traditional piece is a brief mention in the blurb on the back inlay, which notes how “the normally instrumental ‘Kodok Ngorek’ here presents an intriguing interplay of ‘mantra cum conjuration.’” Thankfully, Manis does on other volumes usually acknowledge the creative input of the performers in cases such as this. Anyone acquiring these or other volumes in this series expecting carefully documented recordings that consistently represent Javanese gamelan as it is currently practiced will, if already familiar this music, be disappointed. Those not as familiar with Javanese gamelan should be cautioned that this is not always what you will get. One should be aware that this series does not reflect the priorities of an ethnographer but rather those of an aesthete. The dedication of John Noise Manis (manis is “sweet” in Indonesian—his real name is Giovanni Sciarrino) to the music of Java is impressive, to be sure; this is a man who not only commissioned a gamelan but built a pendhapa in the foothills of the Italian Alps in which to house it. Information about this gamelan and all of the various

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activities undertaken and led by Manis is available from http://www.gamelan .it/ (accessed January 19, 2010). But his enthusiasm exceeds his experience and knowledge. When his somewhat idiosyncratic proclivities coincide with either traditional aesthetics or the creative imagination of contemporary musicians, the results can be good. When they don’t, they can be rather awful, at least for those who have come to appreciate Javanese gamelan on its own terms. Amidst all this, there is material of value, not only aesthetically but also ethnographically. But overall, rather than a reliable source of ethnographic recordings of Javanese music, this series is perhaps better approached as a curiously and at times problematically collaborative endeavor between excellent musicians and a well-meaning, if sometimes misguided, producer—as an example of a musical phenomenon that is itself worthy of further ethnographic investigation. Christopher J. Miller

Cornell University

References Vetter, Roger 2008 Review of Gamelan of Central Java V: Gaya Yogyakarta and Gamelan of Central Java VII: Edge of Tradition. Asian Music 39(1):142–46. Weiss, Sarah 2009 Review of Gamelan of Central Java II: Ceremonial Music and Gamelan of Central Java IV: Spiritual Music. Asian Music 40(1):157–61.

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About the Contributors Stephen Blum teaches ethnomusicology at the City University of New York Graduate Center. His recent publications include essays in Theorizing the Local: Music, Practice, and Experience in South Asia and Beyond, ed. R. Wolf (2009), Musical Improvisation: Art, Education, and Society, ed. G. Solis and B. Nettl (2009), and Musical Conflict: Ethnomusicological Perspectives, ed. J. M. O’Connell and S. El-Shawan Castelo-Branco (2010). Alexander M. Cannon is a doctoral candidate in ethnomusicology at the University of Michigan and the first recipient of the Judith Becker Award for Outstanding Graduate Student Research on Southeast Asia (2010). He has conducted fieldwork research as a Fulbright-Hays Fellow in Vietnam (2008–2009) where he studied the performance and pedagogical practices of three charismatic musicians of traditional music in Ho Chi Minh City and the Mekong Delta. Lee-Suan Chong is a researcher and ethnomusicology lecturer in the School of Arts, University Malaysia Sabah. She holds an MA in ethnomusicology from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, Hawai‘i. Her research interests focus on the relationship between mental aspects of human and musical sounds, musical effects on audience and performers, wisdom of Tibetan Buddhist music, and musical tradition of Sabah ethnic music. She has been active in Sabah ethnic music research; has lived in Tibetan Buddhist monasteries in India, Nepal, San Francisco, and Hawai‘i while researching; and is also a Buddhist practitioner. Bruno Deschênes is a composer, musician, ethnomusicologist, and a specialist in Japanese music, performing the shakuhachi. Additionally he is a journalist of World Music. His current research project concerns Western musicians who learn and teach non-Western music to Westerners. Stefan Fiol received his PhD from the University of Illinois (2008) after conducting two years of ethnographic research on vernacular and mass-mediated music in Uttarakhand, North India. He has carried out fieldwork projects and maintains research interests in the music of Paraguay, Chile, and Zimbabwe. He was the recipient of the Fulbright-Hays and Wenner-Gren dissertation research grants (2004–2005) and the American Institute of Indian Studies junior fellowship (2006–2007). Dr. Fiol has taught at the University of Illinois at © 2011 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819

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Urbana-Champaign (2002–2004), the University of Notre Dame (2005–2006), and the Eastman School of Music (2008–2010) in Rochester, New York. He is currently an Assistant Professor at the University of Cincinnati. Jesse A. Johnston currently teaches at Bowling Green State University. He completed a PhD degree in ethnomusicology from the University of Michigan in 2008 with a dissertation that focused on the history and performance of the cimbalom in the region of Moravia in the Czech Republic. His research interests include musical instruments, Javanese gamelan, and brass bands in the Philippines. Tse-Hsiung Lin is a full-time lecturer associated with Chien Kuo University in Taiwan. His main academic interest is the relationship between social realities and the role or function of music within the contexts of Chinese societies across the world. At the present time, Lin is completing his PhD in music at the University of California–San Diego, in addition to a postgraduate degree in Buddhism at Foguang University in Taiwan. Christopher J. Miller is a lecturer at Cornell University, teaching a course on Indonesian music and directing the Javanese gamelan ensemble. Miller is also a PhD candidate in ethnomusicology at Wesleyan University, completing a dissertation on contemporary art music composition in Indonesia. As well as a scholar, he is active as a performer of traditional Javanese gamelan. As a composer he has written numerous pieces for gamelan and collaborated with Indonesian composers. Kristina Nelson, an ethnomusicologist and Arabist, received her PhD from the University of California–Berkeley. She is the author of The Art of Reciting the Qur’an (University of Texas Press, 1986, and American University in Cairo Press, 2001). Dr. Nelson has taught at UC-Berkeley, UT-Austin, and the University of Khartoum. Additionally she was a Senior Research Fellow in the Arabic Lexicography Project that produced A Dictionary of Egyptian Arabic (ed. M. Hinds and B. El-Said. Beirut: Librairie du Liban, 1986) and has lectured internationally. She has lived and worked in the Middle East since 1983, where she was responsible for the regional Culture and Arts program of the Ford Foundation (1990–1997), founded the Arab Arts Project, and, since 2000, has worked as a freelance mentor and consultant to artists and arts organizations in the region and in Europe.


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158 Asian Music: Winter/Spring 2011 Lonán Ó Briain studied trumpet performance at the Royal Irish Academy of Music and the Royal Northern College of Music before developing an interest in ethnomusicology. Studying for an MA in World Music Studies by distance learning enabled him to spend a year in New Orleans rebuilding houses and studying jazz trumpet, and a year in Hanoi researching traditional Vietnamese music. He is currently a PhD candidate in ethnomusicology at the University of Sheffield where he is researching Hmong music in Vietnam. Lynda Paul is a PhD candidate in musicology at Yale University. She holds degrees from Yale University, the University of Chicago, the University of Rochester, and the Eastman School of Music. J. Lawrence Witzleben, Professor of ethnomusicology at the University of Maryland-College Park, is the author of Silk and Bamboo Music in Shanghai: The Jiangnan Sizhu Instrumental Ensemble Tradition (Kent State, 1995), winner of the Society for Ethnomusicology’s Alan Merriam Prize, and co-editor (with Robert C. Provine and Yosihiko Tokumaru) of the East Asia volume of The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music (2002). His research centers on longterm changes in Chinese instrumental performance, including presentation, repertoire, gender issues, popularization, and cross-cultural and intercultural fusion. His other interests include music of Southeast Asia, music and film, and the reception and transformation of ethnomusicology in Asia and elsewhere. He is currently Director of the Center for East Asian Studies at the University of Maryland and the editor of the journal Ethnomusicology.


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