Diasporas and Interculturalism in Asian Performing Arts: Translating Traditions (Routledgecurzon--Iias Asian Studies Series)

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Diasporas and Interculturalism in Asian Performing Arts

In an age of globalization, performance is increasingly drawn from intercultural creativity and located in multicultural settings. This volume is the first to focus on the performing arts of Asian diasporas in the context of modernity and multiculturalism. The chapters locate the contemporary performing arts as a discursive field in which the boundaries between tradition and translation and authenticity and hybridity are redefined and negotiated to create a multitude of meanings, and aesthetics in global and local contexts. A wide range of traditional and contemporary performing arts, including theatre, dance and music, and their practice across the globe are investigated in relation to: • • • • •

the location of the performing arts in late modernity; intercultural and transnational processes, agencies and forms; identity, ethnicity, notions of displacement, gender, interethnic power relations and intercultural negotiations; the social and political implications of performance; production and consumption of intercultural performances.

With contributions from scholars of Asian studies, theatre studies, anthropology, cultural studies, dance ethnology and musicology, this truly interdisciplinary work covers every aspect of the sociology of performance of the Asian diasporas. Hae-kyung Um is Lecturer in the School of Anthropological Studies at Queen’s University Belfast, Northern Ireland.

RoutledgeCurzon-IIAS Asian Studies Series Series Co-ordinator: Dick van der Meij Institute Director: Wim A.L. Stokhof The International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS) is a postdoctoral research centre based in Leiden and Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Its main objective is to encourage Asian Studies in the Humanities and the Social Sciences and to promote national and international co-operation in these fields. The Institute was established in 1993 on the initiative of the Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, Leiden University, Universiteit van Amsterdam and Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. It is mainly financed by The Netherlands Ministry of Education, Culture, and Sciences. IIAS has played an active role in co-ordinating and disseminating information on Asian Studies throughout the world. The Institute acts as an international mediator, bringing together various entities for the enhancement of Asian Studies both within and outside The Netherlands. The RoutledgeCurzon-IIAS Asian Studies series reflects the scope of the Institute. The Editorial Board consists of Erik Zurcher, Wang Gungwu, Om Prakash, Dru Gladney, Amiya K. Bagchi, James C. Scott, Jean-Luc Domenach and Frits Staal. Images of the ‘Modern Woman’ in Asia Edited by Shoma Munshi Nomads in the Sedentary World Edited by Anatoly M. Khazanov and Andre Wink Reading Asia Edited by Frans Husken and Dick van der Meij Tourism, Heritage and National Culture in Java Heidi Dahles Asian-European Perspectives Edited by Wim Stokhof and Paul van der Velde Law and Development in East and Southeast Asia Edited by Christoph Antons The Indian Ocean Rim Edited by Gwyn Campbell Rethinking Chinese Transnational Enterprises Edited by Leo Douw, Cen Huang and David Ip Indonesian Sea Nomads Cynthia Chou Diasporas and Interculturalism in Asian Performing Arts Edited by Hae-kyung Um Reading East Asian Writing Edited by Michel Hockx and Ivo Smits Sexual Cultures in East Asia Edited by Evelyn Micollier Hinduism in Modern Indonesia Edited by Martin Ramstedt

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Diasporas and Interculturalism in Asian Performing Arts Translating traditions Edited by Hae-kyung Um

First published 2005 by RoutledgeCurzon 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by RoutledgeCurzon 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. RoutledgeCurzon is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group © 2005 editorial matter and selection, Hae-kyung Um; individual chapters, the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. The publisher makes no representation, express or implied, with regard to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and cannot accept any legal responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions that may be made. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN 0-203-64190-6 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-67839-7 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–700–71586–X (Print edition)

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Contents

List of illustrations Notes on contributors Acknowledgements Introduction: understanding diaspora, identity and performance

vii viii xi 1

HAE-KYUNG UM

PART 1

Asian diasporas and performing arts 1 Identity, modernity and power in the performing arts among the Chinese diasporas

15 17

COLIN MACKERRAS

2 Morphing Chineseness: the changing image of Chinese music clubs in Singapore

30

FREDERICK LAU

3 Community, identity and performing arts: the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China

43

HAE-KYUNG UM

4 Dancing in the tomb of samba: Japanese-Brazilian presence/absence in the São Paulo carnival

61

SHUHEI HOSOKAWA

5 Noisy intersection: ethnicity, authenticity and ownership in Asian American taiko

75

DEBORAH WONG

6 Arangetrams and manufacturing identity: the changing role of a bharata natyam dancer’s solo debut in the context of the diaspora MAGDALEN GORRINGE

91

vi Contents 7 South Asian music in Britain

104

GERRY FARRELL WITH JAYEETA BHOWMICK AND GRAHAM WELCH

8 Idealization and change in the music of the Cambodian diaspora

129

GIOVANNI GIURIATI

9 Nagi music and community: belonging and displacement in Larantuka, eastern Indonesia

144

PAULA R. BOS

PART 2

Intercultural performances and transnational audiences

159

10 Jingju (Beijing/Peking ‘opera’) as international art and as transnational root of cultural identification: processes of creation and reception in Shanghai, Nanjing and Honolulu

161

ELIZABETH WICHMANN-WALCZAK

11 ‘Mirrors’ of West and ‘mirrors’ of East: elements of gagaku in post-war art music

176

YAYOI UNO EVERETT

12 Theatrical collaboration in the age of globalization: the Gekidan Kaitaisha–NYID intercultural collaboration project

204

PETER ECKERSALL

Afterword

221

COLIN MACKERRAS

Index

229

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Illustrations

Figures 7.1 7.2 7.3 11.1

South Asian music in Britain Pan-South Asian musical styles in Britain Mapping South Asian music in Britain Representative yo¯ gaku composers and schools

107 109 121 180

Tables 1.1 5.1

Statistics on performances in China Founding dates of some of the most well-known taiko groups

24 81

Examples 11.1a Etenraku in Banshiki-cho¯ 11.1b Yoritsune Matsudaira, Themes and Variations on Etenraku (1951), variation III 11.2 Olivier Messiaen, Sept Haïkaï (1962), mvt. IV: Gagaku 11.3 To¯ru Takemitsu, In an Autumn Garden (1973) 11.4 Makoto Shinohara, Yumeji for Japanese and Western instruments and mixed chorus (1992)

186 188 190 192 194

Contributors

Jayeeta Bhowmick is the Founder and Principal of Rabishikha, a London-based music school specializing in Rabindra sangit (songs by Rabindranath Tagore) and teaches Indian music in the Tower Hamlets schools of London. She studied Indian classical music from Pandit Mukundavishnu Kalvind in India and obtained her Abhigyan certificate in Rabindra sangit from Dakshinee, India, under the tutelage of Rano Guhathakurta and Sudeb Guhathakurta. She also co-authored the book, A Collection of Bengali Songs for Many Occasions (Tower Hamlets Education Inspectorate, 1995). Paula R. Bos is completing her Ph.D. in Cultural Anthropology at the University of Leiden, the Netherlands. She conducted field research in Flores, East Indonesia, where she studied the music and identity of various ethnic groups in the region. She is currently preparing publications on Florenese pop music and poetry. Peter Eckersall is Senior Lecturer in Theatre Studies in the School of Creative Arts, University of Melbourne, Australia. He has published widely on the theme of contemporary Japanese theatre and performance and is co-editor of Disorientations: Cultural Praxis in Theatre, Asia, Pacific, Australia (Monash Theatre Papers, 1999) and Alternatives: Debating Theatre Culture in an Age of Con-Fusion (P.I.E. Peter Lang, 2004). He is the dramaturg for the ‘Not Yet It’s Difficult’ (NYID) performance group. Yayoi Uno Everett is Assistant Professor of Music at Emory University, USA. Her current research focuses on interculturalism and post-1945 musical trends and she has co-edited a volume entitled Locating East Asia in Western Art Music (Wesleyan University Press, 2003) with Frederick Lau. She has also published articles on music by Elliott Carter, Pierre Boulez, Iannis Xenakis, John Cage, To¯ru Takemitsu, Lou Harrison and Louis Andriessen. Gerry Farrell studied music at Dartington College and Goldsmiths College, University of London, UK, where he gained a doctorate in

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ethnomusicology. He published widely on Indian music and related topics and is the author of Indian Music in Education (Cambridge University Press, 1994) and Indian Music and the West (Oxford University Press, 1997). Gerry Farrell was Senior Lecturer in Music at City University, London, until his untimely death in Spring 2003. Giovanni Giuriati is Professor of Ethnomusicology at the University of Palermo, Italy. He is presently Secretary General of the European Seminar of Ethnomusicology and Director of the Intercultural Institute of Comparative Music Studies at the Fondazione Cini, Venice. His areas of field research focus on Cambodia and Southern Italy. Magdalen Gorringe is a freelance bharata natyam dancer, workshop leader and researcher specializing in the use of bharata natyam as a broad educational tool. Her contribution to this volume was written while she was working as a researcher on the project ‘South Asian Dance in Britain – Negotiating Cultural Identity through Dance’, directed by Dr Andrée Grau at the Roehampton University of Surrey, UK. Shuhei Hosokawa is Associate Professor in the International Research Center for Japanese Studies, Kyoto, Japan. He is a co-editor of Karaoke Around the World: Global Technology, Local Singing (Routledge, 1998) and has published articles in Cultural Studies, the British Journal of Ethnomusicology and Popular Music. His research field includes the history and culture of Japanese Brazilian communities and Japanese popular music. Frederick Lau is Associate Professor of Music at the University of Hawai’i at Manoa, USA. He received his master and doctoral degrees from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His publications have included articles on Chinese music, music and politics, and nationalism. He is the co-editor of the volume Locating East Asia in Western Art Music (Wesleyan University Press, 2003). His current research is concerned with Chinese music in diaspora. Colin Mackerras is Foundation Professor in the School of International Business and Asian Studies, Griffith University, Brisbane, Australia. He has written numerous books and scholarly articles on Chinese politics, history and culture, especially on its minority nationalities and theatre. Among his many books are China’s Ethnic Minorities and Globalisation (RoutledgeCurzon, 2003) and Peking Opera (Oxford University Press, 1997). He is the editor-in-chief of the journal Asian Ethnicity, which comes out three times a year from Taylor & Francis. Hae-kyung Um teaches Ethnomusicology at Queen’s University Belfast, UK, where she completed her Ph.D. on the traditional Korean musical drama p’ansori. Her regional research interests in East Asia extend to the contemporary practice and innovation of other traditional art forms

x Contributors in Korea and Asian popular culture. Her current research is concerned with the Korean diaspora in the former USSR and China, focusing on their performing arts, cultural memory and identity. Graham Welch is Professor and Chair of Music Education in the Institute of Education, University of London, UK. He is also Chair of the Society for Education, Music and Psychology Research (SEMPRE), recent past Co-Chair of the Research Commission of the International Society for Music Education (ISME) and holds Visiting Professorships at Sydney, Limerick and Surrey Roehampton. His research and publications embrace a variety of aspects of musical development and music education, teacher education, psychology of music, voice science, special education and disability. Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak is Professor and Director of Asian Theatre in the Department of Theatre and Dance, the University of Hawai’i at Manoa, USA. Her scholarly publications concern the performance structure and aesthetics of Chinese theatre and the negotiations involved in the creation of new performance pieces, as well as the music of jingju. She has also translated and directed five jingju plays in Hawai’i, three of which have toured to mainland China at Chinese invitation, most recently in May 2002. Deborah Wong is Associate Professor of Music and Director of the Center for Asian Pacific America in the University of California, Riverside, USA. She has written extensively on the musics of Thailand and Asian America and her publications include Sounding the Center: History and Aesthetics in Thai Buddhist Ritual (University of Chicago Press, 2001) and Speak It Louder: Asian Americans Making Music (Routledge, 2004).

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Acknowledgements

This volume is derived from the two panels ‘Asian Diaspora’ and ‘Interculturalism and Transnationalism’ which were part of the international conference on Audiences, Patrons, and Performers in the Performing Arts of Asia. The conference, which was held in Leiden University, 23–7 August 2000, was organized by the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS) and the European Foundation for Chinese Music Research (CHIME) in Leiden. Above all, I wish to thank all the contributors to this volume for their enthusiasm, efforts and patience. I am deeply saddened by Gerry Farrell’s early death in 2003 – his absence will always be felt by many of us. I am especially indebted to Professor Colin Mackerras and Dr Colin Irwin for their generous advice and encouragement for this project. I also should express my thanks to my colleagues and associates at the IIAS for their constructive and critical comments on various issues that became integral parts of this book. They are Martin Ramstedt, Dick van der Meij, Thomas Brujin, Hanne de Bruin, Matthew Cohen and Wim van Zanten, to name just a few. I am very grateful to Mrs Rosemary Robson of the Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology who kindly proofread all the chapters. The mistakes that remain are my own. Thanks are also due to Professor Stokhof and Dr Rogier Busser of the IIAS who patiently waited for this book to be completed. The able hands of Stephanie Rogers at RoutledgeCurzon and Sarah Moore at Florence Production were also indispensable to the production of this book. Finally, this book would not have come to fruition without the support and assistance of the IIAS, which provided me with an intellectually stimulating environment from 1998 to 2000.

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Introduction Understanding diaspora, identity and performance Hae-kyung Um

In the past several decades the study of diasporas1 and transnational cultures has become increasingly important in many fields of intellectual investigation associated with modernity and post-modernist culture.2 In the current context of late modernity and globalization, performance is increasingly drawn from intercultural creativity and located in multicultural milieu. This book Diasporas and Interculturalism in Asian Performing Arts: Translating Traditions brings together a collection of essays devoted to this topic in the context of modernity and globalization. A wide range of performing arts, including the theatre, dance and music, of the Asian diasporas and diverse intercultural performance practice across the world is examined by scholars of Asian studies, theatre studies, anthropology, cultural studies, dance ethnology, ethnomusicology and musicology. The aim of this volume is to investigate the various artistic processes that take place in the transnational and intercultural sphere of modernity around the following general themes and objectives: •

•

•

The location of the performing arts in late modernity as a discursive field in which the boundary between ‘tradition and translation’ and ‘authenticity and hybridity’ are continually negotiated and redefined to create a multitude of meanings and aesthetics in global and local contexts. The description and analysis of intercultural and transnational processes, agencies and forms to explore the complex cultural and political reality of late modernity. More specifically, the examination of Asian diasporas across the globe to better understand the changing geopolitics and varying post-colonial conditions in which these diasporas create their performances. In these cultural and political contexts, questions of identity, ethnicity, notions of displacement, gender, interethnic power relations, intercultural negotiations and the social and political implications of performance are addressed through an examination of the varieties of cultural processes associated with diasporas and their performing arts.

2 Hae-kyung Um •

The various ways in which transnational and intercultural performances are produced and consumed in multicultural, multi-ethnic and post-colonial arenas.

Some of the key concepts central to an understanding of these issues include ‘diaspora’, ‘Asian’, ‘identity’ and ‘performance’. A review of these terms is given below in an effort to provide a foundation for a theoretical framework in which the different contributions to this volume can be linked. It is also a point of departure for an interdisciplinary project and cross-cultural study of the ‘sociology of performance’ upon which this book intends to embark.

Diaspora and its evolving definitions The term ‘diaspora’, drawn from the ancient Greek words dia (through) and speirein (to scatter or sow), refers to a dispersion or spreading of people belonging to one nation or having a common culture. The original and restrictive usage of the term Diaspora, with a capital ‘D’, is normally applied to the dispersion of Jews after the Babylonian and Roman conquests of Palestine,3 and then the dispersion of Greeks and Armenians. In the last decade of the twentieth century the concept of ‘diaspora’ has undergone considerable transformation from this narrowly defined criterion to a more complex and fluid notion of displacement. A number of scholars have also attempted to identify a common set of features that define this modern understanding of diaspora. For example, Khachig Tölölyan suggests ‘the term diaspora that once described Jewish, Greek, and Armenian dispersion now shares meanings with a larger semantic domain that includes words like immigrants, expatriate, refugee, guest-worker, exile community, overseas community, ethnic community’ (Tölölyan 1991: 4–5). He also adds that the term diaspora which was ‘once saturated with the meanings of exile, loss, dislocation, powerlessness and plain pain became a useful and even desirable way to describe a range of dispersions’ (Tölölyan 1996: 9). In this sense, the notion of diaspora is ‘both objective and subjective’, as Marienstras (1989: 125) suggested earlier. Additionally, the time factor, according to Marienstras (ibid.), is also a necessary condition for diaspora because ‘its reality is proved in time and tested by time’. Safran, on the other hand, argues that the term diaspora should be limited to populations which share several of six characteristics. They include: (1) dispersal from a specific original centre to two or more peripheral, or foreign, regions; (2) collective memory, vision, or myth about their original homeland – its physical location, history and achievements; (3) sense of alienation and insulation from their host society; (4) idealization of their ancestral homeland as their true, ideal home and as the place to which they or their descendants would or should eventually return; (5)

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commitment to maintenance or restoration of their original homeland and to its safety and prosperity; and (6) ethnocommunal consciousness and solidarity defined by an ongoing relationship with the homeland (Safran 1991: 83–4). Chaliand and Rageau suggest four less demanding criteria, taken separately or together, that could constitute the specific fact of a diaspora. Their concept also places its emphasis on ‘forced’ migration as a prime feature as follows: (1) the collective forced dispersion of a religious and/or ethnic group; (2) the collective memory which transmits both the historical facts that precipitated the dispersion and a cultural heritage; (3) the will to survive as a minority by transmitting a heritage; and (4) the time factor (Chaliand and Rageau 1995: xiv–xvii). Another scholar, Van Hear, holds a relatively flexible view of the definition of diaspora with three minimal criteria: (1) the dispersion of a population from a homeland to two or more other territories; (2) the enduring presence abroad which may include movement between the homeland and the new host; and (3) social, economic, political or cultural exchange between or among the spatially separated diaspora or transnational community. In recent times, according to him, both the formation and unmaking of a diaspora have accelerated and these regroupings may involve both voluntary and involuntary movements of people (Van Hear 1998: 6). The idea of diaspora, according to Cohen, varies greatly depending on each case. For example, ancient Greeks thought of diaspora as migration and colonization, while for Jews, Armenians and Palestinians the term diaspora signifies a collective trauma. Some of these different exemplary cases, which Cohen labels as the ‘typology of diaspora’, would include, for example, the ‘victim diaspora’ (African and Armenian), ‘labour diaspora’ (Indian), ‘imperial diaspora’ (British), ‘trade diaspora’ (Chinese and Lebanese) and ‘cultural diaspora’ (Caribbean). Some diaspora groups may take dual or multiple forms, while others change their character over time (Cohen 1997: ix–x). For Clifford, the term diaspora is ‘a signifier, not simply of transnationality and movement, but of political struggles to define the local, as distinctive community, in historical contexts of displacement’ and can be perceived as ‘a loosely coherent, adaptive constellation of responses to dwelling-in-displacement’ (Clifford 1997: 287). These moving groups and individuals are part of what Appadurai (1996: 33) termed ‘ethnoscape’ and have constituted an essential feature of the shifting world in which we live. And, yet, Vertovec has found it helpful to distinguish the meaning of diaspora as a ‘social form’, or ‘type of consciousness’ or ‘mode of cultural production’ (Vertovec 1997),4 although more than one of these three criteria may apply to most diasporas. Soysal’s definition of diaspora, on the other hand, is ‘a past invented for the present, and is perpetually laboured into shapes and meanings consistent with the present’ (Soysal 2000: 2). She also

4 Hae-kyung Um maintains that diaspora ‘indexes timeless recollection and animates identity politics’ (ibid.: 13).5 More recently, Butler has attempted to encapsulate the concept of diaspora into four basic features that include: (1) a minimum of two destinations after dispersal; (2) some relationship to an actual or imagined homeland; (3) self-awareness of the group’s identity; and (4) a temporal-historical dimension over at least two generations. While stressing an urgent need for a systematic and comparative study of different diasporas, she suggests that the reality of transnationalism and globalization at the present time gives rise to diaspora as both alternative and increasingly common forms of community (Butler 2001: 192–5).

Concept of Asian diaspora, identity and performance Just as the idea of diaspora is complex, the definition of Asian can also vary a great deal. The term ‘Asian’ normally refers to an actual geographical region of origin, which covers a vast area of the globe from North Asia to South, Southeast and Central Asia. With respect to racial and ethnic association, especially in various transnational contexts, the term ‘Asian’ can be defined in different ways. For example, ‘Asian’ in a North American context would include peoples of such varied origins as Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Korean and Vietnamese (see Espiritu 1992, AguilarSan Juan 1994 and Sung 1996).6 ‘Asian’ in a British context, on the other hand, usually refers to migrants and their offspring from South Asia (India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka) as well as the Asian descendants of Asians from East African countries such as Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda (Troyna and Cashmore 1996: 40). While a variety of geo-political forces and socioeconomic conditions continually give shape to the formation and reformation of a diaspora community (Van Hear 1998), ethnic groups are also formed and changed in encounters among different peoples creating a pan-ethnicity, for example, ‘Asian Americans’ (see Wong’s chapter) and ‘Asians in Britain’ (see chapters by Farrell et al. and Gorringe). The development of pan-ethnicity in modern states, Espiritu suggests, is associated with both the competitive advantage of large-scale identities in ethnic politics and as a response to the institutionally relevant ethnic categories in the political system of the given state (Espiritu 1992: 10–11). For states, pan-ethnicity can also be useful as a unitary classification and label that helps political and administrative efficacy. For example, the Singaporean state defines ‘Chinese’ as a racial category along with ‘Malay’, ‘Indian’ and ‘Eurasian’ (see Lau’s chapter). However, when considering the cultural and linguistic diversities within each of these four official categories, the definitions in Singapore are politically constructed in a pan-ethnic way. The Malay identity in Indonesia is another type of pan-ethnicity, which is supposed to be ascribed by both the language (Malay) and religion (Islam), although this definition cannot be

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accurately applied to all the different Malay peoples in the region (see chapter by Bos). Then, how can ethnicity in the context of diaspora be understood? Many different theories of ethnicity have been put forward, for example, Clifford Geertz’s primordial, Paul Brass’s instrumental and Fredrik Barth’s transactional approaches, to name a few (see Hutchinson and Smith 1996 for a review of these concepts). For diasporas, in particular, ethnicity always involves the movement of people and cultures through time and space. Therefore, as Hartely suggests, it is not only a ‘looking back’ to the past that must be taken into account, but also the making of new communities and transformation of traditions, neighbourhoods and cultures (Hartely 2002: 66). Brass, in a similar way to Marienstras’s understanding of diaspora (Marienstras 1989: 125), also defines ethnicity in terms of objective attributes and subjective feelings (Brass 1996: 85). It therefore follows that the ethnic identity of diasporas can, likewise, be defined by both objective attributes (e.g. dispersal from a place of origin) and subjective feelings (e.g. self-awareness of group identity, sense of alienation, memory of homeland, etc.). These objective and subjective components of diaspora are sustained and reformulated through the changing triadic relationships that exist between the homeland (real or imagined), transnational community and new home. The terms diaspora and ethnic minority are often used interchangeably. Most diasporas would, in fact, belong to a criterion of minority in their host country with respect to the size of population and their economic, social and political power. In the case of Chinese transnational communities, for example, they are often socially and economically successful in their new homes as a ‘middleman minority’ (Zenner 1991) although they also hold a dominant position in Singapore as the political majority.7 Anderson suggests that communities can be distinguished by the style in which they are imagined (Anderson 1991: 6). However, for diaspora communities such imagining by themselves and by ‘others’ is necessarily a very complex enterprise indeed. And if performances, especially dramatic performances, are the manifestations par excellence of human social processes (Turner 1988: 84), dramatic performances in diaspora will manifest a variety of social processes in transnational context, including various styles in which a diaspora community is imagined. However, the diaspora experience, in the words of Hall, ‘is defined not by essence or purity, but by the recognition of a necessary heterogeneity and diversity; by a conception of “identity” which lives with and through, not despite, difference; by hybridity’ (Hall 1990: 235).8 It necessarily follows that the diaspora performances and their ethnic and cultural identities are also defined by hybridity rather than by essence or purity. On the one hand, the notion of tradition, associated with the diaspora memory of homeland, is crucial in the construction and representation of diaspora identity. Various ways in which performing arts, such as music,

6 Hae-kyung Um dance and theatre, are produced and consumed in the different Asian diasporas are described in this book. These case studies illustrate how aesthetic traditions of homeland can be symbolically used as a basis of self and social identity of transnational community. Conversely, this diaspora need for cultural identity also helps to secure the preservation and promotion of a particular aesthetic tradition at home (for example, see chapters by Mackerras, Gorringe, Giuriati and Wichmann-Walczak). It seems to be the case that the different sets of migration and post-migration conditions of each diaspora community shape and revise their idea of homeland and its tradition. For example, with regard to the Cambodian refugees in the US and France, the traumatic departure and the subsequent radical displacement from Cambodia contributed to their idealized memory of homeland and tradition (see Giuriati’s chapter). The idea of homeland, for the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China, also had to change when they had to choose South or North Korea as their homeland of allegiance at the end of the Cold War (see Um’s chapter). On the other hand, the translation of their ‘imagined’ tradition, cultural adaptation and innovation in their ‘new home’ gives shape to their hybrid culture and multiple identities which cut across and intersect geo-political and national boundaries. For example, while many diaspora performances have their roots in their homeland, some of the newly created hybrid performing genres, such as bhangra developed in the South Asian community of Britain (see the chapter by Farrell et al.), have gained popularity among much wider audiences beyond their own diaspora communities. Performing arts in diaspora are often produced and consumed in multicultural, multi-ethnic and sometimes post-colonial arenas in which a variety of artistic endeavours, aesthetic values and political interests interact and compete with each other. For example, different practices and aesthetics of the Japanese taiko drumming to be found in the US manifest a number of identity politics associated with ethnicity, questions of authenticity, cultural ownership and gender issues (see Wong’s chapter). In the case of the Japanese migrant community in Brazil, their multiple cultural identities are articulated through their participation in Brazil’s carnivals by way of representing themselves in stereotypical Japanese images such as samurai and geisha (see Hosokawa’s chapter). In this dynamic context, performing arts in diaspora can be interpreted as an outcome of intercultural artistic processes, signification of multiple cultural identities and expressions of political aspirations and power, all of which are negotiated and appropriated by the diaspora themselves as well as their host and home countries in the post-modern context of globalization. The product and, sometimes, the object of these dynamics is multiculturalism in practice. But multiculturalism covers a wide range of meanings from, for example, ideology and discourse to multiculturalism as a cluster of policies and their application. At the ideological level, multi-

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culturalism includes acceptance of different ethnic groups, religions, cultural practices and linguistic diversity within or as part of a society. At the level of policy, multiculturalism covers a variety of formal state policies with the aim of maintaining harmony between diverse ethnic groups and structuring the relationships between the state and ethnic minorities (Todd 1996: 244). Such management of ethnically pluralistic societies, therefore, necessitates cultural and nationality policies that are specifically pertinent to the needs of each state, such as China, Singapore, the former Soviet Union, Brazil, the US, Britain or Indonesia. Although multiculturalism is generally associated with a high degree of accommodation and tolerance for diversity, it does not necessarily stand for liberalism in all its forms especially when the identity politics of ethnic groups are seen to conflict with the interests of the state. Foucault defines ‘power’ as a ‘discursive field’ in which the multiplicity of force relations are confronted by a multiplicity of points of resistance (Foucault 1981). This notion of power is, perhaps, useful in our understanding of diaspora politics of performance as the arts and artists in diaspora are often associated with a culture of alterity or a space of weak power. Bhabha suggests that diaspora artists and writers, who find themselves between cultures, often in the marginality, are hybrid agencies who find their voice in a dialectic. Their hybrid strategy opens up a space of negotiation where power is unequal but its articulation may be equivocal (Bhabha 1996: 58). Another, yet very different, form of hybrid strategy can be found in intercultural performance, which is the focus of the second part of this book. Many artists throughout the world have appropriated from the aesthetic traditions of other cultures and employed a variety of techniques of intercultural performance, from simple imitation to a synthesis that comes to define a new genre (in addition to the chapters by WichmannWalczak, Everett and Eckersall also see Born and Hesmondhalgh 2000). However, in recent times the term ‘intercultural performance’ has been used almost exclusively to refer to a form of modern ‘intercultural theatre’ such as Peter Brook’s Mahabharata or William Sun and Faye Fei’s China Dream, produced and staged in the West. An unequal balance of power and artistic exchange, found in these theatrical collaborations or artistic appropriations, has often been a source of contention expressed by many non-Western as well as Western critics (see Eckersall’s chapter, Pavis 1996 and Lavrijsen 1998). But, in addition to questions of cultural authority and ownership, intercultural performance also involves initiatives in creativity and innovation (see the chapters by Wichmann-Walczak and Uno Everett). Performing arts in diaspora are necessarily intercultural by nature while intercultural performances are not always associated with diaspora existence but are products of modernity and globalization. Perhaps there is a place for Turner’s idealistic view of performance in an idealized modern world:

8 Hae-kyung Um For the first time we may be moving towards a sharing of cultural experiences, the manifold ‘forms of objectivated mind’ restored through performance to something like their pristine affectual contouring. This may be a humble step for mankind away from the destruction that surely awaits our species if we continue to cultivate deliberate mutual misunderstanding in the interests of power and profit. (Turner 1982: 19) But this view almost seems to deny the political and social realities described in such variety and detail by the contributing authors to this book.

Practice and debate in Asian diaspora and intercultural performance This book consists of 12 chapters written by different contributors and is grouped into two interrelated parts followed by an Afterword. ‘Part 1: Asian diasporas and performing arts’ explores diverse performance practices and cultural realities of different Asian transnational communities. They include the Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Cambodian, South Asian and Indonesian diasporas in Asia, America and Europe. ‘Part 2: Intercultural performances and transnational audiences’ is concerned with different artistic and cultural interfaces, between tradition and modernity, East and West and artists and audiences. Part 1: Asian diasporas and performing arts In the first chapter Colin Mackerras provides background ideas about the nature of diasporas and, in particular, those relevant to China, and discusses the role of the performing arts in their modernizing culture and in establishing their identity. He argues that Chinese diasporas can be conceived in different ways, but the dichotomy between tradition and modernity remains as vibrant a theme in the culture of the Chinese as we enter the twenty-first century as it has been in the recent past. The Chinese diasporas and the performing arts cultures they are creating are very much a part of the process of globalization, as indeed are the performing arts in China itself. Although in some ways globalization weakens cultural identity, reaction against it can also have precisely the opposite effect. In his chapter ‘Morphing Chineseness: the changing image of Chinese music clubs in Singapore’, Frederick Lau describes the changing images of two amateur Chinese music clubs in contemporary Singapore in order to illustrate the ‘slippage’ of Singaporean ‘Chineseness’ since the 1920s. Through an examination of the history of these two clubs and their current activities, he argues that the Singaporean notions of ‘Chineseness’ – different from those in other Chinese enclaves of Southeast Asia, or

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elsewhere – cannot be separated from, or located outside, Singaporean national ideology and discursive practice. The third chapter is concerned with a comparative study of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China. Hae-kyung Um discusses the dynamic relationships that exist between geo-politics and national policies and their subsequent influences on the creation of ethnic community boundaries. She describes and analyses how the performing arts of these two different Korean diasporas are used to construct and represent a multitude of identities in these multicultural societies. In ‘Dancing in the tomb of samba: Japanese-Brazilian presence/absence in the São Paulo carnival’, Shuhei Hosokawa examines Brazil’s dominant ideologies of racial democracy and miscegenation, typically expressed in the carnival, from an ethnic point of view. This is done by questioning how the Japanese immigrants have observed and participated in the largest Brazilian national festival and how they have been represented in the carnival songs and parades. This chapter concludes with his critical argument on the ethnic position and cultural representation of this minority group in Brazil’s most well known social performance. In her contribution, ‘Noisy intersection: ethnicity, authenticity and ownership in Asian American taiko’, Deborah Wong focuses on the diaspora phenomenon of taiko ( Japanese large barrel drumming) that has recently emerged to represent new sensibilities associated with Asian American identity. She addresses the ways in which a variety of values and ideology are transformed and refashioned in this Asian diaspora through taiko drumming and offers broader perspectives on Asian American cultural politics associated with gender, Orientalist representation and interethnic negotiation. Magdalen Gorringe’s chapter, ‘Arangetrams and manufacturing identity: the changing role of a bharata natyam dancer’s solo debut in the context of the diaspora’, examines the variety of cultural and social roles of a dancer’s solo debut in a South Indian dance tradition found both in India and in the South Asian diaspora in Great Britain. Through her description and analysis of different performances, she argues that these solo dance debuts, which are often compared with weddings, serve as a means to express and propagate the cultural ideals of South Asianness in this diaspora community. In their joint chapter on ‘South Asian music in Britain’, Gerry Farrell, Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch provide us with a broad musical overview of South Asian communities in Britain in order to explore the complex connections between language, religion, regional background, demography and musical genres. They illustrate the relationships that exist between local and global manifestations of South Asian music in Britain, which has its roots in the diverse musical cultures of the Indian Sub-continent and – particularly in its popular forms – has a global market with far-reaching cultural implications.

10 Hae-kyung Um Giovanni Giuriati’s ‘Idealization and change in the music of the Cambodian diaspora’ describes the role of music among the Cambodian diaspora in the US and France. He discusses the complex relationships that exist between the Cambodian refugees’ idealized conception of musical life in their country of origin and the actual musical life and changes in Cambodia today. He argues that over a 20-year span it is possible to trace the process of musical adjustment of this migrant community’s integration into the life of their host country. In realizing that their imaginary idea of homeland does not match the contemporary cultural realities of Cambodia these refugees react and express different attitudes towards the performing arts in their home country. In her chapter, ‘Nagi music and community: belonging and displacement in Larantuka, eastern Indonesia’, Paula Bos describes and analyses the complex relationship that exists between the music and ethnic identity of the Nagi people. This Malay-speaking Catholic minority of Larantuka on the island of Flores in Eastern Indonesia consider themselves to be part of the Portuguese diaspora. She illustrates the ways in which musical, linguistic, religious and historical influences give shape to their hybrid music and identity in the context of the Malay/Portuguese culture in Asia. Part 2: intercultural performances and transnational audiences Part 2 begins with Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak’s chapter. By way of comparing the different performance practice of the jingju (Peking opera) groups in Shanghai, Nanjing and Honolulu, she discusses how the boundary between ‘tradition’ and ‘innovation’ and the notion of ‘creative authority’ are continually negotiated and redefined by the artists and audiences in three different contexts. She elucidates how the contrasting aesthetic values associated with Peking opera, as a cultural identification of ‘Chineseness’ and as an international performing art, create both a discursive field of identity struggle and creative art in local, national and transnational contexts. Yayoi Uno Everett’s chapter explores cross-cultural borrowings in the post-war contemporary art music of Western and Japanese classical composers who have incorporated musical resources of gagaku (court music of Japan) into their compositions. She focuses her analysis on the social, political, aesthetic and musical dimensions that have given shape to the ways in which these composers have integrated elements of gagaku music into their creations. She addresses how the different approaches of these composers toward ‘synthesis’ or ‘fusion’ of cultural elements and the subsequent creations of new aesthetics can relate to broader issues of globalization, transnationalism and post-modernism.

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In his chapter, ‘Theatrical collaboration in the age of globalization: the Gekidan Kaitaisha–NYID intercultural collaboration project’, Peter Eckersall argues for localized cross/intercultural relationships in the live performing arts as being effective sites of resistance to the rise of new forms of national and/or cultural essentialism and the forces of economic globalization. Using the intercultural collaboration project of the Gekidan Kaitaisha group in Tokyo and the Not Yet It’s Difficult (NYID) group in Melbourne as a model, he questions conventional assumptions of intercultural theatre practice as it has developed. Afterword Finally, Colin Mackerras draws the discussion together by specifying the principal themes which have emerged from the various chapters. He summarizes the main conclusions on questions of identities, power relations and the performing arts of Asian diasporas in both the global and local contexts. Despite the forces of modernization and globalization that give so much shape to the cultural spheres of our time, he concludes, ‘diversity will remain a hallmark of world culture for the indefinite future’. It necessarily follows that this diversity is both the origin and the product of human creativity and artistic endeavour, which this book attempts to explore.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5

6 7

The number of diasporas and minorities also appears to have increased dramatically since the break-up of the former Soviet Union and subsequent realignment of power relations in both international and interethnic politics. For example, according to The World Directory of Minorities, published in 1997, it is estimated that 10 to 20 per cent of the world’s population belong to several thousand different minority groups and subgroups (Minority Rights Group 1997: iii). For example, a critical mass of studies have been made on the history, politics, ethnicity, literature, visual arts and music of the African, Caribbean, Jewish, Indian and Chinese diasporas. Collins English Dictionary (second edition, 1986). In his entry to the Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, Vertovec adds the fourth criterion of ‘a new kind of problem’ for the host country (Vertovec 1996: 99–101). Soyal (2000) also critiques the dominant conceptualizations of diaspora that presumptively accept the formation of tightly bounded communities and solidarities on the basis of common cultural and ethnic references between places of origin and arrival. Fung argues that, in the North American context, ‘Asian’ is often used as an acceptable replacement for ‘oriental’. It is because the term ‘Asian’ seems to carry less colonial baggage (Fung 1994: 162). Unlike European majorities in North America and Australia this Chinese majority consider themselves to be part of the Chinese transnational community as does the government in China. Also see Wang (1991) and Suryadinata (1997) for the varieties of Chinese transnational identities.

12 Hae-kyung Um 8

The term hybridity, which originally referred to an amalgamation and mixture, is now understood as a variety of dialectic articulations, which include, for example, a dialogism that Bakhtin describes as an ability to be simultaneously the same and different, or Bhabha’s notion of hybridity, in colonial settings in particular, to be a strategic reversal of domination through disavowal (Cashmore 1996: 165).

References Aguilar-San Juan, Karin (ed.) (1994) The State of Asian America: Activism and Resistance in the 1990s, Boston: South End Press. Anderson, Benedict (1991) Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso. Appadurai, Arjun (1996) Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization, Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Bhabha, Homi (1996) ‘Culture’s In-Between’, in Stuart Hall and Paul de Gay (eds) Questions of Cultural Identity, London: Sage Publications, pp. 53–60. Born, Georgina and David Hesmondhalgh (eds) (2000) Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music, Berkeley: University of California Press. Brass, Paul R. (1996) ‘Ethnic Groups and Ethnic Identity Formation’, in John Hutchinson and Anthony D. Smith (eds) Ethnicity, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 85–90. Butler, Kim (2001) ‘Defining Diaspora, Redefining a Discourse’, Diaspora, 10/2: 189–220. Cashmore, Ellis (1996) ‘Hybridity’, in Ellis Cashmore et al. Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 164–6. Chaliand, Gérard and Jean-Pierre Rageau (1995) The Penguin Atlas of Diasporas, New York: Viking Penguins. Clifford, James (1997) ‘Diasporas’, in Montserrat Guibernau and John Rex (eds) The Ethnicity Reader: Nationalism, Multiculturalism and Migration, Cambridge: Polity Press, pp. 283–90. Cohen, Robin (1997) Global Diasporas: An Introduction, London: University College London Press. Espiritu, Yen Le (1992) Asian American Panethnicity: Bridging Institutions and Identities, Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Foucault, Michel (1981) The History of Sexuality, vol. 1, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Fung, Richard (1994) ‘Seeing Yellow: Asian Identities in Film and Video’, in Karin Aguilar-San Juan (ed.) The State of Asian America: Activism and Resistance in the 1990s, Boston: South End Press, pp. 161–72. Hall, Stuart (1990) ‘Cultural Identity and Diaspora’, in Jonathan Rutherford (ed.) Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, London: Lawrence and Wishhart, pp. 222–37. Hartely, John (2002) Communication, Cultural and Media Studies: The Key Concepts, London and New York: Routledge. Hutchinson, John and Anthony D. Smith (eds) (1996) Ethnicity, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lavrijsen, Ria (ed.) (1998) Global Encounters in the World of Art: Collisions of Tradition and Modernity, Amsterdam: Royal Tropical Institute. Marienstras, Richard (1989) ‘On the Notion of Diaspora’, in Gérard Chaliand (ed.) Minority Peoples in the Age of Nation-States, London: Pluto Press, pp. 119–25.

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Minority Rights Group (ed.) (1997) World Directory of Minorities, London: Minority Rights International. Pavis, Patrice (ed.) (1996) The Intercultural Performance Reader, London, Routledge. Safran, William (1991) ‘Diaspora in Modern Societies: Myths of Homeland and Return’, Diaspora, 1/1: 83–99. Soysal, Yasemin Nuhoglu (2000) ‘Citizenship and Identity: Living in Diasporas in Post-War Europe?’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 23/1: 1–15. Sung, Betty Lee (1996) ‘Asian Americans’, in Ellis Cashmore et al. Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, London and New York: Routledge. Suryadinata, Leo (ed.) (1997) Ethnic Chinese as Southeast Asians, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Todd, Roy (1996) ‘Multiculturalisms’, in Ellis Cashmore et al. Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 244–6. Tölölyan, Khachig (1991) ‘The Nation-State and Its Others: In Lieu of a Preface’, Diaspora, 1/1: 3–7. –––– (1996) ‘Rethinking Diaspora(s): Stateless Power in the Transnational Moment’, Diaspora, 5/1: 3–36. Troyna, Barry and Ellis Cashmore (1996) ‘Asians in Britain’, in Ellis Cashmore et al. Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 40–3. Turner, Victor (1982) From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play, New York: PAJ Publications (A Division of Performing Arts Journal, Inc.). –––– (1988) The Anthropology of Performance, first published in 1987, New York: PAJ Publications (A Division of Performing Arts Journal, Inc.). Van Hear, Nicholas (1998) New Diasporas: The Mass Exodus, Dispersal and Regrouping of Migrant Communities, London: University College London Press. Vertovec, Steven (1996) ‘Diaspora’, in Ellis Cashmore et al. Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 99–101. –––– (1997) ‘Three Meanings of “Diaspora”, Exemplified among South Asian Religions’, Diaspora, 6/3: 277–300. Wang, Gungwu (1991) China and the Chinese Overseas, Singapore: Times Academic Press. Zenner, Walter (1991) Minorities in the Middle, Albany: State University of New York.

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Part 1

Asian diasporas and performing arts

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1

Identity, modernity and power in the performing arts among the Chinese diasporas Colin Mackerras

One of the most prominent features of the Chinese nation is that it is the world’s most populous. According to the 2000 census, the population of China itself was 1.26583 billion (NBS 2002: 95), with Hong Kong, Macau and Taiwan accounting for approximately an additional 29.5 million (Mackerras 2001: 212). The number of Chinese people living outside China is very difficult to calculate for a variety of reasons including the vagueness, in many cases, of who precisely should be counted as Chinese, but one calculation put the number worldwide in 1993 at 43.2 million (Turner 2002: 445). The two countries with the largest number of Chinese were Indonesia and Thailand, with 7.3 and 6 million respectively in 1990 (Ye 2000: 203). The country with the highest proportion of Chinese, outside China, is Singapore, where, according to the 2000 census, the Chinese numbered 2,505,379, or 76.8 per cent (Turner 2002: 1404). The country outside Asia with the largest Chinese population is the US, the 1990 census showing a total of 1.2 million people who spoke Chinese in the home (Turner 2002: 1733). This chapter aims to provide some useful ideas about the nature of the Chinese diasporas and the role of performing arts in their modernizing culture and in establishing their identity. The time focus of this paper is the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first. The people of relevance are, of course, the Chinese. These are taken to encompass the population of China, including the minority nationalities, and the Chinese population outside China.

Chinese diaspora Some specialists criticize the use of the term diaspora to apply to ethnic minorities within another country (e.g. Vertovec 1996: 100). However, provided they fit into a definition which sees diasporas as people who dwell outside their own state but maintain their own culture, then it seems to me legitimate to use the term. The figures given at the beginning of this chapter show that there are many Chinese diasporas and that the number of people included in them

18 Colin Mackerras remains highly significant. In a few cases, what was originally a Chinese diaspora has become the dominant people, such as in Singapore. In virtually all there has been serious discrimination in the past, although in most cases it is much less prevalent or non-existent now. Sometimes the Chinese diasporas have done well in their new homes and individuals have become very influential. Examples include the US, Canada and Australia. In other countries times of crisis or tension have expressed themselves in racial riots affecting the Chinese diaspora. A primary example has been in Indonesia in the period after the fall of Suharto in May 1998. The members of the Chinese diaspora are usually referred to as Overseas Chinese, the Chinese term being huaqiao. Wang Gungwu regards the translation ‘Chinese sojourner’ as more accurate, on the grounds that ‘Overseas Chinese’ carried a strong political bias when first used at the beginning of the twentieth century: ‘It referred to sojourners who cared enough for China to involve themselves in China’s politics as well as to colonists who had the right to receive China’s protection’ (Wang 1991b: 84). Wang (1991a: 3–21) even questions the use of the term huaqiao, on the grounds that it originally applied to only one of four patterns of migration of Chinese from China. However, it is now used widely to refer to those Chinese who live outside those territories internationally (although certainly not universally) recognized as China, namely the People’s Republic of China (PRC) (including Hong Kong and Macao) and Taiwan. For this reason, and because the Chinese themselves use the term, I regard it as legitimate. In the contemporary age, perhaps especially in Western countries, Chinese people have, on the one hand, integrated themselves into the society where they live but, on the other hand, maintained their Chinese identity. The ways and extent to which both processes happen at the same time are very complex and interesting, and certainly relevant to the issue of cultural identity. Moreover, often a single individual can both maintain a Chinese identity and integrate very well with a new community. There are several of China’s minority nationalities who would fall into the category of diasporas. One is the Kazakhs, who live in northern Xinjiang over the border in China from Kazakhstan, most of whom maintain Kazakh culture. Another, and more prominent, example is the Koreans, who numbered 1,923,842 people according to the 2000 census and live in China’s northeastern provinces, especially Jilin (NBS 2002: 97). As it happens, there are Korean communities in quite a few countries, including Uzbekistan, Russia, Kazakhstan, China, Japan and the US. They could be classified as ‘ethnic minorities’ in each of these countries. My view is that this fact should not bar them from being considered diasporas. And if they are a ‘diaspora’ in the US, then they should also be so in China.

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Modernization, culture, power and the performing arts In December 1978 the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) determined to shift the country’s emphasis to modernization, marking the beginning of the latest major phase of modernization in China. It is not the first, and is most unlikely to be the last. Indeed, one scholar (Anagnost 1993: 61) has written that ‘the encounter between “modernity” and “tradition” has dominated Chinese intellectual discourse’ over the last century ‘setting the terms of cultural and political debate’. While I certainly accept the importance of the dichotomy between tradition and modernity, I suspect that it has loomed large in China’s intellectual discourse even longer than a century, and that it will go on being of extreme importance for some time to come. Moreover, the term ‘China’ here includes not only those people residing within the borders of the PRC, but also those many people who in some way regard themselves as ‘Chinese’ but do not live in China. In the Chinese case the performing arts can represent the people or the state, or both. Although the arts in China remain politicized and, in a sense, a reflection of power, they have been very much less so in the period of reform than under Mao Zedong (1893–1976). What this means is that the way has been much more open since then for the performing arts to present an accurate reflection of how ordinary people are feeling. One of the trends which the performing arts clearly reflect is whether, and to what extent, identity feelings are prominent among a people. This is reflected in matters such as attitudes towards traditions, reform patterns and approaches to modernity. Certainly, the trends in theatre in China over the last few decades reflect a changing Chinese identity, society and economy, just as they do a changing politics. There are well over 300 different styles of traditional Chinese regional drama. The early twentieth century saw the beginnings of the spoken drama, termed huaju in Chinese. Imported from the West through Japan, it has generally exemplified Western influence much more than other genres of Chinese drama. At the same time, it has found an important niche in the gallery of Chinese theatre and one specialist states that: ‘Given its inherently public nature and the social views of the writers, spoken drama has been the most assertive form of innovative literature in modern Chinese society’ (Gunn 1983: vii). The CCP was responsible for several other forms of Chinese theatre during the twentieth century, including the geju or songdrama and wuju (dance drama). It also accelerated a process already begun by the famous actor Mei Lanfang (1894–1961) and others of writing new items in mainly traditional style and on historical themes but with a few major departures from old patterns, such as climactic rather than episodic plots and an elaborately decorated stage rather than a bare one. These items are termed ‘newly written historical dramas’ (xin bian lishi ju).

20 Colin Mackerras Since the 1980s commercialization has taken strong hold in the Chinese theatre, with mixed results. On the one hand, the theatre was not as constrained politically as it had been, although certainly a degree of censorship remained. But the box office became far more important to all theatre companies (Yan 1998: xxxii–xxxiii). It became increasingly difficult for troupes to survive financially, let alone make profits, due to declining audiences. There was a variety of reasons for the dwindling numbers in audiences, but the rise of television was certainly a major one. The 1989 crisis certainly did no good to theatre, because it temporarily reversed the weakening force of censorship without the funds of the past. After a brief period of uncertainty, the 1990s saw gathering momentum in the commercialization of Chinese society, with nationalism replacing Marxism/Leninism in ideological terms. These years were not particularly creative ones in the Chinese theatre. The spoken drama and modern forms such as the song drama continued at a rather low level, although with some bright spots which suggested that revival was on the cards. A government-sponsored attempt to revive the fortunes of the traditional theatre, especially Peking Opera, seemed to produce some effect especially in Shanghai, Wuhan and Tianjin, with the first large-scale festival of Peking Opera arts taking place in the last-named city late in 1995 (Mackerras 1996: 83–8). However, the long-term effect of this partial revival still remains to be seen. The authorities would obviously like to see Chinese identity in traditional revival. This is a culture unique to the Chinese and created exclusively by the Chinese. It will be argued below that at least some members of Chinese diasporas share this view. However, what strikes most strongly about the recent decades in the theatre, not only of China but of the Chinese diasporas, is the power of commercialization, with two related phenomena increasing in power: consumerism and globalization. Not only has the market become decisively more powerful, but its effects have tended to cross borders more than they ever did before. In 2000 one very well known magazine based in Hong Kong took up ‘8 things you didn’t know about Chinese consumers’. The first, and presumably most important, of these ‘things’ was as follows: ‘For music, fashion and more, the trend capital of China is the capital of Japan’ (Tuinstra 2000: 42). China may still be nationalist, but a great many of its people, especially among the youth, like the consumerism of Japan and its related culture. The sinicized version of the globalized pop culture which originated in the US is more to the tastes of most people at the beginning of the twenty-first century than any traditions. At the same time as globalization has accelerated in the last decade and more, ever larger numbers of people have come to insist on their own cultural identities. It is as if globalization gives rise to resistance. Two specialists suggest that it appears to ‘trigger a search for fixed orientation

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points and action frames, as well as determined efforts to affirm old and construct new boundaries’ (Meyer and Geschiere 1999: 2). In the case of the Chinese diasporas, they have certainly taken an enormous interest in China’s development, both in terms of its politics, as well as economy, culture and society. After 1978, China’s policy was to do everything it could to re-establish contacts with huaqiao which had been ruptured because of the Cultural Revolution and to attract Chinese money and expertise from abroad. Indeed, even the 1989 crisis, climaxing in the Beijing massacre of 4 June, turned out to be unexpectedly positive for the PRC’s relations with the Chinese diasporas. This was because foreigners withdrew or held back their investments, but Chinese capital from abroad tended to fill the gap left by the partial Western and Japanese withdrawal. Yen Ching-hwang (1998: 166–7) claims ‘[t]he huge Overseas Chinese investments in Guangdong, Fujian and other coastal provinces are among the main causes for the rapid economic transformation of these regions’. The cultural and social interconnections these investments have brought with them have also been immense. The Chinese diasporas have exercised a very lively impact on Chinese lifestyle, ideas and cultural tastes, including in the performing arts, and have themselves been heavily influenced by the PRC. However, given the emphasis earlier laid on commercialization and consumerism, does it not follow that these influences are in fact global rather than specifically Chinese, especially among young people? In some ways identities weaken considerably and the differences wane between the cultural tastes of young Chinese in the PRC, of young members of Chinese diasporas, and of young people elsewhere. However, one of the attractions of that Japan-oriented cultural fashion referred to earlier was that ‘it reinterprets products from the U.S. for an Asian palette’ (Tuinstra 2000: 43). Certainly, there seems no likelihood at all that Chinese cultural identities will die in the foreseeable future, despite the growing power of globalization. On the whole, China’s minorities have increased their sense of cultural identity since the ‘new period’ began in the late 1970s. Among those which can be classified as ‘diasporas’ under the definition offered above, a particularly important example is the Koreans. Of all China’s minorities, they are among the most sophisticated culturally and the most progressive in economic and educational terms. They are at the forefront of insisting on the use of their own language in the education system. They have produced a noteworthy literature both of fiction and spoken drama in the Korean language and about the Koreans of China (Mackerras 1995: 142, 191–2, 199), a literature which has aroused some interest in South Korea. The Koreans of China have no intention of relaxing their Korean identity, despite the cultural weight of the Chinese state in which they live. Unlike several other nationalities with particularly strong cultural identities, especially the Uygurs and Tibetans, the Koreans show no sign so far of wishing to secede from China.

22 Colin Mackerras

The performing arts and the Chinese diasporas Performing arts exist among Chinese diasporas. And members of Chinese diasporas frequently wish to return to China to re-establish contact with their homeland, including its performing arts. Either way these arts function as one form of cultural identity of Chinese people. Below, I take up some specific examples of the relationships between the Chinese performing arts and the Chinese diasporas. The focus is strongly on the theatre, itself accounting for the most characteristically Chinese and local forms of performance. Chinese theatre outside China It is well known that many theatre troupes have made successful visiting performances outside China. Mei Lanfang travelled overseas to the US, Japan and Eastern Europe, to name but a few places. Except in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the PRC has sent many theatre troupes abroad. The number of visits has expanded enormously since China opened itself to the outside world in the late 1970s, with many being to Western countries. These troupes are interesting and worthy of research, but they are not the topic of the present chapter, since Chinese diasporas have not normally dominated their audiences. Types of opera of those kinds of diasporas considered in this chapter include the following: • • •

highly traditional forms transplanted from their region of origin; theatrical works which adopt forms found in the new home country but with content reflecting their own lives as Chinese; and works of minorities in China which reflect maintenance of their own culture despite influence in terms of form and content from their Chinese milieu. There are of course other kinds, but a central issue in all cases is the ways in which Chinese tradition is preserved and/or blended with the cultures of the new home country.

Those Chinese communities which left China in substantial numbers in the early stages of emigration often simply took their local theatre style with them, occasionally even acting as a source of attraction for actors to come from their original home. One example is the famous Cantonese opera actor Ma Shizeng (1900–64), who lived much of his career between 1920 and 1933 outside Guangdong, in Singapore, Vietnam and California (Mackerras 1975: 151–2). In fact, these performing arts traditions frequently remained very tenacious among the Chinese emigrant communities, undergoing comparatively little change. Since most Chinese diasporas come from Guangdong and nearby areas, it follows that the Cantonese opera has been much the most popular style to be transported out of China.

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In the past, traditional Cantonese and other opera troupes were numerous in the ‘Chinatowns’ or among the Chinese communities of the cities of Southeast Asia, America and Australia, and are still active in quite a few of them. In Singapore, to take but one example, street performances of Cantonese opera and other styles of southeast China were once very common. Although the number of troupes has dwindled in Singapore and other cities, with the survivors being driven into more formal theatres, stages are still regularly set up just beside the streets in some places in Malaysia for selected festivals, the important example, perhaps, being Penang. An example of a contemporary member of a Chinese diaspora who has written theatrical works crossing cultures in a variety of ways is Tan Dun (born 1957). One of the most remarkable of contemporary Chinese (or world) musical composers he began in the Peking Opera after planting rice for two years during the Cultural Revolution. Since 2000 he has lived in New York, travelling very widely throughout the world. Tan Dun’s opera The Gate, which was premiered in Japan in November 1999, is a perfect example of the highly modernized opera written by a member of the Chinese diaspora. It is in the form of a symphonic opera and deals with three women who committed suicide for love, the theme expressed being the lack of love in today’s world. The three women come from different traditions, Chinese, Japanese and Western (the Italian Juliet famous from the English play Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare). The music is fully orchestral, the première having been directed by well-known conductor Charles Dutoit. Yet, the Chinese lover was performed by a Peking Opera singer. Tan Dun and his music reflect the way the gaps between East and West and between tradition and modernity are narrowing. To me the music carries the weight of Chinese history quite strongly. But there can be no doubt about its modernity. There has been very little research on Chinese theatre created by the Chinese diasporas. The above two examples, which are in a sense at opposite ends of tradition–modern and Chinese–international spectrums, merely serve to show the vastness of the subject. Yet, a bibliography of Chinese drama devoted only a few pages to it, almost all in the US (Lopez 1991: 152–6). While, certainly, more has been carried out since its publication, I suggest that much more would be worthwhile. The overall impact of modernization and globalization is sure to loom large in any research focusing attention on the late twentieth or early twenty-first century. But, conversely, so is the retention of identity. Tourism, the performing arts and Chinese diasporas An important way in which culture is represented in the contemporary age is through tourism and on behalf of tourists. The fact is that tourism

24 Colin Mackerras has become one of the most important contributors to the world economy, and Chinese people, whether in China or not, have been quick to take it up and benefit from it. Here, I take up two aspects of the topic within China itself. These are: • •

the ways in which Chinese themselves travel from outside China to seek their own performing arts within China itself; and the ways in which diasporas from outside China but who have become minorities within China display their performing arts to tourists, including those from the Chinese diasporas.

Table 1.1 shows various figures concerned with performances in China. What is immediately striking in these figures is that the number of performing arts troupes, including those dedicated to performing traditional regional dramas (xiqu), declined steadily between 1989 and 1998. The number of people who went to watch fell significantly between 1989 and 1994 but then rose again by 1998. On the other hand, the total government subsidies and the income from performances grew very significantly at the same time. The main reason I propose for these changes is that the nature of audiences was changing towards tourists from outside China. This process had already been under way for some time, indeed since the early days after the drama, especially the traditional drama, revived with the ‘new period’ of the late 1970s. But it gathered momentum significantly in the 1990s. What happened was that, increasingly, it was tourists from outside the PRC, and especially those of Chinese background, who made up the audiences of these theatre performances. And they were both able and willing to pay far more than audiences in the PRC itself. And although PRC Chinese became far better off at the same time, the young people among them tended to lose interest in their own performing arts, with audiences becoming both smaller and older. Table 1.1 Statistics on performances in China

Total number of performing arts troupes Total number of traditional drama troupes Total number of spectators (all troupes) in millions Total government subsidies (all troupes) in million yuan Total income from performances (all troupes) in million yuan

1989

1994

1998

2,850 1,767

2,698 1,647

2,652 1,562

500.8

409.3

534.9

395.1

755.8

1,399.1

160.0

272.8

417.3

Source: figures from SSB 1990: 781, 784, 785; SSB 1995: 643, 647, 648; and NBS 1999: 703, 705.

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In Beijing, to take but one example, three significant theatres were established or revived in the 1990s: the Liyuan (Pear Garden), the Zhengyi Temple and the Chang’an (Eternal Peace) Grand Theatres. What all three shared in common was that they placed strong emphasis on staging traditional Peking operas, the more traditional the better. And the setting was also very traditional, with the same kind of tables and food available as had been the case in the imperial past and first part of the twentieth century. The Zhengyi Temple was actually built in the middle of the seventeenth century in what had been a temple. Many famous actors gave performances there, including Cheng Changgeng (1811–80) and Mei Lanfang. However, it fell into disuse when the Japanese occupied Beijing (then called Beiping) in 1937, and was not restored and used again for traditional Peking Opera performances until October 1995 (Mackerras 1997: 38–9). In all three theatres, the traditional revival was aimed mainly at tourists, especially Chinese from Hong Kong, Taiwan and other countries. It was a device by which Chinese from outside China could return to their native country to find their traditional culture and roots. And Peking Opera was a perfect example of this traditional culture. We can see that tourism has had two opposite effects at the same time. It has allowed more people, including Chinese, to travel to Beijing than ever before, and it has also encouraged them to seek more traditional roots there, engendering a stronger sense of identity. The tradition is both false and authentic at the same time. It is false because it has been deliberately re-created; it is authentic because it resembles the traditional very closely and in the case of the Zhengyi Temple uses precisely the same site. A similar phenomenon can be found among the minority nationalities. It is the same for all of them, including those which I have, here, defined as diasporas, such as the Kazakhs and Koreans. The number of troupes has declined in many minority areas, while those that remain perform largely for tourist audiences. These performances tend to be highly professionalized. As the number of tourist hotels has expanded in the minority areas, they are more and more the site of performances. This makes it unnecessary for tourists even to leave their hotels. They can enjoy the experience of seeing a minority performance given by a good troupe in its own home and performing the arts special to their own people. There is a tight connection between tourism and modernity, and the performing arts are one aspect of the culture which flows from this modernizing process. Tourism necessitates the improvement of infrastructure, more airlines, more places with airports, more and better roads capable of taking tourist buses, more and better hotels for them to stay in. Certainly, it brings ethnic villages much closer to the outside world than they ever were in the past. The modernizing Chinese state puts the cultures of its minorities on show and makes money out of them. It is a wonderful producer of much needed foreign exchange.

26 Colin Mackerras Just how authentic is this displayed culture? Certainly, it purports and aspires to be authentic. In the case of the Chinese who return to Beijing to see their own Peking Opera, the theatres are designed as authentic tradition, while the performances are supposed to be the pure tradition. Undoubtedly it is false in the sense that it is restored tradition deliberately re-created to foster the sense of identity of Chinese returning home, and giving a sense of Chinese pride both to the Chinese diasporas and anybody else who will be a ready consumer. On the other hand, the creators of this kind of art have a genuine love for it, and they have done their best to make it authentic. And if in the process they make money for themselves and for the modernizing Chinese state who would begrudge them? In the case of the minorities, tourists visit ethnic villages wishing to see the ‘real’ culture before it is swept away by modernization. One scholar has described the ascendancy of the tourism promoted by the state and capitalist elites in China and elsewhere as ‘a triumph of “false modernity”’. On the other hand, he is not nearly so hard on the villagers whom these tourists visit. These, he believes to be struggling for an ‘authentic modern subjectivity’, a project in which, potentially, ‘people confront the forces of modernization and turn them into something meaningful’ (Oakes 1998: 229). I find considerable appeal in this idea. There is, of course, a great deal of falseness in tourism. Many of the minority cultures were specifically meant to be part of a society which is disappearing, with the result that the culture cannot possibly remain authentic because it fits into a completely different social context. It becomes professionalized according to patterns which may differ strongly from the original intent. Yet, the fact is some of the style and even content of the original is retained in the professionalized versions shown to tourists. I consider it would be a mistake to ignore the reality that tourism gives a very definite incentive to the preservation of arts which might otherwise wither, and even die. It becomes a consumable which can give pleasure and inspiration. Given the completely new social context of the minority cultures, it is also possible that the meaning of their performances and possibly even the notion of what constitutes ‘the original’ and ‘the authentic’ may have changed, simply because the new social setting changes the way people view their own past, their own traditions. It is clear that tourism makes money most profitably for entrepreneurs in big cities, such as New York, London, Amsterdam, Hong Kong or Beijing, and that is one reason why many scholars are very critical of it. However, enough of the profits go to the villagers themselves to raise their standard of living considerably. And those villagers who contribute the performing arts which the tourists so enjoy will also benefit substantially in monetary and cultural terms.

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Conclusion In this chapter I have put forward five sets of arguments. They can be summarized as follows: •

•

•

•

•

Chinese diasporas can be conceived in different ways, but the dichotomy between tradition and modernity remains as vibrant a theme in the culture of the Chinese as we enter the twenty-first century as it has been in the recent past. However, the nature of that dichotomy has changed greatly and the balance between modernity and tradition has shifted in a variety of ways, and in the direction of modernity. The performing arts are one vehicle for representing China, including the Chinese diasporas, and for manifesting ‘Chineseness’, or the identity of Chinese culture. One of the determinants of the ways in which the performing arts represent China is the political order in which they exist, or the power structure. The nature of the relationship between power or politics and the representations of Chineseness in the performing arts varies in different places and has changed over time, but the fact of this relationship is constant. The Chinese diasporas and the performing arts cultures they are creating are very much part of the globalization process taking place in the world. Although in some ways globalization weakens cultural identity, reaction against it can have precisely the opposite effect. Certainly, there does not seem to be any danger that Chinese identity will vanish among the various kinds of Chinese diasporas. Diasporas from outside who constitute minority nationalities inside China, notably the Koreans, have also made a distinct contribution to the Chinese performing arts. They have also maintained their own identities, despite the weight of the Chinese state. Like the Chinese diasporas outside China, they exemplify the globalization/identity tension. One site of this tension is in tourism, which has become one of the most important sectors of the global economy. For all the falseness which is so often attributed to tourism, it does give powerful economic, and even cultural, incentives to Chinese performers, including those of the minorities, to revive and/or maintain their tradition; what is performed retaining at least some degree of authenticity.

It follows from these arguments that the performing arts of the Chinese diasporas are a subject well worth research. They have to tell us about the nature of art in general and about its diffusion to countries outside its original home. For the contemporary times they can shed light on the nature of cultural modernization and globalization. And consideration of the importance and controversial nature both of modernization and globalization surely raises the value of such research by several notches.

28 Colin Mackerras

References Anagnost, Ann (1993) ‘Cultural Nationalism and Chinese Modernity’, in Harumi Befu (ed.) Cultural Nationalism in East Asia, Representation and Identity, Institute of East Asian Studies, Berkeley: University of California, pp. 61–73. Gunn, Edward M. (1983) ‘Introduction’, in Edward M. Gunn, Twentieth-Century Chinese Drama, An Anthology, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. vii–xxiii. Lopez, Manuel D. (1991) Chinese Drama: An Annotated Bibliography of Commentary, Criticism, and Plays in English Translation, Metuchen, NJ and London: The Scarecrow Press. Mackerras, Colin (1975) The Chinese Theatre in Modern Times, From 1840 to the Present Day, London: Thames and Hudson. –––– (1995) China’s Minority Cultures: Identities and Integration Since 1912, Melbourne: Longman; New York: St Martin’s Press. –––– (1996) ‘Chinese Traditional Theatre: A Revival in the 1990s?’, CHINOPERL Papers, 19: 79–94. –––– (1997) Peking Opera, Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. –––– (2001) The New Cambridge Handbook of Contemporary China, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meyer, Birgit and Geschiere, Peter (1999) ‘Globalization and Identity: Dialectics of Flow and Closure, Introduction’, in Birgit Meyer and Peter Geschiere (eds) Globalization and Identity: Dialectics of Flow and Closure, Oxford and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, pp. 1–15. National Bureau of Statistics, People’s Republic of China (NBS) (comp.) (1999) Zhongguo Tongji Nianjian (Statistical Yearbook of China 1999), Beijing: China Statistics Press. National Bureau of Statistics, People’s Republic of China (NBS) (comp.) (2002) Zhongguo Tongji Nianjian (Statistical Yearbook of China 2002), Beijing: China Statistics Press. Oakes, Tim (1998) Tourism and Modernity in China, London and New York: Routledge. State Statistical Bureau (SSB) (comp.) (1990) Zhongguo Tongji Nianjian (Statistical Yearbook of China 1990), Beijing: China Statistics Press. State Statistical Bureau (SSB) (comp.) (1995) Zhongguo Tongji Nianjian (Statistical Yearbook of China 1995), Beijing: China Statistics Press. Tuinstra, Fons (2000) ‘8 Things You Didn’t Know About Chinese Consumers’, Asiaweek, 26/16 (28 April): 42–51. Turner, Barry (ed.) (2002) The Statesman’s Yearbook, The Politics, Cultures and Economies of the World 2003, Basingstoke: Houndmills; London: Macmillan. Vertovec, Steven (1996) ‘Diaspora’, in Ellis Cashmore et al. Dictionary of Race and Ethnic Relations, fourth edition, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 99–101. Wang, Gungwu (1991a) ‘Patterns of Chinese Migration in Historical Perspective’, in Gungwu Wang China and the Chinese Overseas, Singapore: Times Academic Press, pp. 3–21. –––– (1991b) ‘External China, Historical Perspective’, in Brian Hook (ed.) The Cambridge Encyclopedia of China, New Edition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 84–5. Yan, Haiping (1998) ‘Introduction’, in Haiping Yan (ed.) Theater and Society, An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Drama, Armonk, NY and London: M.E. Sharpe, pp. ix–xvi.

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Ye, Wenzhen (2000) ‘International Migration Patterns’, in Xizhe Peng and Zhigang Guo (eds) The Changing Population of China, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 192–206. Yen, Ching-hwang (1998) ‘Overseas Chinese Policy’, in Colin Mackerras, Donald H. McMillen and Andrew Watson (eds) Dictionary of the Politics of the People’s Republic of China, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 165–7.

2

Morphing Chineseness The changing image of Chinese music clubs in Singapore Frederick Lau

The notion of ‘Chineseness’ has become increasingly fashionable in recent studies of diaspora (for example Wang 1991; Wang and Wang 1998; Yeh 2000; Cushman and Wang 1988; Tu 1994; Ong and Nonini 1997; McKeown 1999).1 Construed as more than a neutral and fixed category, this label reveals complex and often unstable realities encountered by millions of Chinese living overseas. Although scholars like Tu Wei-ming (1994) identify a philosophical and transcendent notion of Chineseness as the primary link between diasporic Chinese, other scholars refute this notion by recognizing Chineseness as variable and grounded lived experience – an amalgamation of, and intricate balance between, person politics, local history and national agendas that cannot be reduced to an identifiable condition. Ien Ang’s well-known articles ‘Can One Say No to Chineseness?’ (1998) and ‘To be or not to be Chinese’ (1993), Rey Chow’s ‘On Chineseness as a Theoretical Question’ (1998) and Allan Chun’s provocative ‘Fuck Chineseness: On the Ambiguities of Ethnicity as Culture as Identity’ (1996) are representative of the views of scholars who are willing to problematize and disrupt the complacency with which this ethnic label was once accepted and the homogeneity it implies. ‘Chineseness’ as an ethnic marker is no longer a theoretical given but a malleable category which fluctuates according to its immediate environment. For these scholars, emphasis on the nature of ‘Chineseness’ has shifted to the process by which Chineseness is manifested within a specific context and environment. Based on ethnomusicological fieldwork in one of the most affluent and ethnically diverse nations in Southeast Asia, this chapter argues a middle ground in which Chineseness is constructed and experienced, through music, as a dynamic convergence between philosophized aesthetics and historical/cultural context. Singapore, an island state with a population of about 3.1 million, has been praised for its recent economic success and as a bastion of so-called ‘Asian values’. Its reputation for having one of the fastest growing Asian economies owes much to its recent history and its determination to survive as a legitimate modern nation-state since independence. Formerly a fishing village of 150 people (Song 1967), Singapore was established in 1819 by the British

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as a trading post and was maintained as a colony for almost a century and a half. In 1959 it was granted self-government, and its legislative assembly elected the local political body People’s Action Party (PAP) to power with Lee Kuan Yew as prime minister. Because of its strategic position and historical ties to Malaysia, Singapore was accepted into the Malaysian Federation in 1963 but was expelled in 1965 over issues related to the multi-ethnic composition of its population (Clammer 1985; Benjamin 1976). Singapore declared its independence in 1965, and since then it has embarked on a path of self-reliance and a struggle for national survival. Under the stewardship of the PAP, Singapore’s priority has been to shift itself from the quality of a former colony into the status of an independent modernized nation. To achieve this goal, the government has engineered many new projects to transform the infrastructure and appearance of the country. Among the more successful programmes are the industrialization programme, a massive public housing development project, public education and campaigns such as ‘Keep Singapore Clean’ and ‘Towards the Garden Green City’ (Chua 1995: 59–63; Leong 1997: 521). Realizing the importance of racial harmony in securing social stability, the government instituted stringent social and cultural policies to ensure all ethnic groups would coexist peacefully. Following the racialized ethnic categories defined during the colonial period, the population was officially classified into four major groups according to their ethnicity or ‘race’ – the term preferred by the Singaporean government (Chua 1998: 202). This artificial classification, which came into effect immediately after Singaporean independence in 1965, recognizes the Chinese, Malay, Indians and Eurasians as Singapore’s official ethnic groups. These racialized designations have not only legitimized the presence of four cultures in Singapore but, as they were supposed to, have functioned as a measure to curtail ethnic tension. In order to consolidate and promote this unique form of multiculturalism and multiracialism, the Singaporean government sponsors cultural practices of all officially sanctioned ‘races’ through tourist performances, religious festivals, school language programmes and education (Ang and Stratton 1995; Chua 1998; Leong 1997; Benjamin 1976). On the surface, these state-sponsored cultural activities seem to offer an advantage to all groups because the groups have been allowed to preserve and even promote their own traditional cultures. Upon closer examination, however, there are paradoxes behind this façade of diverse traditional cultures and racial harmony. The government has actually condensed a multiplicity of ethnicities into only four constructed and homogeneous racial categories in order to form its own variety of contained multiracialism. This policy ignores the fact that each group historically contains many sub-ethnic groups, each with its own culture. For example, the Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese and Hakka Chinese are now subsumed under the general category Chinese, and they are now referred to merely as dialect groups, as though their own cultural characteristics are only

32 Frederick Lau variations of a discernible norm. The Tamil Indians – the dominant Indian group in Singapore – have come to stand for all things Indian, despite the presence of other groups from South Asia. Likewise, the Malay ‘race’ often includes other Southeast Asian Muslim groups such as the Javanese and other Indonesians. The state has legally contained diversity to promote national unity. Ironically, while the government is pushing for a distinctive Singaporean national identity by blurring, if not eradicating, racial boundaries in the nationalizing project, its token acknowledgement of the country’s multiracial character has provided an arena in which sub-groups perpetuate their own distinctiveness as a counterpoint to the imposed national identity. These sub-groups often take advantage of special state-sponsored programmes to promote their own unique identities. Consequently, rather than do away with ethnic or sub-ethnic identity, the government-imposed multiracial policy spurs creative reactions. Music and cultural expressions, often viewed from the outside as benign, apolitical activities, are the most useful venue for tracking this form of tacit resistance to the official narrative precisely because they elude official discourse. By examining the brief history and changing images of two amateur Chinese music clubs in contemporary Singapore, this chapter illustrates the slippage in defining ‘Chineseness’ in a country of which the total population was made up of 76.9 per cent Chinese in 1999.2 It focuses on how the changing definition of ‘Chineseness’ is often grounded in community cultural expressions and the historical junctures in which they reside. I argue that Singaporean notions of Chineseness – in contrast to those in other Chinese enclaves of Southeast Asia – cannot be separated from or located outside, the Singaporean national ideology and discursive practice.

Early Chinese immigrants in Singapore and traditional music activities The presence of Chinese in the Malay Peninsula was noted as early as the fifteenth century (Song 1967: 2). Extensive records about Chinese in Singapore, however, were scarce before the nineteenth century (Turnbull 1977; Chang 1987). Most historians agree that the early Singaporean Chinese originated from three major groups, each according to a different place of origin and occupation (Clammer 1985: 11): (1) the Chinese who settled in the early nineteenth century and engaged in the pepper and gambier plantations; (2) Baba Chinese – Malay-speaking Chinese – who migrated from Malacca and were mostly business people; (3) migrants who came directly from south China as labourers and poor peasants. Given the diverse backgrounds and origins of the early Chinese immigrants, the Singaporean Chinese community has been less than homogeneous from the start. In fact, it has been split up according to cultural, linguistic and class distinctions. The dominant early immigrant groups consisted of

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Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese, Hakka, Haianese and Shanghainese.3 The boundaries of these groups were clearly marked and they tended to group themselves according to place of origin and dialect (Clammer 1985; Yen 1995; Carstens 1975). Many clan, religious, recreational and occupational associations were formed to create bonds, social interaction and business networks for many newcomers who were experiencing life in a foreign country with other ethnic groups for the first time (Song 1967: 29; Yen 1995: 33–8; Clammer 1985: 17; Liu 1998). Clashes and even violence between different Chinese groups were not uncommon in the nineteenth century as they struggled to assume leadership positions and to take advantage of business opportunities (Song 1967: 87, 402; Yen 1995: 15–16). Although tension between groups is rare at the present time, Chinese in contemporary Singapore still regard their dialects and places of origin as important ethnic markers. According to a recent survey reported by Clammer (1985: 91–2), Hokkien is the largest dialect group and Hokkien make up 30 per cent of the entire Chinese population, followed by the Teochew at 17 per cent, Cantonese at 15 per cent, Hainanese at 5.2 per cent, Hakka at 4.6 per cent, and remaining groups at less than 1 per cent of the total Chinese population. The structure of early immigrant society gradually began to change in the colonial context. Colonial education and business success provided opportunities and social mobility for many immigrants and their offspring. A class of urban, well-educated and Westernized Chinese began to emerge, which added an interesting counterpoint to the already diverse Chinese community and those who leaned towards traditional values and lifestyle. Local-born elite Chinese adopted Western culture and religion and, by the turn of the century, the Chinese community exhibited all the hallmarks of a multicultural society. Buddhist temples, Christian churches, traditional Chinese opera troupes, Western drama clubs, minstrel groups and Western orchestras coexisted side by side in the same social space that serviced both the local Chinese and Western communities (Song 1967: 97, 314, 370, 379, 448). By the turn of the century, the Chinese played a prominent role in Singapore as they continued to advance in business and social activities. Many characteristics of the modern Singaporean Chinese community are influenced by the legacy of this early history. Among the abundant musical activities in Singapore, traditional Chinese music and opera clubs have been popular since the mid-nineteenth century. Initially established to provide entertainment for the new immigrants, these voluntary groups, like other clan and kinship associations, have also become essential agents in maintaining a sense of belonging and ethnic identity for people of similar ethnic and regional backgrounds. Apart from activities within the Chinese community, these music groups also made frequent appearances in community affairs, public street performances and religious festivities (Lee 2000; Perris 1978). As a case in point, the Chinese community staged a grand Chinese opera (wayang) on

34 Frederick Lau 12 October 1877, as a farewell entertainment in honour of an administrator of the colonial government, Col Anson (Song 1967: 190). Clearly, for the Chinese in Singapore, Chinese music and opera were considered prestigious and even appropriate enough to honour official dignitaries. As traditional cultural organizations, these music clubs inevitably became the de facto keepers of Chinese culture and a source of cultural capital for the participants. Er Woo Amateur Music and Dramatic Association and Thau Yong Amateur Musical Association are two such organizations.4 Both music clubs were established by Teochew immigrants from southeastern Guangdong province in China. As the second largest of the Chinese ethnic groups in Singapore, Teochew were able to establish themselves as successful businessmen above the dominant Hokkien and other Chinese groups. With their financial superiority, the Teochew have generally had enough disposable income and time to sponsor cultural activities such as opera and music. There were reportedly 24 Teochew cultural organizations before the Second World War, and among them there were at least four amateur music clubs and three devoted to cultural activities (Yap 2000: 5). The primary purpose of these music clubs, much like the functions of other Chinese regional and ethnic associations, was to promote ‘homeland’ culture and to create a social network for immigrants in Singapore. Admittance to these clubs depended on the social standing of the member and was considered prestigious (ibid.: 3). Functioning as more than just recreational groups, the clubs often performed charity work for other factions of the community, participated in religious festivities and organized political activities to support anti-Japanese actions against the invasion of China in the late 1930s. In the late 1950s, because of the upsurge of communism in Southeast Asia, these clubs were viewed by the colonial authorities as anti-government and their activities were interrupted. Even after independence, the new government kept a watchful eye on these suspected communist groups. Despite intense political pressure, they resumed their activities in the mid-1960s, after Singapore gained independence. At present, these two clubs are flourishing and are regarded as treasures of Singaporean national culture. As such, they receive support and encouragement from the government.

Er Woo Yuyu Ruyueshe (Confucian music association) Yuyu Ruyueshe or Er Woo Amateur Musical and Dramatic Association is, perhaps, the oldest amateur music club in Singapore. Established in 1912 by a group of Teochew businessmen under the leadership of Chen Zili, Er Woo was the first formal amateur club for the Teochew in Singapore. Chen, a young immigrant from the Chaozhou area in China, had been a player of several Chinese instruments and of hanju music. In order to replicate the musical environment to which he was accustomed back in China after he became successful in managing his father’s business,

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he and a few friends decided to form a music club similar to those in his hometown. The original goal of this club, as stated in the club’s handbook, was to provide healthy recreational activities for Teochew businessmen after work by fostering a moral environment for its members through music (Yap 2000: 17). As one of the six arts in the Confucian ideology, music is claimed to have the ability to assert a positive influence on society. One of the reasons why the Confucian music club was increasingly popular in Singapore was a direct result of the revival of Confucianism in Singapore and Malaya towards the end of the nineteenth century. The promotion of Confucianism was sustained by an influx of Chinese immigrants, the establishment of several Chinese newspapers and the founding of a Chinese literary society. Many Singaporean Chinese adopted Confucianism as a way to assert their Chineseness in the local Chinese community and as an expression of patriotic feeling towards China (Yen 1995: 233). It is not surprising that Confucian music clubs were especially popular among the Teochew upper-class elite. Er Woo’s primary musical focus was on hanju (an operatic tradition originating from the Hakka region) and handiao (instrumental music from the Hakka region). Although these two genres were not of Teochew origin and were claimed to have originated from Central China and to have been brought to the Hakka region in south China during the third and fourth centuries, they were extremely popular among the Teochew literati in China around the turn of the century (Xiao 1957). It is, therefore, also not surprising to see this musical preference being reproduced in Teochew music clubs outside China, such as those in Singapore and Bangkok (Lau 2001). Hampered by limited financial support and funding in the early years, Er Woo’s activities were confined to small instrumental ensembles and the singing of operatic excerpts without staging and costumes. Because of the excellent musical skills of Chen and other members, the association gradually made a name for itself as it increased its activities to include performances for various local charity events and social functions. In 1925 the association invited several musicians from China to teach the members to sing. Subsequently, the association began to divide itself between operatic singing and instrumental music. The training indubitably raised the standard of members’ performances and the association was invited to perform 13 operatic excerpts at a private club (Chua 1997: 56). With the help of the imported Chinese teachers, members of Er Woo engaged themselves more than ever in community affairs and charity performances. According to some older informants, Er Woo was considered by many the most prestigious music association in Singapore. Its reputation was so outstanding that between 1928 and 1935 Er Woo was contracted by several European record companies such as Pathe, Beke, Orion, Columbia and Victor to make recordings of hanju opera for its burgeoning gramophone market in Southeast Asia (Tan 1996). Given the large number of Teochew living in Thailand, Malaysia and Vietnam, there

36 Frederick Lau was a steady demand for this type of music. According to Er Woo’s record, its members made over 40 78-RPM commercial recordings, and the repertory was entirely hanju operatic excerpts with instrumental accompaniment. All the performances on the recordings were done by members of the association, and Chen Zili – the founder of the association – was listed as one of the lead singers (Yap 2000: 75). Some of these recordings can still be found in private collections. Apart from engaging in performance and community affairs, Er Woo was also politically conscious. According to the club’s record, in 1936 it sponsored a fund-raising concert to support poor students of the Shantou Polytechnic back in China as a token effort to revitalize the failing education system (Yap 2000: 53). A year later, when Japan invaded China after the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, it held another fund-raising concert for the wounded soldiers and refugees in China. From the founding of the club up to 1945, Er Woo sponsored at least 12 charity activities of this sort. Such undertakings truly demonstrated the political allegiance and consciousness of the club members. Under the threat of the imminent Japanese invasion of Singapore, the members destroyed most of the club’s materials and historical documents before the Japanese occupied Singapore in 1941. After the war, Er Woo’s activities resumed but were slowed down during the colonial government anti-communist campaign of the late 1950s. However, after independence it began to stage mostly Teochew opera, as opposed to the once so popular hanju. The shift from hanju to Teochew opera was made to accommodate the younger Teochew in the audience, who could not speak the Hakka dialect, preferring to patronize an art form they could understand (Yap 2000: 61). This change also reflects the prestigious social position of the Teochew in the Chinese community in Singapore as many business and community leaders were of Teochew descent (Yen 1995; Clammer 1985).

Thau Yong Amateur Music Association Along with Er Woo, Thau Yong is remembered as one of a handful of music clubs that has exerted influence on the Chinese music community in Singapore. According to its vice-president, Yang Haoruan, a multitalented instrumentalist in his early seventies, the club was established by members who were dissatisfied with Er Woo’s membership admission policy, which catered mostly for the well-to-do. People of the lower social class were generally not accepted as members of Er Woo. This discrimination meant that many skilled musicians had been rejected as members. In order to counterbalance the formality and class consciousness found in Er Woo, several former members left Er Woo to set up a new club called the Thau Yong Amateur Music Association. The original goal of Thau Yong, like that of Er Woo, was to provide a context in which its members could perform hanju but, as already implied, the association was based on

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a different philosophy. While Er Woo was seen as an upper-class establishment, Thau Yong presented itself as a club for the commoners. Its ultimate objective was to perform music rather than to act as a social institution to bolster the prestige of the upper class. Soon after its establishment, Thau Yong attracted a large number of members and made a name for itself for its quality hanju productions. In the late 1950s, Thau Yong began to expand its activities to include arrangements of traditional Chinese instrumental music for orchestra. In Singapore, this music is generically called huayue – music of the hua (Chinese) people. In China, this music is known as minyue – music of the common people. In Taiwan it is mostly called guoyue – national music, and in Hong Kong it is called zhong yue – zhong as in Zhongguo – China. In each case, the term implies a specific political affiliation. By avoiding the terms popular in Hong Kong, Taiwan and contemporary China, and thus being viewed as sympathetic to any of the modern political ideologies, the term huayue links Singapore to ancient China. Thau Yong was a pioneer in promoting this kind of modernized Chinese music in addition to routinely performing hanju opera. Recognizing the importance of recruiting younger players, Thau Yong also began to offer classes on instruments, such as the four-stringed plucked lute pipa, the three-stringed long-neck lute sanxian and the 21-stringed zither guzheng, to younger players in 1957. Membership was growing in 1959 and Thau Yong formed the first Chinese orchestra in Singapore with a total of 47 players (Thau Yong 1991: 85). This was a significant contribution to the development of modern Chinese music in Singapore. Since this new addition, Thau Yong has divided its musical focus between both hanju and modern Chinese instrumental music, an area in which Er Woo has not been interested. Unfortunately, in the late 1950s Thau Yong’s increasing activity in promoting Chinese orchestral music was viewed by the colonial authorities as promoting communism, a reaction that can be traced to the success of the Chinese Communist Party in 1949. Being Chinese or among those who had promoted Chinese culture was enough to incur suspicion of communist leanings. The new government embarked on a campaign to wipe out communism in the area. During this time, many music clubs were kept under the watchful eyes of the government. Thau Yong became inactive in order to protect itself from political persecution. Many regular members, according to Mr Yang, stopped playing any kind of Chinese music and they even avoided meeting at the club house in order to avoid being suspected of improper political leanings. Mr Yang – the vicepresident of the club – says that he was constantly followed by detectives. When government records were declassified, he discovered that there was a police file on him outlining his daily activities. Under intense political pressure, in 1962 the executive board of Thau Yong voted to stop performing Chinese music altogether.

38 Frederick Lau Since the late 1960s, the situation has changed for the better. Not only is playing in these amateur music clubs desirable and acceptable to the public, the government also sees this kind of musical activity as a way to reaffirm the nationalist commitment to a multicultural society. Fired with enthusiasm, the Singaporean government even began to provide financial support for Chinese music activities. For example, in 1968, under the auspices of the Ministry of Culture, the government established a Chinese orchestra as part of the National Theatre, and in 1974 it became a professional orchestra. In 1992 the name of this group was officially changed to the Singapore Chinese Orchestra, and in 1996 it was changed again to the Singapore National Chinese Orchestra. Obviously, the overall social climate has changed drastically since the early days of Er Woo and Thau Yong. Within the current favourable environment for Chinese music, amateur music clubs have also become more active. Both the activities of Er Woo and Thau Yong flourish and they have given many public performances of full-length Teochew opera with impressive financial support from members and business sponsors. Their musical focus, which carries on the trend started in the 1950s and 1960s, continues to be Teochew opera and Teochew instrumental music while hanju, the musical choice preferred earlier, is rarely performed. Officials from the ministry of culture are often present during their performances to endorse these events and to reaffirm the government’s commitment to this type of cultural event. In January 1990, Er Woo was moved to a new location in Chinatown provided by the State’s Arts Housing Programme. In exchange for a greatly reduced rent, Er Woo is expected to perform a number of cultural shows for tourists. Although leaving a prime location, which they had occupied for a long time downtown along Circular Road, most members viewed this as a positive move and a way to stimulate the growth of the association and interest in Teochew music. The success of these performances is a far cry from the days when playing Chinese music was undesirable and when the music was only an icon for the Teochew elite.

Conclusion: morphing Chineseness The changing image of amateur clubs in Singapore problematizes and diversifies the discussion of Chinese in the diaspora. The ways in which Er Woo and Thau Yong have changed from grassroots types of social organizations into embodiments of national discourse on race demonstrate how Chineseness, in Singapore and elsewhere, is a discursive paradigm and cultural construct that fluctuates according to external social dynamics and the resultant need for self-identity. The meaning of being Chinese in Singapore cannot be isolated from the political and ideological arena or from people’s everyday lives. For the state, Chineseness is a contained and reified construct permissible only when it contributes to the larger national

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culture. The government’s goal is to promote and engineer selected ‘traditional culture’ in the interest of its own political agenda. ‘Culture’ in this sense is not thought of as living and organic shared belief and experiences, but as what Ien Ang and Jon Stratton have called ‘a fixed system of claimed cultural elements . . . to justify the predetermined cultural categorization of people’ (Ang and Stratton 1995: 78). As is evident from the state’s discourse, the government’s view of Chineseness is drawn from China’s rich historical and cultural legacy. The state strategies include appropriating Confucianism as an Asian value, using a pre-modern racial nomenclature hua for Chinese, and promoting regional music and opera as ‘Chinese’ music. The main government objective is to develop a discursive formulation of a new nation that accepts the notion of Chinese as a manageable category rather than one that is intertwined with regional differences. Chinese ethnic groups in Singapore are referred to as dialect groups, as if the difference between these people lies solely in language. The ‘Speak Mandarin Campaign’ of the late 1980s is a way to redefine in more detail how Singaporean Chinese should speak and behave in the context of multiracialism. In the same vein, regional music and opera produced by the amateur groups is well supported by the government because it is perceived to be culture that fits into the new national order. In contrast, Chinese opera performed on the street by professional troupes for religious celebrations often receives little or no support from the government (Lee 2000). However, most of the street operas have been sponsored by individual and neighbourhood donors and because of the nature of these events, they are viewed as part of everyday lives rather than ‘cultural activities’. In other words, the amateur music clubs have provided what the state needs to present itself as a nation with ‘authentic’ cultural richness. The professional groups that perform in a similar style but for religious purposes are seen as too sectarian and, therefore, overlooked. For the musicians who participate in the clubs, these musical activities realign their sense of identity at various levels. First they can identify themselves as Singaporean nationals because what they are doing is honouring the state political agenda by promoting Chinese culture. Their choice of repertory, exclusively from Teochew and Hakka repertory, gives them a chance to articulate their regional identities. While the government is consciously attempting to institutionalize Chinese ethnicity through the revival of Chinese regionalism as ‘traditional’ elements of Chinese culture in general, performing Teochew opera, playing Teochew music, or even being around Teochew musicians is a way to align with the state. Thus, singing in these clubs is not only in line with the state’s ongoing attempt to construct a nation with a ‘people’ (Chua 1995: 104), but is also a tacit reaffirmation of the collective memories of being Teochew. During my fieldwork, I met many locally born young players and actors in these two clubs who grew up speaking Teochew at home. They found this kind of

40 Frederick Lau music easier to learn than any other regional genre. It is now fashionable, even among some young educated people, to participate in Teochew opera productions. At an individual level, a Teochew’s participation in these clubs adds self-identity as a motivation, putting icing on the cake of nationalism. Whether it is for their own sense of self-identity or for national interest that these young people participate in this type of music production is hard to determine. What is certain is that their involvement in these music clubs, and in keeping Teochew opera alive, creates music as a site for constructing flexible and synthetic identities. Promoting, imagining and (re)-presenting Chinese culture the Singaporean way cannot be separated from state discourse; however, it is also inseparable from lived experience. The Chineseness that results is more than the pan-Chineseness that the state has anticipated. For the musicians, an abstract conception of Chineseness in the form of cultural aesthetics is an essential aspect of their lived experience. Traditional regional music, loosely tied to Confucian ethics, provides both a thread through history and an assertion of cultural difference. To deny the validity of this perception is to overlook an important ideological factor in the construction of self and community identity. In Singapore and elsewhere, understanding the meaning of Chineseness also requires historicization and contextualization in order to identify the ways in which philosophical Chineseness, at the level of everyday diasporic citizens, is continually re-shaped in response to social and political changes. Ultimately, the meaning of Chineseness can best be located in the dynamic interplay between external factors and the intervention of cultural practices such as those perpetuated by these amateur music clubs.

Notes 1

2 3

Earlier versions of this chapter were presented at the Conference ‘Audiences, Patrons, and Performers in the Performing Arts of Asia’, International Institute of Asian Studies, Leiden, the Netherlands and the Conference ‘Toronto 2000: Musical Intersections’ in Toronto, Canada. I would like to thank Hae-kyung Um, Adelaida Reyes, Deborah Wong and Lee Tong Soon for their critical comments. Fieldwork in Singapore was partially supported by the Cal Poly Faculty Research Grant Program which I gratefully acknowledge. Several staff members at National University of Singapore, particularly Brenda Yeo, Chua Beng Huat and Lee Yuek Yin were extremely helpful in shaping my research. The staff at the Centre for Advanced Studies, NUS provided a much-needed quiet space for me to work. Finally, I am grateful for the generous help and time of Yap Wee Cheng during my fieldwork and archival research. For detailed figures and facts, please refer to the Singapore Department of Statistics website http://www.singstat.gov.sg/FACT/SIF/sif3.html In this chapter, all the Chinese ethnic groups are spelled according to the conventions commonly used in Southeast Asian studies rather than according to the more popular pinyin system in Chinese studies. Hokkien refers to people from Fujian province, Teochew are those from Chaozhou area along the northeastern

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4

coast in Guangdong province, and Hakka are the Kejia people from the mountainous northern region of Guangdong province. These two clubs were considered the most prominent ones by many contemporary players because of their history and continuous activities. In fact, there were three other music clubs active during roughly the same time. They were Liuyi Ruyueshe (Six-one Confucian Music Club), established in 1929; Xinghua Ruyueshe (China Star Confucian Music Club), established in 1935; and Nanhua Ruyueshe (Southern China Confucian music club), established in 1963. There were also three cultural associations, the earliest one was established in 1845 (Yap 2000: 73). However, most of these clubs are no longer active.

References Anderson, Benedict (1991) Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso. Ang, Ien (1993) ‘To Be or Not to Be Chinese: Diaspora, Culture, and Postmodern Ethnicity’, Southeast Asian Journal of Social Sciences, 21/1: 1–17. –––– (1994) ‘On Not Speaking Chinese: Postmodern Ethnicity and the Politics of Diaspora’, New Formations, 24: 1–18. –––– (1998) ‘Can One Say No to Chineseness? Pushing the Limits of the Diasporic Paradigm’, boundary 2, 25/3: 223–42. –––– and Stratton, Jon (1995) ‘The Singaporean Way of Multiculturalism: Western Concepts/Asian Cultures’, SOJOURN, 10/1: 65–89. Benjamin, Geoffrey (1976) ‘The Cultural Logic of Singapore’s Multiracialism’, in Rias Hassan (ed.) Singapore: Society in Transition, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, pp. 115–33. Carstens, Sharon A. (1975) Chinese Associations in Singapore Society: An Examination of Function and Meaning, Occasional Paper, No. 37, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Chang, David K.Y. (1987) A Select Bibliography of Chinese Sources for Nineteenth-Century Singapore, Singapore: National Library. Chow, Rey (1998) ‘On Chineseness as a Theoretical Problem’, boundary 2, 25/3: 1–24. Chua, Beng-Huat (1995) Communitarian Ideology and Democracy in Singapore, London and New York: Routledge. –––– (1998) ‘Culture, Multiracialism, and National Identity in Singapore’, in KuanHsing Chen (ed.) Trajectories: Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, London and New York: Routledge. Chua, Soo Pong (1997) ‘Teochew Culture on Stage: Er Woo Celebrates 85th Anniversary’, in 85th Anniversary: Er Woo Amateur Musical and Dramatic Association, Singapore: Er Woo Yuyu Ruyueshe, pp. 55–7. Chun, Allen (1996) ‘Fuck Chineseness: On the Ambiguities of Ethnicity as Culture as Identity’, boundary 2, 23/2: 111–38. Clammer, John R. (1985) Singapore: Ideology, Society, Culture, Singapore: Chopmen Publishers. Cushman, Jennifer and Wang, Gungwu (1988) Changing Identities of the Southeast Asian Chinese since World War II, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Hassan, Riaz (ed.) (1976) Singapore: Society in Transition, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press. Lau, Frederick (2001) ‘Performing Identity: Musical Expression of Thai-Chinese in Contemporary Bangkok’, SOJOURN, 16/1: 38–70.

42 Frederick Lau Lee, Tong Soon (2000) ‘Professional Chinese Opera Troupes and Street Opera Performance in Singapore’, Asian Music, 31/2: 35–70. Leong, Wai Teng (1997) ‘Culture and the State: Manufacturing Traditions for Tourism’, in Ji Hui Ong, Chee Kiong Tong and Ern Ser Tan (eds) Understanding Singapore Society, Singapore: Times Academic Press, pp. 513–34. Lim, Linda Y.C. and Gosling, L.A. (eds) (1983) The Chinese in Southeast Asia, vol. 2, Singapore: Maruzen Asia. Liu, Hong (1998) ‘Old Linkages, New Networks: The Globalization of Overseas Chinese Voluntary Associations and Its Implications’, The China Quarterly, 155: 582–609. McKeown, Adam (1999) ‘Conceptualizing Chinese Diaspora, 1842–1949’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 58/2: 306–37. Ong, Aihwa and Nonini, Donald (eds) (1997) Ungrounded Empires: The Cultural Politics of Modern Chinese Transnationalism, New York and London: Routledge. Perris, Arnold (1978) ‘Chinese Wayang: The Survival of Chinese Opera in the Streets of Singapore’, Ethnomusicology, 22/2: 297–306. Reid, Anthony (ed.) (1996) Sojourners and Settlers: Histories of Southeast Asia and the Chinese, Sidney: Allen & Unwin. Singapore Department of Statistics (1999) ‘Facts & Figures: Population’, available at http://www.singstat.gov.sg/FACT/SIF/sif3.html (accessed August 2000). Song, Ung Siang (1967) One Hundred Years’ History of the Chinese in Singapore, Singapore: University of Malaya Press. Tan, Sooi Beng (1996) ‘The 78 Rpm Record Industry in Malaya Prior to World War II’, Asian Music, 28/1: 1–42. Thau Yong Yuyueshe (1991) Thau Yong Yuyueshe Liushi Zhounian (Commemorating 60th Anniversary of Thau Yong Confucian Music Club), Singapore: Thau Yong Yuyueshe. Tu, Wei-ming (ed.) (1994) The Living Tree: The Changing Meaning of Being Chinese Today, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Turnbull, M. (1977) A History of Singapore 1819–1975, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press. Wang, Gungwu (1991) China and the Chinese Overseas, Singapore: Times Academic Press. Wang, Ling-chi and Wang, Gungwu (eds) (1998) The Chinese Diaspora: Selected Essays, 2 volumes, Singapore: Times Academic Press. Xiao, Yaotian (1957) Minjian Xiqu Congkao (A Study of Folk Opera), Singapore: Nanguo Chubanshe (Southern Country Publishing Company). –––– (1985) Chaozhou Xiqu Yinyuezhi (A Study of Chaozhou Music and Opera), Penang: Guangyin Chubanshe (Guangyin Publishing Company). Yap, Wee Cheng (2000) ‘A Study of Teochew Music Clubs in Singapore’, unpublished MA dissertation, National University of Singapore. Yeh, Wen-hsin (ed.) (2000) Cross-Cultural Readings of Chineseness: Narratives, Images, and Interpretations of the 1990s, vol. 51, Chinese Research Monograph, Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley. Yen, Ching-hwang (1995) Studies in Modern Overseas Chinese History, Singapore: Times Academic Press.

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3

Community, identity and performing arts The Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China Hae-kyung Um

Introduction This chapter1 describes the construction and representation of identity among the Korean diaspora of the former Soviet Union and China and provides an analysis of the social, cultural and political factors that have given shape to these diaspora communities and their performing arts. First the history of the different Korean communities in the former Soviet Union and China is briefly outlined in order to provide a context within which to describe and analyse the varied cultural development of these separate migrant societies. By way of a comparative study of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China, a review will then be made of the cultural policies found in the two states and their respective impacts on minority cultures in these multi-ethnic societies. Recent changes in the geo-politics and national policies of the former Soviet Union have created even more community boundaries for the Korean diaspora in what is now the Commonwealth of Independent States. In contrast, the relative stability of the Chinese superstate and the management policies of its ethnic minorities provides a point of comparison with its Korean diaspora. Finally, by way of these examples, an attempt will be made to open up a discussion about the dynamic relationships that exist between geopolitics and national policies, their influences on the creation of community boundaries, the construction of identity and performing arts in multicultural societies.

History of Korean migration to the former USSR According to the 1989 Soviet census, there were 438,650 Koreans in the former USSR and they were the 28th largest ethnic group among 127 officially recognized ‘nationalities’. The three largest Soviet Korean communities include: 183,140 in the Republic of Uzbekistan; 107,051 in the Russian Federation; and 103,315 in the Republic of Kazakhstan (Yi and Chôn 1993: 106).2

44 Hae-kyung Um Russian involvement with Korea began in 1860 when the Treaty of Peking was signed and China gave up its Far Eastern maritime region around Vladivostok to Russia, making Korea a close neighbour. According to some Russian sources, Koreans had already settled in the Russian maritime region by 1863. However, it was the famine of 1869 which drove many peasants from the northern part of Korea into the Russian Far East. The number of migrants rapidly increased at the turn of the twentieth century with the Japanese annexation of Korea in 1910, after which the Russian Far East became one of the three major bases for the Korean nationalist movement opposed to Japanese colonialism.3 During this period a number of Korean villages were established in the Russian Far East with a Korean quarter, Sinhanch’on (New Korean Town), in Vladivostok complete with Korean schools, theatre, churches and printing houses. The October Revolution of 1917 transformed the life of Korean migrants in the region with the new policies of integration and for the Sovietization of the Korean population. And this led to Korean migrants becoming involved in the revolutionary movement (Kho 1987; Um 1996, 2000).4 In 1937 nearly all of these Koreans were transferred to Soviet Central Asia by Stalin under a resettlement scheme which included many other ethnic groups such as Volga Germans, Crimean Tatars and Chechens.5 Few Koreans could escape this forced migration on such a massive scale, undertaken to socially manipulate the political and economic ethnic composition of these different regions. After Russia lost the southern part of the island of Sakhalin to the Japanese at the end of the war of 1905, Japan began to move Koreans in to supply a cheap labour force to operate the mines and railways. However, when the Japanese withdrew at the end of the Second World War, 40,000 Koreans were left behind to become part of the reclaimed territory of the Soviet Union which now extended to the entire island (Um 1996, 2000). Voluntary internal migration of Soviet Koreans was only permitted within the limited region of Soviet Central Asia. However, after the island of Sakhalin became a Soviet territory in 1945, several hundred Central Asian Koreans were sent to Sakhalin by the Soviet authorities as teachers and civil servants to facilitate the education and administration of the Korean population on the island, who were now regarded as new members of Soviet society. After the death of Stalin in 1953 and the subsequent implementation of Khrushchev’s relatively more liberal policies, the restriction on the movement of Koreans was lifted in the mid-1950s,6 and several thousand Central Asian Koreans moved back to the Russian Far East, which they considered ‘home’. Since the 1960s a number of Sakhalin Koreans have also moved in the opposite direction, to the Russian mainland and Soviet Central Asia, in an effort to gain a higher education and improve their job prospects (Um 1996, 2000).

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History of Korean migration to China The Korean communities in northeast China have almost reached two million, making them the 12th largest ethnic group among the 55 officially recognized ethnic minorities in China (Ma 1989). They are the largest overseas Korean community in the world. The three largest Chinese Korean communities include: 1,103,402 in Jilin Province; 431,140 in Heilongjiang Province; and 198,397 in Liaoning Province.7 Of the Koreans in China, over 40 per cent (834,127) are concentrated in the Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture in eastern Jilin Province (Yi 1994: 75–7). Although the movement of Koreans to China began as early as the late seventh century, the major migration of this contemporary Chinese Korean population began in the middle of the nineteenth century. The Qing dynasty’s decision, in 1865, to open up Manchuria to Korean farmers and the famine of the late 1860s in the Korean Peninsula initiated the migration of Korean peasants to Manchuria. The number of migrants increased rapidly with the Japanese annexation of Korea in 1910 and China subsequently became one of the major bases for the Korean nationalist movement,8 which included military academies and schools.9 The 1911 Chinese Revolution, led by Sun Yat-sen, ended the rule of the Qing dynasty. China was then plunged into a turbulent period of political and ideological transition. While encroachment by numerous external powers, including Europe, the US and Japan, continued, internal struggles between the Nationalist Party and the Chinese Communist Party further exacerbated the domestic political turmoil. After Japan established the puppet government of Manchukuo in 1932, Japanese authorities brought a number of Koreans to Manchuria in an attempt to supply cheap labour and control the Korean anti-Japanese nationalist movement ‘by Koreans themselves’. As the conflict between the Chinese Communist Party, led by Mao Zedong, and the Nationalist Party, led by Chiang Kaishek, deepened, Koreans in Manchuria participated in revolutionary movements in alliance with the Chinese Communist Party.10 In particular, during the Chinese civil war (1945–9) these Koreans fought against the Nationalist Party as they found the Chinese Communist Party policies more favourable to Koreans in Manchuria.11 The foundation of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 led to the establishment of the Chinese constitution in 1954 and the Korean Autonomous Prefecture in northeast Jilin Province in the same year.

Soviet and Chinese cultural policies: their impact on the Korean diasporas Korean migration to the former Soviet Union and China began around the same time under the same political, social and economic situation in their home country. In fact, many Korean migrants frequently moved between China, Russia and Korea prior to the October Revolution of

46 Hae-kyung Um 1917. However, given the different cultural and social environments of their respective host countries, the two Korean migrant communities have been subject to very different influences which have resulted in the establishment of two distinctive migrant societies. As a matter of constitutional law, both Soviet and Chinese Koreans should have been able to exercise their minority cultural rights to maintain their language in both education and cultural expression. In practice, however, these rights were not always given the support of the Soviet authorities whose policies changed throughout the course of the turbulent history of the country.12 For example, during the 1937 forced migration all the institutions associated with the Soviet Korean culture of the Russian Far East, such as newspapers, theatre and schools, were also moved to Soviet Central Asia. However, the Korean schools in the new settlements were short-lived. In 1938 a full-time Russian curriculum was imposed on all non-Russian academic institutions (Kim and Pang 1993: 139–47), although Article 45 of the Soviet constitution13 guaranteed every Soviet citizen the opportunity to be educated in their native language. Exceptionally, after the Soviet Union reclaimed Sakhalin in 1945 the Koreans on the island were allowed to be educated in their native language. However, this more liberal policy was reversed in the mid-1960s when the Soviet authorities decided to accelerate the process of Sovietization of the Sakhalin Koreans (Um 1996). In the case of the Chinese Korean communities, their minority cultural rights,14 and their language rights in particular, have been given considerable support by the Chinese state.15 In Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture, the Korean language is used as an official language in addition to the Chinese language. Korean minorities in most regions can also receive their education in Korean schools and universities which provide the major curriculum in Korean. However, during the Cultural Revolution from 1966 and 1976 all Korean cultural institutions faced severe state control which decreased or prohibited all activities associated with Korean ‘nationalism’. A number of Chinese Korean intellectuals and artists were also persecuted as ‘rightist elements’ and ‘regional nationalists’. With the end of the Cultural Revolution, minority rights in China were restored in 1978 through new provisions made in the Chinese constitution. Various pronouncements made by Chinese political leaders in favour of minority rights since the late 1970s and the procedures for the establishment of elected bodies in the autonomous regions, including Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture, also helped the recovery from the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution. Although China has employed national policies which are relatively more favourable to their ethnic minorities, the Soviet Union increasingly criticized China’s minority policies from the 1960s. In all matters the Soviet

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Union rebuked the Chinese authorities for policies of national discrimination and Great Han chauvinism. Soviet writers also argued that the history of the Soviet Union stood as a model for the correct approach to fraternal relations because ‘in the Soviet Union national autonomy is based on recognition of the rights of peoples to self-determination, while in China the non-Han peoples are deprived of this right’ (Rozman 1985: 232–4). At the same time, in the 1960s and 1970s, Chinese scholars and writers criticized the Soviet Union for its ideological ‘revisionism’ of Marxism/ Leninism, ‘the great Russian chauvinism’ and forced Russification (Rozman 1987: 301–7). It is interesting that both the Soviet criticism of China and the Chinese criticism of the Soviet Union, in many respects, repeat criticisms of the West against Soviet and Chinese policies. Despite the Soviet criticisms, that lasted for decades, since the 1960s, the relative stability of the Chinese superstate invites numerous questions about China’s cultural policies for the management of its minorities. Although minority cultural policies in China have been based on the same principles of Soviet communist philosophy,16 they have been modified by centuries of Chinese imperial practice,17 which is very different to Western Russian practice.18 Since the end of the Cultural Revolution in 1976, China’s open policy has also given shape to ‘socialism with Chinese characteristics’ that has led to economic reforms and greater success in this sphere. In addition to China’s long history of empire management and the sustainability of evolving Chinese socialism, the population ratio of the ethnic minorities in these two superstates also may have contributed to their different approaches. In the former Soviet Union, there were 126 ethnic minorities which made up 49.2 per cent of the total population while Russians comprised 50.8 per cent (1989 Soviet Census). On the other hand, according to the 1990 Chinese Census, China’s 55 ethnic minorities constitute only 8.04 per cent of the total population of China, while the Han Chinese make up 91.96 per cent. With this relatively smaller number of ethnic minorities within its geo-political territory, China was probably able to manage its ethnic minorities with fewer burdens on its economy and national and international politics. Some aspects of China’s national policies even appear to be more advantageous to its minorities than to its majority. For example, ethnic minorities in China are allowed to have two or more children in contrast to the one child policy for the Han Chinese.19 It is true that the language rights for these ethnic minorities in China were not always supported by the Chinese state, especially in the case of the ethnic minorities with no written language of their own. Koreans in China were one of the more fortunate nationalities who were supported by the state and also had an indigenous system of written scripts.

48 Hae-kyung Um

Performing arts of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China Inasmuch as both the Korean diasporas in the former Soviet Union and China share the same cultural origins in Korea and in so far as both diasporas have come under the influence of a socialist state, their respective performing arts have developed many characteristics in common. For example, Korean national theatres and ensembles in both countries have been supported by the official patronage of their respective states which endorsed the development of national cultures that are ‘national in form’ and ‘socialist in content’. However, the differences in state policies (reviewed above) and different sets of political, cultural and ethnic dynamics to be found in the former Soviet Union and China have variously shaped the performing arts of the two Korean diaspora communities and their evolving identities as follows. Performing arts of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union Prior to the 1917 October Revolution, most Korean songs in the Korean communities of the Russian Far East were associated with their longing for home and nationalist sentiments expressing opposition to Japanese colonialism. These songs employed the melodies called ch’angga, a hybrid of Christian hymns and Japanese marching songs, which were popular in the Korean Peninsula at the turn of the twentieth century. After 1917 the songs of the October Revolution, sung in Russian and Korean,20 and new Soviet Korean songs with socialist themes21 marked the beginning of the Sovietization of Korean migrant culture in the region (Um 1996, 2000). This social and cultural process was further accelerated in the 1920s when many amateur theatre groups were organized in Korean schools, factories and collective farms and began to perform popular political dramas.22 The first semi-professional Soviet Korean theatre, the Korean Labourers’ Theatre Group, was formed in Vladivostok in 1930. This group was reorganized and officially became the Korean Theatre (Chosôn Kûkchang) in 1932 with support from the local Soviet government. After its 1935 performance of the Korean traditional drama, The Tale of Ch’unhyang (Ch’unhyang-jôn), this theatre group began to produce new Soviet Korean plays with socialist themes professionally, while performing both traditional Korean and Russian dramas in the Korean language (Kho 1987: 140–2). After the Korean resettlement in Soviet Central Asia in 1937, the performing arts of other local majority and minority ethnic groups, such as the Kazakhs and Uzbeks, also became a part of the Soviet Korean performance repertoire through a process of adaptation to local regional cultures. For example, the Korean Theatre,23 now relocated in Soviet Central Asia, began to perform Kazakh, Kirgiz and Uzbek plays in addition

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to Korean, Russian and Western dramas. Some of the dramas which the Korean Theatre performed during the Soviet–German War (1941–5), such as Days and Nights24 written by Konstantin Simonov, reflected the Soviet patriotism that permeated through the entire country at that time.25 Nowadays, it is also common to hear Russian, Uzbek, Kazakh and Jewish popular songs played at Soviet Korean wedding receptions in Tashkent, Uzbekistan and in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Conversely, Soviet Korean music and dance have also been introduced into the culture of local ethnic groups through intermarriage and social mixing (Um 1996). The ethnic and social integration of Koreans into Soviet society is perhaps best represented by a Korean-Ukrainian rock singer Victor Tsoi (1962–90). His music, and he, himself, as a Russian rock star, symbolized both the counterculture of the Soviet youth during and after Perestroika (Cushman 1995) and the hybrid cultural identity of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union (Um 2000). Performing arts of the Korean diaspora in China Prior to the 1920s, like the Korean communities in the Russian Far East, the majority of songs sung in the Korean migrant communities of China were associated with their longing for home and nationalist sentiments in opposition to Japanese colonialism. In Manchuria, many amateur music bands and drama clubs were formed in the Korean schools which were rapidly growing in number throughout the region at that time.26 The 1917 October Revolution in the Soviet Union and the 1921 formation of the Chinese Communist Party began to shape the political and cultural life of Koreans in China. For example, Russian and Chinese revolutionary songs were sung in both Korean and Chinese.27 Amateur drama clubs in the Korean schools also began to produce a variety of plays with socialist political and social themes that ranged from a criticism of arranged marriages to social equality and Marx-Leninist ideology (Ch’oe et al. 1995). With the Japanese invasion of Manchuria in 1931 and the subsequent establishment of Manchukuo (1932–45), the cultural activities of Koreans, in the occupied territories, came under Japanese control. For example, Japanese language and songs were taught in schools in the occupied region. Musicians were also brought from Japan and Korea to perform in symphony orchestras, which were created in Changchun and Harbin in 1937. However, the Japanese occupation also caused a flare-up of antiJapanese sentiment among Koreans and Chinese alike. A number of new Korean revolutionary songs and dramas, with socialist and antiJapanese themes, were created and performed by amateur artists and the ‘propaganda brigade’ members of the Korean nationalist resistance, who fought alongside the Chinese army. During the period of the Chinese Civil War (1945–9), these propaganda brigades were renamed and reorganized into the ‘culture and arts brigades’ and the ‘culture work troupes’ 28 of the

50 Hae-kyung Um Chinese Korean voluntary armies who fought on the side of the Chinese Communist Party. The performances of these troupes would normally include revolutionary songs, Korean folk songs and dances and political dramas, all of which served as both entertainment and propaganda (Ch’oe et al. 1995). With the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 and the Korean Autonomous Prefecture in Yanbian in 1954, Chinese Korean artists began to create songs, dances and dramas which celebrated socialism and their life in the Chinese superstate. Chinese Korean performing arts institutions, such as the Yanbian Song and Dance Troupe (1953), the Yanbian Theatre Troupe (1956) and the Yanbian College of Arts (1957) were established in Yanji, the capital of the Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture. In the 1950s and the early 1960s, a number of Korean music and dance projects were initiated to preserve and promote traditional Korean art forms,29 while a young generation of conservatory-trained Korean composers and choreographers began to create new Korean performing art genres with socialist aesthetics (Kim Tôk-kyun 1995). During the Cultural Revolution (1966–76), Chinese Korean artistic expression came under the scrutiny of state censorship. A committee was organized to produce a type of Chinese Korean performing arts that emulated ‘the eight models’ designated by the state.30 The song ‘Yanbian Koreans Passionately Love Chairman Mao’, composed by Kim Pong-ho in 1965, was widely sung throughout China during the Cultural Revolution and is still popular among Chinese Koreans today. In 1974 a new form of sung narrative, ch’angdam, was also created by way of combining the dramatic plot of the ‘model’ revolutionary operas, performing styles of local Chinese narrative genres and traditional Korean musical drama, p’ansori (Kim Nam-ho 1995). The end of the Cultural Revolution in 1976 and implementation of the ‘Open Policy’ brought many changes and outside world influences into China. Ethnic Korean artists in China were now free to produce ‘national Korean’ art forms of every kind. Although Chinese Korean performing arts created during the post-Cultural Revolution period did not necessarily contain strong political themes, they still tended to maintain the same cultural philosophy of ‘socialist in theme and national in content’ until the mid-1980s. For example, the dance pieces Irrigation Stewards (1978) and Joy of Receiving the Land Entitlement (1980) depicted the idealized rural life of Chinese Koreans and the success of land reform. With a process of social and cultural integration, the performing arts of other ethnic groups in China began to exert an influence on their Chinese Korean counterparts, while some Korean repertoire was also made available to other ethnic groups in China. For example, Chinese Korean composers Kim Pong-ho (born 1937) and Chang Ch’ôn-il (born 1959) have used Han, Mongolian and Tibetan melodies in their music. Since the early 1990s, Chinese Koreans have also adopted the dance drama (wuju), a new

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pan-Chinese performing genre created in the late 1950s.31 Conversely, some Korean folk songs and dances have been included in Chinese school music textbooks, while the Chinese adaptation of the Korean p’ansori story The Tale of Ch’unhyang, performed by the Shanghai Yueju Company, has been released as a video in compact disc format.32 The social and cultural integration of Koreans into Chinese society has also produced a group of ethnic Korean artists whose works are not necessarily associated with Korean national culture. For example, the composers Chang Ch’ôn-il and Kim Pong-ho write their music for Han Chinese-speaking audiences. The singer Cui Jian (Ch’oe Kôn in SinoKorean) is credited with the very creation of Chinese rock music (yaogun yinyue) in the late 1980s. Cui Jian’s music, which addresses the social and political realities of contemporary China at large, is associated with the counter-culture of modern Chinese youth.33

Geo-political changes and their influences on the construction of identity and performing arts among the Korean diasporas During the last decade, the development of diplomatic ties and the cooperation in joint ventures between the former Soviet Union, China and South Korea have both introduced many new ideas to these states which previously followed isolationist policies with regard to their foreign relations. The end of the Cold War, the collapse of the Soviet empire and the modernization of the Chinese economy have rendered the free flow of peoples, ideas and culture, between the Korean diasporas and South Korea, commonplace. These influences have introduced a new dynamic to the forces of cultural contact and change which are already beginning to express themselves in contemporary Soviet and Chinese Korean performing arts. For example, Christian hymns and gospel songs have been introduced to various Soviet Korean communities by South Korean and American Korean missionaries. In Kazakhstan, South Korean percussion ensembles (samul nori ) have already been incorporated into the works of some Soviet Korean composers. Samul nori music has also been included in the repertoire of various Chinese Korean performing arts groups. Additionally, with the introduction of modern technology, such as karaoke, CD, video recorders and VCD, contemporary South Korean popular music has also been widely distributed among the Korean households of the former Soviet Union and China. Conversely, the performing arts of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China have also been introduced into South Korea. For example, the Arirang Dance and Song Ensemble of the Korean Theatre in Kazakhstan gave a performance in Seoul in 1989. The Kazakhstan Korean Theatre Company also performed in P’yôngyang and Seoul in the early 1990s. The Chinese Korean rock singer, Cui Jian (born

52 Hae-kyung Um 1961), and the late Russian Korean rock singer, Victor Tsoi (1962–90), were first introduced to South Korean audiences in the early 1990s through TV documentary programmes made by the Korean national broadcasting company, KBS. More recently, Chinese Korean musical instrument makers from Jilin Province in China provided their technical assistance to the Korean musical instrument modification project in Chôlla Province, South Korea. A Chinese Korean composer has also been commissioned to write a concerto for the Korean zither (kayagûm) to be premièred by a South Korean artist. However, the current shift of cultural contact and influence from the home country has also created a dilemma for many Soviet and Chinese Koreans as they now have to choose South or North Korea as their homeland of alliance. This choice, in turn, influences their performing arts as many Soviet Koreans now feel uncomfortable when asked to sing North Korean songs that contain a strongly communist theme. The artistic director of the Soviet Korean ensemble Ch’ôngch’un in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, described their situation as follows: Nowadays we [Koreans in the former Soviet Union] perform North Korean dances and sing South Korean songs. Here, you see, North and South Korea meet each other and this is our contribution to the re-unification of our home country. Although it is ironical, we should be proud of it. (Fieldwork 1994) Most Soviet and Chinese Koreans welcome their opportunities to learn about their home country of South Korea. At the same time, there is a certain degree of resistance among the Soviet and Chinese Koreans towards the cultural influences from South Korea. For example, many Koreans in the former Soviet Union feel the policies of the South Korean government, especially the Korean language education programme for overseas populations, attempts to impose a new brand of South Korean cultural identity on them.34 Some Chinese Korean musicians have also expressed a cautious concern that their music might come to be dominated by South Korean popular culture, unless new Chinese Korean music is soon created to reflect their changing life and values.

Community, identity and memory De Vos (1995: 24) suggests that the ethnic identity of a group consists of the ‘subjective, symbolic or emblematic uses of any aspect of culture, or a perceived separate origin and continuity in order to differentiate themselves from other groups’. Ethnic identity, he maintains, is past oriented whereas social identity such as, he suggests, citizenship, occupation and ideological affiliation, is present or future oriented (ibid.: 27).

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However, in the former Soviet Union, post-Soviet republics and China, ‘ethnicity’ has been used as a basis for defining a ‘nation’ or the ‘nationality’ of a group of people in these multi-ethnic states. Stalin’s definition of ‘nation’ as ‘an historically constituted, stable community of people, formed on the basis of a common language, territory, economic life, and psychological make-up, manifested in a common culture’ set the basic guidelines for subsequent generations of policy-makers in the Soviet Union. Consequently, ‘ethnicity’ became an institutionalized category when the registration of an individual’s nationality (ethnic origin) on their passport was introduced by the Stalin regime in 1932 (Bremmer and Taras 1993: 33–4). This policy of ‘nationality’ registration has continued to be employed in both the post-Soviet republics and China to this day. In this context, ethnic identity for the Korean diasporas in the former Soviet Union, postSoviet republics and China is not simply a ‘subjective feeling of belonging’, but also a set of political and social criteria officially defined by the respective states as a ‘nationality’ to be indicated on the passport under the category of ‘citizenship’. The question of social identity for the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union is also complex. Their ideological affiliation and citizenship have been transformed by events. For example, during the October Revolution, Koreans in the Russian Far East voluntarily joined the Bolsheviks. However, their loyalty towards the Soviet Union was questioned by the Stalinist Soviet government and they were subsequently deported to Soviet Central Asia as traitors.35 Since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1990, their citizenship and ideology associated with the Soviet state has become a thing of the past. However, the accumulated consequences of these national policies and migrations have created a situation in which members of the same extended family can have a number of different citizenships. Central Asian Koreans can hold a Russian, Kazakh or Uzbek passport. For Sakhalin Koreans, their citizenship has, sometimes, been even more complex and included, for example, Japanese citizenship, ‘no citizenship’, Soviet citizenship, ‘overseas North Korean citizenship’ and Russian citizenship. Recently, several hundred first-generation Sakhalin Koreans returned to South Korea after an absence of 50 years. They now have South Korean citizenship while their children in Sakhalin are simply Russian citizens (Um 1996). At the same time, Korean ethnic identity for this diaspora also faces a challenge from geo-political changes in the Korean Peninsula. They now have to reassess their past in relation to the Korea they left over a century ago and build their present and future ties in relation to South Korea and North Korea since partition. For the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union, both their social identity and ethnic identity are past, present and future oriented. The situation for the Korean diaspora in China appears to be relatively less complicated. Koreans in Manchuria fought with the Chinese

54 Hae-kyung Um Communist Party against the Nationalist Party and Japanese imperialists. Their contribution towards the building of the Chinese socialist state was recognized and ‘rewarded’ with the creation of the Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture where they could maintain their culture and language. Although Chinese Koreans and their national culture suffered during the Cultural Revolution, they seem to regard this repression as a common experience shared with the other nationalities in China including the majority Han Chinese. In this sense, the social identity of Chinese Koreans remains relatively stable as the ideology and citizenship of this diaspora have moved in step with the wider population. However, like the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union, their ethnic identity is past, present and future oriented as they still have to re-evaluate their past in relation to the Korean Peninsula they left many generations ago and build new relationships with the Republic of Korea in the south and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea in the north. It is notable that the Korean diaspora communities in the former Soviet Union and China recently created theatre productions that specifically recollect their past. The play Memory, produced by the Korean Theatre in Kazakhstan, premièred in 1997. This spoken drama tells us about their migration history from the time of the 1937 deportation to Soviet Central Asia, the hardships they endured in their second displacement, the common experiences of the Soviet–German War (1941–5) which they shared with the native Kazakh people and finally their sense of belonging to their new home in Kazakhstan. The Chinese Korean dance drama The Spirit of Changbai Mountain, produced by the Korean Song and Dance Troupe of the Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture, also premièred in 1997. This production depicts a history of the Korean diaspora in China, from the Japanese occupation of the Korean Peninsula, to their departure and struggle to settle into China and, finally, it celebrates their life and future in their new home. If the collective memory of a given society is a reconstruction of the past in the light of the present (Halbwachs 1992), then the ways in which these two different Korean diasporas construct and represent their history through performance defines their community boundary and identities. However, the collective memory of these two Korean diasporas is also constructed within the present-day framework of the national and ethnic politics of Kazakhstan and China. In this sense, their respective migrant history not only enables them to make sense of their own present, but also creates their space for the future that they must come to terms with, and these productions are a product of that necessity.

Conclusion By way of describing and analysing the processes that shape the performing arts of these migrant communities, an attempt has been made to explain

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the dynamic relationships that exist between geo-politics and national policies, their influences on the creation of community boundaries, the construction of identity and the artistic processes at work in these Korean diasporas. Although these communities share common origins in the Korean Peninsula, the region from which they came, their time of departure and their varied experiences in their respective host countries all contribute to different social and cultural outcomes. Additionally, these Soviet and Chinese Koreans have also acquired the Russian or Chinese language and new social values as common elements of cultural transaction which, with the institutions of the state and system of formal education, creates a unifying experience for the separate migrant communities within their respective host country. It also has provided them with elements of an enculturation experience which they share with the numerous diverse groups that make up Soviet and Chinese society. These various ethnic groups, minority–majority relationships and state cultural policies under different regimes have all had a profound effect on the Korean diasporas and their performing arts. With the end of the Soviet empire, Korean artists in the former Soviet republics now have to find new forms and content to create performing arts which reflect their new emerging identity in the post-Soviet world. The emergence of nationalistic cultural policies in the new Central Asian states places yet another dynamic on the cultural expression of the Korean minorities in these regions of the former Soviet Union.36 Chinese Koreans have striven to create their performing arts within the current political and social environment in which socialist ideology still influences their artistic endeavour. But any notion that these modified cultural expressions are inevitable consequences and sources of indoctrination overlooks the complexity of the issues associated with the creative processes of the performing arts. It is true to say that ethnic Korean artists in the former Soviet Union and China have had to work and negotiate with a system of state patronage and its associated ideology. However, at the same time, their creativity and individual choice have also helped to redefine, or even subvert, the boundary of state ideology to create the artistic expressions that reflect their hybrid culture and multiple identities. All of these numerous complex processes have, and will continue to produce different outcomes with various implications for questions of identity for these people who exist in and between the cultures of their place of origin and their new home. For these Korean diasporas their performing arts will continue to play an important role in the construction and expression of their communities in both a personal and collective sense of belonging to a changing world.

56 Hae-kyung Um

Notes 1 My research on the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union was funded from 1993 to 1996 by the Leverhulme Trust and the Economic and Social Research Council in the UK. A fellowship from the International Institute for Asian Studies in the Netherlands supported my comparative research on the Korean diaspora in China and the former Soviet Union from 1998 to 2000. 2 Of the Koreans in Russia, about 40 per cent (40,000) are concentrated on the island of Sakhalin making them the most cohesive Korean community in the contemporary Commonwealth of Independent States. There are also 18,355 Koreans in Kyrgyzstan, 3,431 in Tajikistan and 2,848 in Turkmenistan. Most of the remainder of the Korean population are to be found in the Baltic states and the western part of the former USSR (Yi and Chôn 1993: 106). 3 These nationalist activities were undertaken by both Korean political refugees from the peninsula and Korean migrants in the Russian Far East in association with nationalist organizations such as the Korean Nationalist Society (Taehain Kungminhoe) and the Society for Encouragement of Industry (Kwônôphoe) (Kim Sûng-hwa 1989: 62–72). 4 The first Korean communist organization, the Korean Socialist Party (Hanin Sahoedang), was formed in Khabarovsk in 1918 by Korean migrants and political refugees from the Korean Peninsula (Kim Sûng-hwa 1989: 86). 5 See Hosking (1992: 254–5) and Kim and King (2001: 19–44) for details of the 1937 deportation by Stalin. 6 As part of de-Stalinization, Khrushchev initiated a limited cultural liberalization which produced a national revival of history, literature and arts among all the major ethnic groups. However, as was the case with the deported nationalities such as the Crimean Tatars, Meskhetinas and Volga Germans, the nationality rights of the Koreans were not fully restored (Smith 1996: 8–9). 7 There are also 17,564 Koreans in Inner Mongolia, 3,900 in Beijing and 1,759 in Hebei Province with smaller groups in other major Chinese cities (Yi 1994: 75–7). 8 In Shanghai, a provisional government of Korea was proclaimed in 1919 with Yi Sûng-man in the US as the president and Yi Tong-hwi in the Russian Far East as the prime minister. 9 By the late 1920s the Korean population in Manchuria had reached over 300,000 with 191 Korean schools in the region (Yi 1994: 21–3). 10 The Korean Communist Party in Manchuria was founded in 1926 and then became a branch of the Chinese Communist Party at the 1929 International Communist Party Congress in Moscow (Yi 1994: 37). 11 For example, the Chinese Communist Party guaranteed their rights of land ownership whereas the Nationalist Party did not recognize such minority rights (Yi 1994: 48–9). 12 See Bremmer and Taras (1993) and Smith (1996) for changing nationality policies of the Soviet Union. 13 ‘USSR citizens have the right to education. This right is ensured by the free nature of all types of education, the implementation of the universal compulsory education of young people . . . [and] by the opportunity for instruction in one’s native tongue’ (Akiner 1983: 21). 14 See Mackerras (1995) for a historical review of the development of China’s minority cultures since 1912. 15 See the eleventh paragraph of the Preamble and Article 4 of the constitution of the People’s Republic of China and the 1999 White Paper on ‘National Minorities Policy and Its Practice in China’. 16 See Connor (1984) for the Soviet influences on Chinese national policies.

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17 See Gladney (1996) and Harrell (1995) for historical reviews of Chinese management of minorities. 18 See Bremmer and Taras (1993) and Smith (1996) for Soviet nationality policies. 19 However, an exception to this one child policy is applied to rural areas where labour is in demand for farming. 20 They included ‘Internationale’, ‘The Song of Lenin’ and ‘The Song of the Tractor’ (Fieldwork 1994). 21 The best-known Soviet Korean song is ‘Let’s Vigorously Sow Fields with Seeds’ (Ssirûl Hwalhwal Ppuryôra), written in 1931 by Yôn Sông-yong (born in 1909 in Vladivostok and died in 1998 in Almaty). This song describes the joyful rural life in a socialist state and employs a Korean folksong style with a pentatonic scale. This new style also represents a form of Soviet art which is ‘national in form and socialist in content’ (Um 1996, 2000). 22 Their performances often included Blue Blouse which is a form of Soviet revolutionary spectacles with satirical songs, dance and social comments on current events (Yôn 1993: 21). This type of popular theatre was one of the revolutionary art forms instrumental in the creation of a proletarian culture movement. See Stites (1992: 37–63) for the Bolshevik popular culture. 23 Since 1937, the Korean Theatre in Vladivostok has moved many times. In 1937 the theatre was divided into two groups: the first group moved to Kzyl-Orda, Kazakhstan, while the second group moved to Tashkent, Uzbekistan. The Korean Theatre in Kzyl-Orda then moved to Ushtobe, Kazakhstan, in 1942 and the Tashkent Korean Theatre joined the former in 1950. In 1959 the theatre moved back to Kzyl-Orda in order to have closer contacts with the Korean writers, newspaper and radio station in the city. Finally, the theatre moved to Almaty in 1963. During the Stalin period, while Korean migrants were confined to the limited area of their own settlement, the Korean Theatre was given a privilege by the state of being allowed to travel throughout Soviet Central Asia to give performances in these isolated Korean villages. 24 This war novel, a reportorial saga of the battle of Stalingrad during the war, attained wide popularity because of its evocation of Mother Russia and Mother Volga (Stites 1992: 102). 25 During the years of war, the auxiliary musical ensemble of the Soviet Korean Theatre was recruited as a ‘concert brigade’ to provide fund-raising concerts to aid weapon factories and consolatory entertainment for wounded Soviet soldiers and war refugees from the front lines. However, Korean migrants were not allowed to join the Soviet army. 26 Private Korean schools in Manchuria began to appear from the late nineteenth century. The first traditional Korean school, teaching the reading of classical Chinese, was established in 1883 in Longjing (Yongjông in Sino-Korean) and was followed by many more throughout Manchuria (Nam et al. 1995: 13). In 1906 the first modern Korean school, called Sôjôn Sôsuk, was founded in Longjing and by 1928 there were 362 such schools established by Koreans themselves with 11,717 students (Pak et al. 1991: 17–48). 27 Four hundred and three anti-Japanese revolutionary songs were collected by Li Min and transcribed by Li Shengquan. The Chinese edition of this anthology was published in 1991 and the Korean edition in 1995 (Li Min 1991, 1995). 28 For example, in 1946 the Fifth Propaganda Brigade based in Yanbian was renamed the East Jilin Culture Work Troupe. This troupe subsequently reorganized itself as the East Jilin Culture and Arts Brigade when it was joined by the Seventh Propaganda Brigade from Jilin and the Iskra Theatre from Yanji. In 1948 it reorganized itself again as the Yanbian Culture Work Troupe when it joined up with various troupes from other provinces such as the Mudanjiang

58 Hae-kyung Um

29

30 31

32 33 34 35 36

Korean Culture Troupe from Heilongjiang Province and the First Propaganda Brigade from Liaoning Province (Kim Tôk-kyun 1995: 17). For example, beginning in the early 1950s folk artists were invited to teach traditional genres of music and dance to the artists and students at the Yanbian College of Arts. Several fieldwork projects were also undertaken by a group of Chinese Korean composers and researchers to ‘discover’ Korean folk songs, dances and musical instruments in rural areas. In the mid-1950s a selected number of Chinese Korean students went to North Korea to study the traditional 12-stringed zither, kayagûm (Kim Tôk-kyun 1995: 25). The eight model pieces consisted of five Beijing operas, one ballet, one concerto and an excerpt from The Story of the Red Lantern. The first of these Chinese dance dramas was The Dove of Peace, created in 1950 by Ouyang Yuqian, Dai Ailian and other artists. However, it was not until 1957 that one of the traditional opera pieces, The Treasured Lotus Lamp, was made into a dance drama with a Chinese theme and Western ballet techniques. This production was followed by a series of Chinese dance dramas that combined Chinese national performing arts and Western ballet style (Zhai et al. 1996: 29). It was published and released by the Shanghai Audio and Video Publishing House (serial number: ISRC CN-E07–97–0028–0/V.J8). See Jones (1992: 95–143) for Cui Jian and Chinese rock. See Kim and King (2001) for a description of the recent political and social development in the Korean communities of Central Asia since the break-up of the Soviet Union. Their nationality rights were not restored until 1991 by the then new Russian Federation. See Bremmer and Taras (1993: 313–418) and Khazanov (1995: 115–73) for developments in the recent politics of Central Asian states.

References Akiner, Shirin (1983) Islamic Peoples of the Soviet Union, London: Kegan Paul International. Bremmer, Ian and Taras, Ray (eds) (1993) Nations and Politics in the Soviet Successor States, New York: Cambridge University Press. Ch’oe, Sun-dôk et al. (1995) Yesulsa (A History of Arts), Chungguk Chosôn Minjok Munhwasadaegye (Encyclopedia of Chinese Korean Cultural History), vol. 3, Korean edition, Beijing: Minzu Chubanshe (Nationality Press). Connor, Walker (1984) The Nationality Question in Marxist-Leninist Theory and Strategy, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cushman, Thomas (1995) Notes from Underground: Rock Music Counterculture in Russia, Albany: State University of New York. De Vos, George A. (1995) ‘Ethnic Pluralism: Conflict and Accommodation’, in Lola Romanuci-Ross and George A. De Vos (eds) Ethnic Identity: Creation, Conflict and Accommodation, Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press, pp. 15–47. Gladney, Dru (1996) Muslim Chinese: Ethnic Nationalism in the People’s Republic, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Halbwachs, Maurice (1992) On Collective Memory, edited, translated, and with an introduction by Lewis A. Coser, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Harrell, Steve (ed.) (1995) Cultural Encounters on China’s Ethnic Frontiers, Seattle: University of Washington Press. Hosking, Geoffrey (1992) A History of the Soviet Union, London: Fontana Press.

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Jones, Andrew F. (1992) Like a Knife: Ideology and Genre in Contemporary Chinese Popular Music, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University. Khazanov, Anatoly (1995) After the USSR: Ethnicity, Nationalism, and Politics in the Commonwealth of Independent States, Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press. Kho, Songmoo (1987) Koreans in Soviet Central Asia, The Finnish Oriental Society (ed.), Helsinki: Exchange Centre for Scientific Literature. Kim, German and King, Ross (eds) (2001) Koryô Saram: Koreans in the Former USSR. Korean and Korean American Studies Bulletin, 12/2–3. Kim, Nam-ho (1995) Chungguk Chosônjok Minganûmak Yôngu (A Study of Chinese Korean Folk Music), Korean edition, Mudanjiang: Heilongjiang Chaoxian Minju Chubanshe (Heilongjiang Korean Nationality Press). Kim, Pyotr Geronovich and Pang, Sang-hyôn (1993) Chaeso Hanin Ijusa (A History of Migration of the Soviet Korenas), Seoul: T’amgusa. Kim, Sûng-hwa (1989) Soryôn Hanjoksa (A History of the Soviet Koreans), translated and annotated by T’ae-su Ch’ông, Seoul: Taehan Kyogwasô. Kim, Tôk-kyun (1995) Yesullonmunjip (Essays on Arts), Korean edition, Yanji: Dongbei Chaoxian Minzu Jiaoyu Chubanshe (Northeast Korean Nationality Education Press). Li, Min (comp.) (1991) Dongbei Kangri Lianjun Gequxuan (Anthology of Anti-Japanese Songs of the Northeast Revolutionary Army), transcribed by Li Shengquan, Chinese edition, Harbin: Harbin Chubanshe (Harbin Press). –––– (comp.) (1995) Tongbuk Hangil Yôngun Kagokchip (Anthology of Anti-Japanese Songs of the Northeast Revolutionary Army), transcribed by Li Shengquan, Korean edition, Harbin: Dongfang Jingji Wenhua Zhongxin (Centre for Asian Economics and Culture). Ma, Yin (ed.) (1989) China’s Minority Nationalities, Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. Mackerras, Colin (1995) China’s Minority Cultures: Identities and Integration Since 1912, New York: St Martin’s Press. Nam, Il-sông et al. (1995) Chungguk Chosônômun Kyoyuksa (A History of Chinese Korean Language Education), Korean edition, Yanji: Dongbei Chaoxian Minzu Jiaoyu Chubanshe (Northeast Korean Nationality Education Press). Pak, Kyu-ch’an et al. (1991) Chungguk Chosônjok Kyoyuksa (A History of Chinese Korean Education), Korean edition, Yanji: Dongbei Chaoxian Minzu Jiaoyu Chubanshe (Northeast Korean Nationality Education Press). Rozman, Gilbert (1985) A Mirror for Socialism: Soviet Criticism of China, London: I.B. Tauris. –––– (1987) The Chinese Debate about Soviet Socialism, 1978–1985, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Smith, Graham (ed.) (1996) The Nationalities Question in the Post-Soviet States, London: Longman. Stites, Richard (1992) Russian Popular Culture: Entertainment and Society Since 1900, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Um, Hae-kyung (1996) ‘The Korean Diaspora in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan: Social Change, Identity and Music-Making’, in Kirsten E. Schulze, Martin Stokes and Colm Campbell (eds) Nationalism, Minorities and Diasporas: Identities and Rights in the Middle East, London: I.B. Tauris, pp. 217–32. –––– (2000) ‘Listening Patterns and Identity of the Korean Diaspora in the Former USSR’, British Journal of Ethnomusicology, 9/2: 121–41. Yi, Kwang-gyu (1994) Chaeso Hanin (Soviet Koreans), Seoul: Chimmundang.

60 Hae-kyung Um –––– and Chôn, Kyông-Su (1993) Chaejung Hanin (Chinese Koreans), Seoul: Ilchogak. Yôn, Sông-yong (1993) Yônsôngyong Hoesangnok (Yôn Sông-yong Memoir), Seoul: Yerusalem. Zhai, Zixia et al. (eds) (1996) Zhongguo Wuju (Chinese Dance Drama), Beijing: Zhongguo Shijieyu Chubanshe (China Esperanto Press).

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4

Dancing in the tomb of samba Japanese-Brazilian presence/absence in the São Paulo carnival Shuhei Hosokawa

Se tudo mundo sambasse/Seria tão facil viver (If everyone did samba/It would be easy to live) (From ‘Tem Mais Samba’, composed by Chico Buarque de Holanda)

Introduction During the carnival in 1994, a Brazilian newspaper asked its readers if São Paulo is the ‘tomb of samba’, as described in ‘Sampa’, Caetano Veloso’s famous song about São Paulo. The lyrics of this song subtly imply the death, or absence, of real samba culture in this metropolis. A 15-year-old student from Rio de Janeiro answered ‘yes’ because she considered São Paulo to be a ‘city full of immigrants, from the four corners of the Earth; a city full of Japanese’. To the question ‘Do Japanese samba?’ her answer was ‘Never’ (A Folha de São Paulo [Folhateen], 17 January 1994). Since samba was historically formed and developed in Rio de Janeiro, her reply is understandable. But her words also reveal the tenacity of the view that ‘immigrants’, especially japones, are alien to samba, the national music and dance of Brazil. This chapter1 will examine the conflict and negotiation between nationality and ethnicity manifested in the carnivals in São Paulo, the city with the largest Nikkei population outside Japan. There are 1.2 million Nikkei in Brazil today and 300,000 of them are in São Paulo. The word ‘nikkei’ refers to Japanese immigrants and their descendants, who are indiscriminately categorized as ‘japones’ by mainstream Brazilian society. Most Brazilians view the carnival as the major manifestation of Brazilianness (brasilidade). In this sense, for both Nikkei and non-Nikkei Brazilians, the carnival is a performative and symbolic site in which their ethnic and national identities are articulated. Japanese-Brazilian immigration started in 1908, long after the independence of Brazil in 1822 and the subsequent development of Brazilian nationalism had been shaped by the ‘myth of three founding races’ (Europeans, Africans and indigenous people). The Japanese-Brazilian community

62 Shuhei Hosokawa needed to create its own space both in reality and imagination, ‘to insert itself into, or to change, paradigms about national identity’ in Brazil (Lesser 1999: 3). By way of applying the topological dichotomy of ‘street’ (rua) and ‘house’ (casa) proposed by the Brazilian anthropologist Roberto DaMatta, I will discuss Nikkei participation in carnival with respect to two closely related performative occasions, namely, the salon dance party (baile) and parade (desfile, enredo). My description and analysis of parade will focus on the Nikkei participation in the escola de samba (samba school or samba team) and the parades with Japanese themes. Whereas the vast literature in Brazilian carnival studies deals mainly with the black versus white spectrum, this chapter will look at the same event of carnival through the lens of an ethnic minority that does not fit neatly into the nominal ‘two skin tones’ paradigm.

From street to stadium: a short history of carnival There is no single Carnival but various carnivals in Brazil. In nineteenthcentury Rio de Janeiro, the bourgeoisie could afford to hold fancy balls in their salons, while the rest of the population enjoyed music and dance generally called ‘samba’ in the street. These two contrasting forms of carnival, generally known as ‘great carnival’ (grande Carnaval ) and ‘small carnival’ (pequeno Carnaval ) were, therefore, markedly different in terms of class association. Later, in the 1930s when the government was becoming more populist, it chose the Afro-Brazilian carnival as a distinctively national symbol which could show the separation from European tradition characteristic of the bourgeois carnival. As a result, the ‘small’ and the ‘great’ radically inverted with respect to size, economy and cultural significance. Alongside these changes in social and political climate in Brazil, the establishment of escola de samba, developed from the street carnival groups (cordão), also contributed to the promotion of the status of the samba to that of the ‘national music and dance’. In 1935 the parade of escolas in Rio de Janeiro was administered by the Secretária de Turismo (Department of Tourism). The subsequent increase in mass media coverage and government involvement in the carnival parade in Rio de Janeiro encouraged a rapid expansion and formalization of carnival, which, in turn, led to a nationalization of the event. Avenida Getúlio Vargas, the main street of this city named after the dictator Getúlio Vargas,2 was the strategic setting for the parade. Finally, in 1984 the state of Rio de Janeiro built the Sambódromo, a stadium designed exclusively for the carnival parades, to make the competition more spectacular and give it more tourist appeal. The spatial transition of ‘small’ carnival, from its cradle or street corners, to a main avenue and a stadium reflects the ways in which carnival has been bureaucratized and industrialized into the national and commercial event (Rodrigues 1984; Ikeda 1997).

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In São Paulo, the carnival parade was developed in a similar way yet at a much slower tempo than that in Rio de Janeiro. In 1914 the first grassroots association for the carnival procession was established. It was in 1937 that the first escola de samba was formed in São Paulo. In the 1950s, some 20 years after Rio de Janeiro presented the first official parade, São Paulo had its first local carnival event, which subsequently came under the aegis of the ministry in 1968. The specially designed carnival sanctuary, Sambódromo, finally opened in the late 1980s.3

Fancy dressing in the street The topological division between salon and street to be found in carnival also corresponds to the binary concepts of ‘house’ (casa) and ‘street’ (rua) addressed by Roberto DaMatta (1979: 70–9; 1981: 35–44; 1991: chap. 1; see also Hess 1995: 13–15). For DaMatta, the ‘house’ is a safe, ordered and homogeneous place in which the members are bonded by affection and governed by patriarchal authority, whereas the ‘street’ is a dangerous, disordered and heterogeneous place governed by the law and contract. Given their disparity, the ‘house’ and the ‘street’ often embody contradictory patterns and logic. For example, one can be simultaneously Roman Catholic in the ‘street’ and a believer of the Afro-Brazilian religion in the ‘house’. In this way, many Brazilians would be able to negotiate seemingly incompatible patterns of behaviour while living in the two spheres that frequently overlap with each other. The boundaries between the two spheres do not necessarily coincide with those between ‘public’ and ‘private’, as one would often find in most American and European cultures, because the two contrasting spheres of ‘house’ and ‘street’ often mediate and disturb each other. This transgression of the boundaries creates an inversion and a blurring of the prescribed order and rules that are specifically attached to each sphere. Especially in carnival, the seemingly incompatible two spheres of ‘house’ and ‘street’ often converge into each other, resulting in an inversion of hierarchy, a temporary suspension of order and a transgression of everyday rules. On the other side of this emancipatory coin, however, one can find continuity or even an intensification of everyday order. For example, in spite of the egalitarian façade of carnival, the class boundary becomes clearer during the event when heightened security measures are used by carnival authorities and police for the salon parties where the privileged guests get together (Pereira de Queiroz 1992: 128).

Nikkei participation in carnival How have the Nikkei participated in the carnival? As early as in 1918, the first Japanese-language newspaper in Brazil published haiku poems about pranks involving perfume squirters (lança-perfume), confetti and paper

64 Shuhei Hosokawa ribbons common in the street carnivals at that time (Shu¯kan Nanbei, 26 February 1918). Curious immigrants must have mingled with the elated crowd. The free spirit prevailing at street carnival might have encouraged their participation. These immigrants would have understood the egalitarian and permissive character of the joyful noise: The unified chorus calling for peace Burst forth like a flood from the depths Let us play the March of Eternity Of the pure hearts Of countless young men and women. (Nippaku Shinbun, 29 February 1924) This quotation attests to the populism which is an indispensable aspect of carnival. Some immigrants regarded carnival just as an extended holiday, whereas others willingly joined in the frolicking in the street. Pre-war Japanese immigrants understood the playful façade of carnival as follows: ‘Carnival is the cocktail-shaker that blends the authentic and the imitation. It is a hypnotic state in which everyone engages in makebelieve and makes good their promise to respect each other’s dreams’ (Nippon Shinbun, 25 February 1936). This aspect of carnival is most evident in masking and fancy dress, two of the most common carnivalesque jests which allow the participants to transcend their everyday roles and positions ascribed to skin colour, physiognomy, clothes and so on. Some Japanese immigrants disguised themselves as a clown, bahiana (a black woman dressed in white skirt and turban), indio and other fanciful and outlandish figures, as did many Brazilians. Others assumed the role of stereotypical Japanese, such as samurai and geisha. If the former group of Nikkei was more concerned with Brazilianization, the latter group plunged themselves into self-orientalization, or the self-conscious exoticization in response to the others’ imagination and desire. In the 1930s the immigrants sometimes joined in the parade as a collective. For example, the Japanese community from Bastos in São Paulo State built a float of the Kasato Maru, the first ship to bring Japanese immigrants to Brazil, for the carnival parade. Meanwhile, in the city of São Paulo, a group of Japanese waitresses dressed in sailor’s tunic and kimono. These two occasions were early street presentations of Japanese as a collective. In everyday life, Japanese immigrants in the 1930s, aware of their visible foreignness, usually tried not to attract people’s attention. Carnival, by contrast, would allow them to express their Japanese ethnicity yet in conformity with what Brazilians expected of them as an Oriental race. In some cases, it was difficult for Brazilians to judge if these Japanese immigrants were dressed up for the carnival or not. Japanese-language papers criticized Japanese men for strolling about in yukata, a type of informal robe usually used for the summer evenings (Seishu¯ Shinpo¯ , 4 March 1927;

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Nippon Shinbun, 21 February 1934). These papers inveighed that this was not fancy dress because they dressed as they might have done in Japan. However, Brazilians might have seen them in a very different way. Japanese-language newspapers also often cautiously warned their readers of the danger of over-assimilation to mainstream society, but were always diligent in encouraging Japanese immigrants to respect the Brazilian way of life. These newspapers argued that Japanese immigrants deserved respect from non-Japanese as they were from a first-class nation with exceptional degrees of morality and refinement. For many Japanese immigrants, Brazilianness was associated with lasciviousness, laziness and moral laxity. Japanese papers also regarded carnival as a good opportunity to publicize their successful integration into Brazilian society and inimitable virtues of Japanese immigrants, of which the following is an example: Japanese should adopt good Brazilian customs but at the same [we] should be respected as a truly refined nation by the foreigners [gaijin, non-Japanese]. One must not forget it in the carnival, that is, the firstclass stage [to show the politeness]. . . . We have to think about how far we should harmonise with [Brazilian ways]. (Burajiru Jiho¯ , 28 February 1928) As much as for Brazilians, carnival was a political spectacle for Japanese immigrants because it provided a ‘stage’ on which they could show how respectable they were as well as how well integrated in the society. This article also welcomed the increased participation of Japanese immigrants in the decorated float parade, which would be seen as a sign of their integration into Brazilian culture and economic success. Encouraging though it may have been, this article was cautious about any improper conduct by the Japanese that might degrade their ethnic and national pride as a refined people. It is, of course, difficult to judge unanimously what is proper and improper as Brazilian and as Japanese in the rather inextricable time and space of carnival. Assimilation became a coercive issue for Japanese immigrants in the 1930s when the Japanese government organized a pro-assimilation campaign for these immigrants with the slogan of Gozar a terra (love the land [love Brazil]). This campaign was launched to mitigate Brazilian officialdom’s view of Japanese immigrants as being ‘unassimilable’ people or an insoluble ‘sulphur’ in mainstream society. The basic rhetoric of this slogan was ‘to collaborate with Brazil is to be helpful to Japan’. However, few immigrants were persuaded by this blatant campaign since the majority of them identified themselves as ‘overseas Japanese’ rather than part of the Brazilian nation and, above all, they wanted to return home as soon as they earned enough money. They saw Brazil not as a land to love but as a temporary place to live. Because of

66 Shuhei Hosokawa the immigrants’ resistance to assimilation, Japanese official discourse during the carnival in 1936 took on Brazilian rhetoric of racial equality: ‘There is no blackey, no whitey, no Turky [“turco”, the colloquial term for Middle-Eastern immigrants], no Jap [“japão”]. Carnival makes everyone equal’ (Seishu¯ Shinpo¯ , 25 February 1936). Despite this euphoric affirmation of egalitarianism, Japanese immigrants must have been aware of the inconsistency lurking in the official discourse.

Dancing in the salon Following the 1924 US Enclosure Act against Asian immigration to the US, the number of Japanese immigrants in Brazil rapidly increased. It was in the 1920s that the Nikkei community started organizing its own indoor dance party, in addition to the street carnival in which they participated. The Nikkei carnival party was double-sided. It was ‘ethnically Japanese’, with regard to the participants, organizer and venue; and at the same time, it was also ‘nationally Brazilian’ in terms of the music, dance and Christian calendar used, thereby reflecting the inherent antithetical characteristics of the Nikkei world, ‘segregation’ and ‘integration’. The way in which the Japanese salon party in the 1930s maintained its members’ ethnic discreetness is clearly illustrated in the phrase used in a local Japanese language newspaper – ‘a dance party of Japanese, by Japanese and for Japanese’ (Nippaku Shinbun, 14 February 1934). This Japanese dance party, referred to in the newspaper, was organized by the Japanese Youth Association in São Paulo (San Pauro Seinen Renmei ) in collaboration with the Brazilian Colonization Corporation (Bratac) to assuage young immigrants’ ‘yellow melancholy’. However, the young immigrants at the party, indeed, felt ‘melancholic’, perturbed by their growing concern about the anti-immigration bill to be passed by the Constituent Assembly. In fact, this bill, which these immigrants considered to be ‘anti-Japanese’, was passed shortly after this salon party. It is noteworthy that these Japanese immigrants used the salon, which is a typically Brazilian social space, as their ethnic refuge. In these Japanese salons, their ethnic difference would be unmarked and insignificant. Their ‘minority’ position, as seen by wider Brazilian society, would temporarily shift to the ‘majority’ in this space. As a social and ethnic space, the Japanese salon embodied the contradiction and accommodation between nationality and ethnicity as found in this immigrant community. Two years later, some middle-aged and elderly immigrants are reported to have danced bon-odori, the folk dance for the bon festival, in their salon (Nippaku Shinbun, 14 February 1936). As this traditional festival is perhaps the most freewheeling event in rural Japan, the joking phrase, ‘Carnival is the Western bon-odori’ is not too far from the mark (Diario Nippak, 13 April 1962). However, such ‘Japanese’ activity as bon-odori was too

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‘un-Brazilian’ to be presented in the street. It was in their own salon, or their community space, that these immigrants felt comfortable enough to demonstrate and re-enact their pre-migratory customs. After the war, the Brazil-born nisei (second generation) founded their own fraternity clubs (see Corrêa Leite Cardoso 1973). The membership and size varied from one club to another. Whether they accepted nonJapanese members, whether they had their own sports ground and whether they co-operated with the Japanese migrants associations of their parents’ generation were all dependent on who founded the club, for what, and how. The carnival dance party was, and continues to be, the most important event for them in financial and social terms. Every year since the 1960s, approximately four to five parties organized by the nisei clubs are reported in São Paulo city. Their carnival party has no identifiable ethnic character except the physiognomy of the crowd. The principal motivation for people of Japanese descent to gather in these nisei clubs is to enjoy themselves in a familiar club atmosphere while meeting other Nikkei friends and also less directly to maintain their ties with the Japanese community in Brazil. Some frequent the salon carnival because they are members of the nisei club. At the carnival parties they normally meet the people they already know. In this sense, their carnival-related activities are more of a continuation of their everyday social life rather than a discontinuity from it ( Jornal Paulista, 21 February 1985). In 1994 I was invited to the carnival party of the Anhanguera Nikkei Club, one of the most established Nikkei associations in São Paulo. Curiously, disco and house music was played from the loudspeakers during the intermission of the Brazilian carnival band. This sort of mechanical beat would not have been played in mainstream carnival events, only in Japanese parties. It also turned out that the company that set up the sound system also regularly provides music for weekend Nikkei disco parties. The youth (about 15–25 year olds), who constituted more than a half of the participants, seemed to be more excited by the disco music and dance than by the traditional samba. It was also notable that the dancers in the central part of the floor changed as the band and the DJ alternated. Whereas the pre-war elderly immigrants once danced bon-odori at salon parties, the young Nikkei of today prefer disco dancing to samba. Despite the obvious differences in terms of sound and its cultural meaning, both cases illustrate a divergence from the norm of the Brazilian national event, which is dominated by Afro-Brazilian sound. The Nikkei parties do not eliminate samba but run Japanese folk choreography or Western European pop beat parallel with the Brazilian music and dance. This coexistence seems to capture the image of the in-between position of the community (see also Hosokawa 1999, 2000).

68 Shuhei Hosokawa

‘Japones’ on the parade In this section the two different aspects of the Japanese presence in escolas de samba will be discussed. These are the participation of people of Japanese descent in the escolas and the parade with Japanese themes. The 1968 officialization of the carnival parade by the Secretária de Turismo e Fomento da Prefeitura de São Paulo (Department of Tourism and Assistance of the City of São Paulo) put the escolas and their performance under strict regulation. This transformed carnivals into less dangerous, less marginal, more industrialized and concomitantly more inclusive events. The commercial development of escolas also facilitated easier access to the world of carnival for the middle and upper classes and the non-Black population (Rodrigues de Moraes 1978: 145). In the mid-1970s, a few minor escolas around the district of Liberdade where many São Paulo Asians live had some Nikkei members.4 The first carnival parade with Japanese themes was performed in 1979 by the Flor da Penha (Flower of Penha), a minor escola de samba of Group III. This first Japanese parade, entitled ‘Os Filhos do Sol Nascente: 70 Anos de Imigração’ (The Sons from the Rising Sun: 70 Years of Immigration), was presented by 700 members with a float of the Kasato-Maru and the dancers wearing Japanese folk costumes and masks (São Paulo Shimbun, 27 February 1979). This parade, though now sunk into oblivion, was an important event because it was the first public and national recognition of the Japanese presence in Brazil at this country’s major populist event. Japanese parades also complied with the criterion defined by the stipulated rules that parade should represent a national subject. In the words of the President of the Flor da Penha, Manoel Mendes Neto: More than a form of homage and recognition of all that the Japanese have done since their arrival in Brazil, it [the parade] is a trial of the escola because Japanese, or more aptly, their Brazilian descendants – nisei and sansei [the third generation] – have approached us as a group to enter and participate in our Flor da Penha. . . . It is the government organs [the Secretária de Turismo] which decide whether the themes are authorized or not . . . The themes must be genuinely Brazilian – this is obligatory – whether from Brazilian history or anything from our daily life. . . . The government agrees that Japanese immigration is part of our history. (São Paulo Shimbun, Portuguese page, 9 September 1978) It is possible that this Japanese parade of 1979 was inspired by the grand ceremony held in June 1978 at the Pacaembú Stadium, São Paulo, in celebration of the seventieth year of Japanese-Brazilian immigration. Following are the lyrics published in the Portuguese page of a Nikkei newspaper:

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Arrendaram terras E plantaram algodão E assim colaboraram Com o progresso da Nação A esse povo amigo, lará, lará Um abraço como irmão Saudaçoes aos Imigrantes E à colônia do Japão, lará, lará

They rented lands And planted cotton Thus did their bit For the progress of the Nation These people are friends, lará, lará A fraternal hug Salutes to the Immigrants And to the colony from Japan, lará, lará (São Paulo Shimbun, 7 February 1979)

The first strophe of the song describes Japanese agricultural contribution to the Brazilian nation, emphasizing their ‘rootedness’ on the land (terras) of Brazil. The lyrics also employ a typical euphoric rhetoric of the sambaenredo tradition.5 The tie between Flor da Penha and Japan was sporadic and subsequently forgotten. In fact, it is another samba school, Barroca Zona Sur, which many São Paulo people would normally associate with Japanese parades. Barroca Zona Sur has maintained a closer relationship with the Nikkei than any other escola since one of its sub-groups (ala) was represented entirely by Nikkei youth in 1982 (São Paulo Shimbun, 23 February 1982). This sub-group or ala dressed up in Japanese costumes, such as the judo uniforms for men and happi, the light coat for festivities, for women (São Paulo Shimbun, 23 February 1982). The lead woman (abre-ala) of this sub-group greeted the audience à la japonaise with a Japanese fan in her hand. The Nikkei participation in samba schools was initially led by several students who had been frustrated by their parents’ hesitation to enter mainstream society. Felicia Ogawa, a student at the University of São Paulo, clearly spoke of her generation’s hyphenated identity as follows: I am Brazilian. Though I have a stigma with my body and my cultural heritage is so different, I am still Brazilian and we, the Nikkei, are all Brazilian. Though I am confronted with many contradictions, such as a lack of identity and a crisis of nationality, which will always remain with me, I identify myself totally with Brazilian culture. For the nisei and the Japanese descendants, however, it is important not to abandon our Oriental aspect. It is a culture that is over a thousand-years old and a culture that has many things we have to learn about. . . . Why do all the Brazilians have to be the same? Why do we limit ourselves to only one model, which is impossible in Brazil, where a large racial mixture is found? The problem occurs when one tries to be the same as others, imitating the behaviour and way of life that belong to others.

70 Shuhei Hosokawa . . . When we view ourselves with a greater self-esteem and respect, we will learn and appreciate our differences. (Ogawa 1981: 31f.) Instead of a persistent urge for assimilation driven by the ideology of ‘miscegenation’ and ‘mixture’, she emphasizes the notion of ‘difference’. From her own marginalized experience, Ogawa argues that a monoculturalism has pervaded Brazil’s national history and associated ideology. Her argument suggests that a true multiculturalism had barely been formulated in Brazil at the time she made her statement. To dance with an escola was a way for Ogawa to prove that she was truly Brazilian in spite of her Japanese ‘stigma’. Yet, it did not deny her biological and cultural heritage. She needed a hyphen between her Brazilian nationality registered in her passport and her Japanese ethnicity written on her face. Her argument heralds the upsurge in multiculturalism that swept Brazil and especially São Paulo in the 1990s. For many Nikkei, to be affiliated with an escola meant, and still means, to be mingled with the ‘black thing [element]’ (coisa de negro), which was considered to be a ‘taboo’ (interview with William Kimura, ex-Barroca member, February 1994). According to Kimura, when a group of nisei in their extravagant costumes rushed into a Japanese salon after their performance with the Barroca, the people in the salon were hesitant about coming close to them. They felt that the ‘street’ had invaded their own ‘house’: the boundary between the two carnivalesque spaces had suddenly been collapsed. This is but one incident that illustrates how the samba is still alien to the majority of Nikkei. In the following year, 1983, the Barroca dedicated their parade to the seventy-fifth anniversary of Japanese immigration to Brazil. The first float was decorated with a statue of Buddha placed on lotus leaves, while the front-line escola office-bearers (comissão de frente) donned a traditional Japanese hat and sword instead of their usual derby hat and frock coat. Following them were the ‘Japanese’ alas with an image of Mount Fuji decorated with cherry blossoms and cranes, floats with a red shrine and a wooden bridge, groups of performers carrying lanterns and dragons, and various figures including Marco Polo and vegetables, to mention just some of them (São Paulo Shimbun, 15 February 1983). By featuring these stereotypical ethnic images, accompanied by a song about the Oriental pioneers, this samba celebrated the religion, history, art and agriculture of Japanese immigrants. A Japanese-language newspaper, in its usual optimistic tone, wrote that the Nikkei were no longer exotic and had now become part of the genuinely Brazilian festival (Diario Nippak, 18 February 1983). In other words, it considered that their participation in the carnival parade validated the Japanese presence in Brazil. In 1998, the year of the ninetieth anniversary of Japanese immigration, one of the most traditional escolas de samba in São Paulo, Vai-Vai, presented

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a parade entitled ‘Banzai Vai-Vai!’. They invested lavishly not only in extravagant floats and costumes, but also in the Brazilian celebrities to dance on the floats. This investment paid off when they were awarded first prize in the competition. The song featured in this parade describes these migrants’ journey from Japan to Brazil and the way in which they now associate themselves with their ‘homeland’ and the ‘new home’ as follows: Através de um sonho viajei (eu sou criolé) Nessa viagem encantada Em imperador me transformei

Across a dream I travelled (I am Creole) In the fascinating journey I was transformed into the emperor Entre tantos guerreiros, shoguns Among many warriors, shoguns E arqueiros, divaguei And archers, I daydreamt Teatro e cultura, saquê que Theater and culture, sake, what loucura a madness Este é o império que criei This is the empire in which I grew up Tantas belezas eu vislumbrei I was amazed by so many beautiful things Nesta viagem de ilusão On my illusionary journey Mas a guerra trouze a pobreza But the war brought about poverty Tanta dor, quanta tristeza Pain and sadness O ‘cogumelo’ da destruição The ‘mushroom’ of destruction Vi também a força do operário I saw the power of the workers Teve garra no trabalho lutou e They had guts and worked hard, Reergueu sua nação They rebuilt their nation Cruzei, o mar da minha liberdade I crossed the sea of my freedom Meu sonho jà virou realidade My dream has already come true Na ‘terra da garoa’ agora estou In the ‘foggy land’* where I am now Eu acordei numa exploção I woke up in an explosion de alegria of joy De ninja vi a minha bateria I saw my drumming by a ninja Na tela do computador On the computer screen. (Noticias Populares, 26 February 1998) It is notable that the word criolé (Creole) is used in this song, subtly suggesting their sense of ‘in betweenness’. The gulf between the traditional and historical Japan they left behind and the highly industrialized and * ‘Foggy land’ is a nickname of São Paulo.

72 Shuhei Hosokawa contemporary Japan is mediated by their dream. The lyrics also elucidate the commonly held view of Japan in Brazil – emperor, shogun and samurai, traditional theatre and flower arrangement, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, diligent workers, ninja and computer games. All these images of Japan were displayed on the six floats embellished with semi-nude geishas, sumo wrestlers, kimono dancers and other ‘Japan-flavoured’ performers. Besides these core elements, some sub-groups were represented by various Japanese-Brazilian cultural groups. For example, while the participants from the Radio Calisthenics (Radio Taiso¯) were mostly elderly people in white sportswear, Awa-odori ( Japanese upbeat dance) dancers were women with a traditional sedge hat and children in happi coats. Saraodori (dancing with small plates) was also performed in the middle of the parade (São Paulo Shimbun, 24 February 1998). These groups of Nikkei participants were recruited through the Vai-Vai’s contacts with the leaders of Japanese-Brazilian cultural groups. However, only the members of these Japanese cultural groups participated in the parade and there were virtually no spectators from the wider Nikkei community (São Paulo Shimbun, 24 February 1998 and 7 February 1998). It appears that the majority of Nikkei was rather sceptical about the carnival’s potential to facilitate Brazil’s recognition of the Japanese presence in its society. Midori Onaga, the only Japanese percussionist in Vai-Vai, claims that Nikkei generally adopt a cold and distant attitude towards the carnival parades because of their own prejudice against black people (São Paulo Shimbun, 24 February 1998). Therefore, she says, few Nikkei dared to dance the samba with a black-dominant group. If this is true, where have Nikkei acquired this racism from? Is it their inheritance from the first-generation immigrants or is it their adoption of the Euro-Brazilian racial view?

Conclusion In Brazilian society, carnival is an ambiguous universe. Carnival reverses everyday order through its permissive attitude to excessive sexuality and its shrouding in masked identity, and in its manifestation of a putative egalitarianism. At the same time, it reinforces everyday order through policing, competition and discrimination. By the same token, during the carnival the Nikkei community manifests its Brazilianness by dancing the samba while its members maintain their ethnic boundaries by getting together in their own salons. They need both a liberation from daily routine and a protection from ‘Otherness’. Constructing ethnic space is always an urgent need for minority groups. It is where a person feels ‘at home’ as well as a base from which one can appeal to mainstream society for a recognition of a hyphenated existence. It is concerned with both real space and its imaginary counterpart. In the Japanese-Brazilian case, the ‘street’, ‘salon’ and ‘parade’ are both real and

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imaginary spaces in the sense that they are both physically present and flexibly imagined according to a variety of points of view. This may not be the case only with the Japanese-Brazilian community. It is important that a minority group can have a sense of belonging both to its own ethnic community and to the prevailing mainstream culture. Yet, its Otherness needs to be expressed and acknowledged by mainstream society through recognizable visual, bodily and musical expressions. In the parade, ‘Japanese’ motifs are added to, rather than blended into, the established forms of carnival. Both Brazilian and Japanese-Brazilian carnivals can be seen as a ‘creation of a multiplicity of hyphenated Brazilians’ (Lesser 1999: 5), but in different ways. For Nikkei, the two carnivalesque spaces of salon and street are complementary to each other with respect to their ethnicity and nationality. While mainstream society is barely aware of the carnival activities in the Nikkei salons, the Nikkei community itself is not always enthusiastic about the parade, although it might have the potential to facilitate a public recognition of the Japanese presence in Brazil. Carnival not only displays the strong populism of this racially mixed nation, it also provides a valuable opportunity for different ethnic groups to demonstrate their integration into mainstream society. It is a crossing point where ethnic identity and national identity converge rather than a showcase for a uniform and monolithic nation state.

Notes 1 2 3

4

5

I would like to thank Michael Molasky and Jeff Lesser for their critical suggestions, and the Centro de Estudos Nipo-Brasileliro and the Museu de Imigração Japonesa to which I owe the newspapers and articles quoted here. After his suicide, Avenida Getúlio Vargas was renamed Avenida Rio Branco. The literature on Brazilian carnival is abundant. Most of it focuses on the carnivals in Rio de Janeiro. See Cavalcanti 1999; DaMatta 1979, 1981; Leopoldi 1979; Urbano et al. 1987. On the carnival in São Paulo, see Marques Britto 1986; Rodrigues de Moraes 1978; Vinci de Moraes 1997. Nikkei members of these samba schools include: Antonio Hiroshi Kumagai, the lead singer (puxador) of the Unidos da Galvão Bueno; Hissae Teruya, a percussionist of the Flor da Penha; and Masayoshi Yamamoto (also known as ‘João Japonês’), a member of Fio de Ouro and Imperio (Diario Nippak, 22 and 27 February 1980, and 6 March 1981). Among them, Yamamoto, born in Tokyo in 1938, immigrated to Brazil around 1940. His interest in samba might have been related to his marriage to a black woman. Such interracial marriage often accelerates the integration of Japanese immigrants into mainstream society (São Paulo Shimbun, 23 May 1974). In the following year, undeterred by the cold response from the Nikkei community (see Diario Nippak, 7 February 1979), the Flor da Penha presented ‘O Passado e o Presente da Liberdade’ (The Past and the Present of Liberdade), which dealt with the history of Liberdade from the pillory and the slave’s church to present day ‘Bairro Oriental’ (Diario Nippak, 13 February 1980). By overlapping the ‘Black past’ with the ‘Japanese present’, this samba performance attempted to validate the presence of these different ethnic communities in

74 Shuhei Hosokawa Brazil’s national history. However, there have been no carnival parades of ‘newcomers’ such as Taiwanese or Korean groups, who have immigrated to Brazil since the 1970s.

References Augras, Monique (1998) O Brasil do Samba-Enredo, Rio de Janeiro: Fundação Getulio Vargas. Cavalcanti, Maria Laura de Castro (1999) O Rito e o Tempo. Ensaios sobre o Carnival, Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira. Corrêa Leite Cardoso, Ruth (1973) ‘O Papel das Associações Juvenis na Aculturação dos Japoneses’, in Hiroshi Saito and Takashi Maeyama (eds) Assimilaçao e Integração dos Japoneses no Brasil, Petrópolis and São Paulo: Ed. Vozes and Ed. Universidade de São Paulo, pp. 317–45. DaMatta, Roberto (1979) Carnavais, Malandros e Heróis: Para uma Sociologia do Dilema Brasileiro, Rio de Janeiro: Zahar. –––– (1981) Universo do Carnaval: Imagens e Reflexões, Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Pinakotheke. –––– (1991) A Casa e a Rua, Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan. Hess, David J. (1995) ‘Introduction’, in David J. Hess and Roberto A. DaMatta (eds) The Brazilian Puzzle: Culture on the Borderland of the Western World, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 1–27. Hosokawa, Shuhei (1999) ‘Nationalizing Cho¯ -Cho¯ -San: The Signification of “Butterfly Singers” in a Japanese-Brazilian Community’, Japanese Studies, 19/3: 253–68. –––– (2000) ‘Singing Contests in the Ethnic Enclosure of the Post-war JapaneseBrazilian Community’, British Journal of Ethnomusicology, 9/1: 95–118. Ikeda, Alberto T. (1997) ‘No Carnaval pós-moderno, negro não tem vez’, O Estado de São Paulo (Cultura), 8 February: D8–9. Leopoldi, José Savio (1979) Escolas de Samba, Ritual e Sociedade, Petrópolis: Vozes. Lesser, Jeffrey (1995) Welcoming the Undesirables: Brazil and the Jewish Question, Berkeley: University of California Press. –––– (1999) Negotiating National Identity. Immigrants, Minorities, and the Struggle for Ethnicity in Brazil, Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Marques Britto, Iêda (1986) Samba na Cidade de São Paulo (1900–1930): Um Excercício de Resistencia Cultural, São Paulo: FFLCH-USP. Ogawa, Felicia Megumi (1981) ‘Problemas de identidade socio-cultural no Brasil’, Cadernos, 16: 19–32. Pereira de Queiroz, Maria Isaura (1992) Carnival Brasileiro: O Vivido e o Mito, São Paulo: Brasiliense. Rodrigues, Ana Maria (1984) Samba Negro, Espoliação Branca, São Paulo: Hucitec. Rodrigues de Moraes, Wilson (1978) Escolas de Samba de São Paulo (Capital), São Paulo: Conselho Estadual de Artes e Ciências Humanas. Seyferth, Giralda (1997) ‘A Assimilação dos Imigrantes como Questão Nacional’, Mana, 3/1: 95–131. Urbano, Maria Apparecida, Neuza Neif Nabhan and Yolanda Lhuller dos Santos (1987) Arte em Desfile. Escola de Samba Paulistana, São Paulo: EDICON. Vinci de Moraes, José Geraldo (1997) Sonoridades Paulistanas. A música Popular na Cidade de São Paulo – Final do Século XiX ao Início do Século XX, Rio de Janeiro: FUNARTEEd. Bienal.

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5

Noisy intersection* Ethnicity, authenticity and ownership in Asian American taiko Deborah Wong

Playing When I began taking taiko classes in 1997, I had already wanted to learn the art for many years. I had seen San Jose Taiko and San Francisco Taiko Dojo in concert performances and Soh Daiko in several outdoor festivals in New York City, and every time I saw these groups I felt as if I would literally jump out of my skin with excitement. Part of it was the unadulterated energy and power of the drums themselves, but much of it was seeing Asian Americans playing this forceful music and feeling it viscerally in my own body at the same time – this was central to my vicarious pleasure in taiko. Hearing taiko made me want to be able to do it: I have never been particularly athletic, but hearing and seeing taiko performed made me want to get beyond the vicarious to real experience – made me want to be strong and loud like those Asian American musicians I so admired. Much of this chapter is written from my perspective as an ethnographer, which has included such roles as friend, sponsor, casual acquaintance, student and fly on the wall.1 In this chapter, I write from experience, and I moved into passionate involvement with taiko for all the same reasons that I was drawn to write about Asian American musical activity in the first place. Much of my joy in taiko is related to its place in Asian American expressive culture, which does not preclude the presence of non-Asian Americans in its American realization – indeed, the group I belong to, the Taiko Center of Los Angeles, is explicitly multi-ethnic. The slippage between taiko as a specifically Japanese performance tradition, to its emergence as a Japanese American tradition, to its reformulation as a panAsian American tradition, to its placement as a tradition open to any participants from any background, is central to the place of taiko in America; I will address these multiple locations even as I try to make clear my own motivations for becoming a taiko musician. At the time of writing this, I have performed perhaps 100 times in public: at street fairs, O-bon festivals, community celebrations, museum openings and the like – once even for a Japanese supermarket opening. Students

76 Deborah Wong of the Taiko Center of Los Angeles (TCLA) play constantly, and we have all become used to driving around the greater Los Angeles area for different performances. In my life as a professor and as a community activist, I constantly make decisions about where to go next, when to stand firm and when to give way; I am continuously in charge of things, whether students or activities. As a taiko student, I give myself over completely – to my teacher and to my fellow students. Both of these impulses are completely satisfying for me. In Thailand, my research on music and ritual focused on teacher–disciple relationships (Wong 2001) and I found that it was not uncomfortable or difficult for me to ‘give’ myself to a teacher and to let go of the complicated ego that accompanies so much Western artistic activity. In Thai, performers actually say that a student must ‘give’ him or herself over to a teacher’s authority (they have several verbs for it) and this is viewed as an act of trust and respect rather than subordination, creating a bond with the potential for years of close association and mutual care. Vanishing into the act of learning music, first Thai and now Japanese, is deeply satisfying for me and involves an effacement of nearly everything that gets me through the day in my other life. That is part of my pleasure in it. The other pleasure is in becoming more than myself, i.e. becoming part of a group of other student musicians, some skilled, some less so. In November 1999, my teacher, the Rev. Tom Kurai, created a core group of some 12 students (including myself) who do most of the public performances for the TCLA, and he named the group Satori Daiko. Satori is the sudden illumination or enlightenment received in Zen Buddhism which is beyond communication or explanation; it cannot be characterized emotionally or intellectually. It is repeatable, though, through practice – meditation – and this brings maturity to the practitioner. Some sects of Zen posit that it strikes abruptly and momentarily – indeed, this is central to one’s experience of satori; the sensation is a sudden absence of surging thought followed by a perfect, pure sense of self-nature. Soto Zen (the Rev. Tom’s sect), however, posits a gradually developing awareness that leads to satori (see Rice 1980: 316–17). In either case, satori is a peak spiritual state that is neither easily attained nor simply explained. The Rev. Tom is not in the habit of ‘explaining’ things, and asking him questions may or may not result in answers. He is an accomplished teacher: one learns taiko in his classes, there is no question of that. It would be presumptuous to claim that I understand why he has given our group this name, and it would be even more presumptuous to write that I ‘know’ what satori is, but through playing, I might have a glimmering of what it could be like. The sudden flash of emptiness and joy always comes during performance – not in rehearsal, when I am thinking while playing. He always says, ‘Think during practice, but don’t think when you perform. Just go out there and have fun.’ Does he mean what I am lucky enough to feel sometimes? I am not a Zen Buddhist, but if it’s a good performance, I have that moment at least once, when movement gives way to an unbearable

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lightness of being, a long second of pure ki, and then I am plunged back into the body, thinking which round is this? Pace yourself, do not give it all too soon! That place on my left hand is starting to blister again.

The Rev. Tom Shuichi Thomas Kurai is a seventh- or eighth-generation Zen priest. He is an issei (first-generation Japanese American) who says he thinks like a sansei (third-generation Japanese American). He was born in 1947 in Katada village, Shima peninsula, Mie prefecture, Japan, and grew up at a Soto Zen temple where his grandfather was the priest. He immigrated to Southern California when he was five years old; his father, the Rev. Shuyu Kurai,2 was sent to Los Angeles to serve as a priest at Zenshuji Soto Mission in Little Tokyo. His mother, Michiko Kurai (née Kozaki), was born and raised in the San Jose area (in Los Altos); she was sent to Japan in 1937 when she was ten to be educated and after she graduated from high school, she taught as a primary school teacher. Her marriage to the Rev. Tom’s father was arranged. She lived in Japan for 15 years, through the Second World War, and when the opportunity arose for the Rev. Shuyu to do missionary work, she was eager to return to the US. The Rev. Tom’s mother is thus a kibei nisei – born in the US and therefore a nisei (second-generation Japanese American), but schooled in Japan (kibei ); as a result, she is completely bicultural and bilingual. The Rev. Tom grew up understanding Japanese but not speaking it very well; his mother spoke English with him and Japanese with her husband. The emphasis on relative generation is central to Japanese American identity and to Asian American location more generally. Indeed, the emergence of taiko in the US is closely tied to sansei – third-generation Japanese American – sensibilities. To be a sansei in the Asian American movement means to be politically aware and to be willing to speak out (e.g. against internment and for reparations) in ways that the nisei, the second generation, the first American-born generation, often found difficult, if not impossible. One could say that the loud assertiveness of taiko is emblematic of sansei outspokenness; the nisei were more interested in big band jazz and baseball because their mission was to be American. Of course, this is oversimplified: not all sansei are politically involved and many nisei fought for reparations; no one has the monopoly on anger or silence. Still, most Japanese Americans would agree that issei–nisei–sansei distinctions are the bedrock of Japanese American identity and are states of mind as much as anything else. At this point, the issei have passed on; the nisei are increasingly elderly; the sansei are increasingly middle-aged. Whether distinctive yonsei (fourth-generation) and gosei (fifth-generation) identities will emerge remains to be seen. The Rev. Tom says he thinks of himself as sansei though technically he is either issei or nisei-han (half nisei – 1.5 generation) in current Ethnic Studies parlance. The Rev. Tom’s parents thought they would be in

78 Deborah Wong the US for five years but this was extended to ten years, and at the end of that time, they decided not to go back to Japan. The Rev. Tom grew up in Boyle Heights in East Los Angeles and then in Monterey Park; he went to Garfield High School, which he remembers as being about 90 per cent Chicano; he says he had about 30 Japanese American classmates. His father was a priest at the Zenshuji Soto Mission for many years, but the Rev. Tom never felt that his parents expected him to become a priest. In fact, he majored in landscape architecture and park administration at California Polytechnic State University, Pomona, and, in the middle of all that, was drafted in 1970 and spent a year in Heidelberg, Germany, before returning to the US in 1972 and receiving his bachelor’s degree in 1974. In 1975, he took an Asian American Studies class at East LA College with Buck Wong and it changed the way he thought about things. He went back to university (at CSU Los Angeles) and took a number of Ethnic Studies classes. He became involved in Asian Pride, which evolved into Multicultural Pride, a division of Educational Participation in Communities (EPIC), a programme that designed the Asian American Studies curriculum for public school use.3 At that point, he had lost all interest in landscape architecture: ‘I wanted to do something that would get me in touch with people’, he says. He joined Kinnara Taiko in 1976 as a way to explore Japanese culture and in 1980 he went to Japan where he spent three years, teaching English to Japanese businessmen to support himself while studying traditional folk dance, hayashi, and taiko. He says it was the best thing he ever did. ‘I tried not to have expectations – I thought I was going to find the Japanese side of me there, but I found the American side of me there, actually. I found out that I’m not Japanese: I’m Japanese American.’ I am trying to ‘explain’ what makes the Rev. Tom tick – what motivates him, what drives him – because he provides a window on the cultural and political place of taiko in Asian America, but he eludes me. The Rev. Tom says that his thinking is 75 per cent that of a sansei, but he did not explain what the other 25 per cent is. He is my teacher and I have spent a considerable amount of time with him over the past two and a half years, but knowing people and understanding them is not a simple business. I am located within this tradition in very specific ways – through the Rev. Tom, through my personal sense of Asian American political mission, through my still-limited exposure to taiko and so forth. I know that taiko players of non-Asian descent may have particular problems with what I write, but I have no intention of vacating their experiences of meaning even as I insist that they acknowledge the particular meanings taiko has for Asian Americans. In short, I am keenly aware that I am writing from certain positions as well as for certain audiences, some of them no doubt critical – and I find myself most concerned with what the Rev. Tom will think when he reads this, which should convince you that I write as a student.

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The taiko ‘group’ North American taiko groups come and go, though some have enjoyed great longevity. New ones appear and old ones are remembered. At this point (the late 1990s), there are over 150 taiko groups in the US and Canada, based in Buddhist temples, community centres and universities (mainly as student clubs, often called ‘collegiate groups’). The ideological, spiritual and ethnic bases for different taiko groups open up important issues of identity construction. Taiko is unquestionably ancient but until recently was generally played as a solo instrument to accompany festivals or Buddhist rituals. Matsuri, seasonal festivals with numerous regional forms, often feature a small ensemble of musicians (hayashi ) featuring an odaiko (large drum), a flute (take-bue or shino-bue) and several other drums that generally accompany dance (Malm 1959: 48–50). Taiko also accompanies the recitation of Buddhist wasan (prayer chanted to a steady beat on an odaiko) (Malm 1959: 69) and has a central role in O-bon festivals, held in August to honour the souls of the dead.4 In this context, taiko accompanies the bon-odori dance, and it is in this role especially that taiko was carried abroad via the Japanese diaspora during the early part of the twentieth century and remains central to Japanese American O-bon festivals (Yano 1985). North American taiko players consider the traditional taiko pieces for bon-odori particularly difficult; they have become part of a specialized repertoire known only to players who make a point of learning it.5 Kumi-daiko, or ‘group’ taiko, was created in Japan in the 1950s, changing taiko from a solo instrument used to accompany dance, drama and prayer to a lead instrument; massed ensembles of taiko are thus a very recent development in the history of the instrument (Tusler 1995: 20–1). Some North American groups have maintained taiko specifically as a Buddhist art form (horaku), but many have not (Asai 1985). In some ways, taiko has been secularized as the kumi-daiko tradition has become more established, though ways in which taiko teaches Buddhist values are often subtle. Oedo Sukeroku Daiko in Tokyo has probably had the most far-reaching influence on North American taiko groups. Its history is complicated, involving several founding members who each eventually formed his own groups which all share certain stylistic hallmarks including a characteristic kata (stance) with the left leg bent and the right leg straight and the diagonal Sukeroku stand for chudaiko (the two-headed barrel drum played at waist level) which is widely used by North American groups. Their style blended hogaku (classical music), budo (martial arts) and buyo (dance), and – as David Leong notes (1999) – their influence is so widespread that it is now too often unacknowledged, having been seamlessly absorbed into North American taiko ‘tradition’. Furthermore, Oedo Sukeroku Daiko was the first professional taiko group in Japan: although numerous kumi-daiko clubs sprang up in Japan during the 1950s and 1960s, Sukeroku was, and

80 Deborah Wong continues to be, a professional troupe with an extensive schedule of touring and concerts. Oedo Sukeroku Daiko’s style and repertoire were brought to the US by Seiichi Tanaka who founded San Francisco Taiko Dojo in 1969. Tanaka-sensei, as he is known in the US (sensei, ‘teacher’), studied and performed with Sukeroku and received the group’s permission to teach their material abroad. Many American groups were established by Tanakasensei’s students who absorbed the Sukeroku style through him. As Leong writes, It would not be a far reach to say that most groups in North America owe a stylistic debt to Oedo Sukeroku. In fact, many groups play Oedo Sukeroku’s repertoire, often improperly, without permission, and without realizing where the material originated from. (Leong 1999) Unlike Sukeroku, the San Francisco Taiko Dojo is a school rather than a professional troupe and its focus is on the spiritual and martial arts basis of taiko. Tanaka-sensei’s teaching style is considered particularly rigorous, and American taiko players think of any training with him (either through classes or workshops) as a mark of authority. Although he is not regarded as the only source of ‘authentic’ taiko in North America, his lineage carries a particular weight even though it is not always explicitly recognized as a link to Sukeroku. I will address the ideology of authenticity and authority that underlies performers’ attitudes around these matters, and its link to lineage and genealogy, in much greater detail below. In the 1970s, numerous other taiko groups were formed in the US and in Canada, and kumi-daiko took off in Japan with the spectacular success of the professional group Kodo. The chronology of some of the betterknown groups, all still extant, is shown in Table 5.1. All of these early American groups were formed by Japanese or by Japanese Americans and had primarily Japanese American student bases; most of the Japanese American groups were originally based at Buddhist temples. The Rev. Tom has been in quite a few groups since he became involved in taiko in the 1970s, and his personal history is a fascinating window on differences within the Southern California taiko scene. He was an early member of Kinnara Taiko (1976–8) and describes their style as freewheeling, involving plenty of improvisation and open jamming during rehearsals; he notes that Kenny Endo, now a well-known Japanese American taiko player based in Hawaii, joined Kinnara at about the same time and that, coming from Chicano-influenced East Los Angeles backgrounds, they both found Kinnara’s West LA character (located in and around historically African American neighbourhoods) strikingly different from what they knew. The Rev. Tom found himself wanting to reach the next generation of Japanese Americans and, in 1978, he became director of

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Table 5.1 Founding dates of some of the most well-known taiko groups Taiko group

Year founded

Yushima Tenjin Sukeroku Daiko (later reformed as Oedo Sukeroku Daiko) (Tokyo) San Francisco Taiko Dojo Kinnara Taiko (Los Angeles) San Jose Taiko Soh Daiko (New York, NY) Kodo ( Japan)

1959 1968 1969 1973 1979 1981

Sozenji Taiko, which at that point was entirely Japanese American in its membership and connected to him through his father’s temple. While in Japan from 1980–3, he was a member of the Japan Folkloric Dance Study Group (Nihon Minzoku Buyu Kenkyukai) in Tokyo and studied hayashi and taiko. After the Rev. Tom returned from Japan in 1983, he joined Los Angeles Matsuri Daiko Aiko Kai; he says that those years with LA Matsuri were a good training ground in technique. He re-established Sozenji Taiko in 1983 and was Zenshuji Zendeko’s (then called Zen Daiko) first instructor from 1985–6 at Zenshuji Soto Mission (his father’s former temple). In 1986, the Rev. Tom’s father died and he took over his father’s duties as minister at Sozenji Buddhist Temple. In 1993, West Covina Taiko (established in 1981) reformed as Kishin Daiko and the Rev. Tom, already their teacher, became Kishin’s artistic director; Kishin’s home base, East San Gabriel Japanese Community Center, dictated that the group was not Buddhist-focused and was primarily, but not entirely, Japanese American in its membership. Indeed, Kishin’s mission statement describes the group as explicitly multicultural and multigenerational,6 and this broadening of its community base has had important implications for the Rev. Tom’s motivations in teaching taiko: after 1993 he was no longer entirely directed towards Japanese Americans or Buddhist-based instruction but was, instead, moving towards a more inclusive model of taiko instruction without losing its foundation in Asian American political and spiritual dimensions. From 1995 to 1999, he also served as instructor and adviser for Kodama Taiko, which started out as Jishin Daiko at California State University, Northridge. To summarize, between 1976 and the time of this writing (2001), he has been connected to no fewer than seven taiko groups as a member or as a teacher, and several of those groups underwent metamorphoses during that time (changing names and/or affiliations). The Rev. Tom formed the Taiko Center of Los Angeles in 1997 as a way to co-ordinate the classes that he was already teaching over a 70mile radius. By then, he had on-going classes at the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena, at the Japanese American National Museum in Little Tokyo,

82 Deborah Wong in Monterey Park, in Redondo Beach and so forth. Although the Taiko Center of Los Angeles did not exist in any single space, it was essentially a way to link his widely dispersed student base, and I would say that it has worked. When I started taking classes with him at the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena in October 1997, I quickly got to know the students in the classes before and after mine, and when my classmates and I started performing publicly (on a limited basis) in the summer of 1998, we were often combined with students from his other classes, as we all knew the same repertoire. His student base was made up of approximately 60 students ranging in age from 6 to 60, mostly Japanese Americans but also including other Asian American ethnicities, quite a few White Americans, and a few Latino/as; women outnumbered men about 4:1. In 1999, the Rev. Tom parted ways (through mutual agreement) with Kishin and Kodama, and within a month, he formed Satori Daiko from his student base in the Taiko Center of Los Angeles. Satori is only the second group he formed himself: like Sozenji Taiko, it is made up of his students but it is, apparently, more select. In short, the Rev. Tom’s career to date has included taiko groups with an explicit base in Buddhist instruction; groups that were/are primarily Japanese American but not exclusively so; groups that were/are multiethnic; groups that emphasized improvisation and others that emphasized rigorous training. In forming Satori Daiko, he brings together most of these possibilities, all at once. This group looks as if it will emulate certain Buddhist values even though some of its members are Buddhist and some are not; its members are primarily Japanese American but are not exclusively so; and it will have a base in traditional playing styles though it will also emphasize new compositions and cross-cultural collaborations. In some ways, it sums up the Rev. Tom’s personal history to date. Identity politics are acknowledged by some taiko groups and ignored by others.7 Some groups, especially those formed at Japanese American Buddhist temples, are explicitly formed to support the members’ relationship to their ethnic and spiritual heritage. Non-Buddhist groups represent an astonishing range of stances. Paul Yoon has written at length about Soh Daiko’s hands-on approach to matters of identity work. He feels that the group has evolved into an Asian American identification via its efforts to accommodate members of Asian but not Japanese descent as well as in response to audiences’ orientalizing gestures. He writes: A number of forces work to re-inscribe Soh Daiko and Taiko in general into a hegemonic category of the Oriental Other. One example which does this to Taiko in general is a group I will call Taiko Y. Taiko Y’s membership is entirely non-Asian, and predominantly white, middle class men. However, this group strives to speak to each other in Japanese and introduces all of their pieces in Japanese. They address each other as _____ San and incorporate sempai-kohai, a Japanese

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hierarchical ordering method. One member of Taiko Y even chastised a Chinese American member of Soh Daiko for not knowing Japanese, her supposed heritage. This group’s actions re-exotifies and essentializes Taiko as something Other, an Oriental object. (Yoon 1999: 13) Taiko Y’s attempts to be ‘Japanese’ contrast markedly with other groups’ unabashed attempts to redefine taiko according to specific needs and interests. In Vancouver, for instance, Sawagi Taiko is a feminist/ lesbian group; in Santa Monica, Soka Gakkai International is a Black women’s Buddhist taiko group. At some point, virtually every taiko group seems to go through a process of self-examination and self-definition when its purpose and identity become a matter for focused reflection. Although any taiko group is primarily concerned with its own activities, two emergent venues for inter-group contact have begun to create a broader sense of taiko ‘community’ both in North America and linking North America to Japan. The first is the Rolling Thunder Resource, an award-winning website maintained by David Leong and devoted to taiko; this comprehensive site was created in 1996 and contains everything from an extended database of taiko groups (organized by continent) to a catalogue of taiko equipment and supplies as well as extensive historical and cultural information about the tradition. Its electronic discussion list, taiko-l, also allows aficionados to stay in touch through the Internet. The biennial summer Taiko Conference, inaugurated in 1997 and held once more since then at the Japanese American Community Cultural Center in Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo,8 has established a second way for taiko groups to interact and to exchange repertoire. Groups attend from all over North America to spend three intensive days attending work-shops and performances which, of course, results in a widened dissemination of material. In sum, the taiko ‘group’ exists in dynamic relation to the broader taiko ‘community’, which crosses geographical lines into the virtual world. Understandings of ‘group’ and ‘community’ emerge out of direct contact as well as through Internet discussions and are anything but fixed. A recent conflict has brought these matters into sharp focus.

Philosophy, ownership, authenticity While there is no fixed agreement on how one should approach learning taiko, there is great overlap in attitudes; I would go so far as to say that this overlap amounts to a Japanese American/Asian American aesthetics and poetics of taiko that its practitioners can and do talk about, though with no particular emphasis on formalizing it. Some groups link these values to Buddhism and some do not. The San Jose Taiko page states that ‘Indeed, the practice and performance of taiko requires selfless dedication, physical

84 Deborah Wong endurance, harmony, and a collective spirit’ (San Jose Taiko website at http://www.taiko.org). Tanaka-sensei’s philosophy of taiko is quite explicit and is codified, among other ways, on the San Francisco Taiko Dojo website as follows:9 Karada: Discipline of body strength, power, and stamina Kokoro: Discipline of mind, self-control, and spirit Waza: Musical skills, physical expressions, and rhythm expression, and rhythm Rei: Communication, manners, courtesy, respect, harmony, language, and unity of spirit (San Francisco Taiko Dojo website, http://www.taikodojo.org/pages/school.htm) Drawn from Zen Buddhism, these elements are considered interrelated. Tanaka-sensei writes: ‘These are all the basic elements of Taiko and cannot stand separately. They must come together as one unit’ (ibid.). The Rev. Tom did not decide to become a Zen priest until he was in his early thirties. Despite the long line of ministers in his family, his parents did not expect him to enter the priesthood – indeed, they knew from experience that it was a hard life, and they let him choose his own career. Nonetheless, when the Rev. Tom was in Japan, he decided to study Buddhism towards the end of his stay and he describes this decision as ‘10–15 per cent obligation’ and the rest his own interest. He says he never took any courses in Buddhism and does not even particularly like to read about Buddhism; rather, ‘it was always there, in my surroundings’. His interest in ethnic identity politics led him to taiko, and taiko led him to refocus on spirituality. He says that the whole process was gradual. Zen principles are implicit rather than explicit in his teaching despite the centrality of Buddhism to his life and his involvement with the Japanese American community. You have to look long and hard through his written materials to find any straightforward statement of what he thinks students should get out of taiko study. In a one-page description of the TCLA (part of a publicity package), the last two sentences read: As a performing artist with the Los Angeles Music Center Education Division, Rev. Kurai conducts taiko classes and workshops for students as well as for teachers in public and private schools. The emphasis in these presentations is to introduce Japanese-American culture and to reinforce concepts such as respect, cooperation, teamwork and selfesteem. (Taiko Center of Los Angeles brochure)

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His teaching assistant, Audrey Nakasone, echoes this, saying that she thinks taiko is an ideal educational tool because it ‘teaches things like respect and discipline, but indirectly’ (Personal communication, 10 December 1999). Within the far-flung taiko community, there is general agreement that the spirit of taiko involves discipline, humility and a willingness to put the group before self, but this generalized philosophy recently came head to head with issues of repertoire and ownership in very specific ways. Group identity is linked to awareness of lineage, among other things, but it is also related to repertoire. There are three kinds of ‘pieces’ in the world of taiko: (1) traditional works with no specific author or owner; (2) works composed by individuals; and (3) works that are group-composed. Groupcomposed works often become signature pieces that are rarely played by anyone else except the group that created them, as the identification of the work becomes part and parcel of that group’s personality. ‘Traditional’ works are rarely just that, as particular arrangements of such pieces become well known in their own right and (it is generally agreed) should be acknowledged as the work of a specific arranger. Works composed by individuals are rarely guarded in any jealous or exclusive way, though there is general agreement that the composer of a piece should be named on concert programmes. The movement of repertoire between groups was a matter of informal courtesy until the summer of 1999. Ideally, a group would ask permission of the composer of a piece before learning it, especially if it meant to learn it from a recording or second-hand, from a composer’s student, but that was essentially the extent to which repertoire was considered ownable. In August 1999, this changed when Seido Kobayashi, artistic director of Oedo Sukeroku Daiko, sent a letter to the North American taiko community by asking Sukeroku’s representative, Seiichi Tanaka, to formally present it at the 1999 Taiko Conference in Los Angeles.10 Kobayashi asked that groups playing Oedo Sukeroku Daiko’s repertoire without permission stop doing so. Given the fact that virtually all North American taiko groups play Sukeroku pieces and generally owe a tremendous stylistic debt to that group (whether directly or, more often, indirectly), this sent shock waves through the taiko community and excited a storm of discussion. Kobayashisensei then wrote a second letter that provided specific guidelines stipulating how Sukeroku’s repertoire and distinctive chudaiko stand were now to be used.11 He argued that the pieces, the stand and the kata used in playing drums on such a stand were inseparable and the unique creations of the group Sukeroku – and their property. He used the term dageikyoku to describe the interlinked nature of repertoire, stand and kata: *Dageikyoku: All the music by O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko which is played with the ‘Folding Tilted Stand©’, the ‘Assembling Odaiko Stand©’, and performed with ‘diagonal beating and choreography’. It also includes

86 Deborah Wong the compositions (Shiraume, Matsuri, Nidan-Uchi, Yodan-Uchi, etc.) created by the artistic director, Seido and other original members. All these compositions are played with the specific style of Taiko, the Sukeroku style. Therefore, it is impossible to play this music unless the players have mastered the basics of the Sukeroku method. The letter outlined the permission process as follows: If you wish to use the Dageikyoku of O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko in Japan, please study with O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko and obtain permission from the artistic director of O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko. If you wish to use the Dageikyoku of O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko in North America, please study with Grand Master Seiichi Tanaka of San Francisco Taiko Dojo and obtain permission from the artistic director of O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko. If you are in any other area, please contact us in either Japanese or English at ‘Sukeroku-ryu Kai’. In the process of obtaining permission, the ‘Sukeroku Method Mastering Club’ may help you. As requested, we plan to have workshops and exhibition performances. For detailed information, please contact the O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko general office. Also, everybody must be registered with ‘Sukeroku-ryu Kai’ in order to use the Dageikyoku of O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko. Registration fee: $1,200 per year (per group or per person) Royalty: 7% of the proceeds per performance If you are in North America, please ask for the application and the management of obtaining permission from Grand Master Seiichi Tanaka of San Francisco Taiko Dojo. Please complete the process stated above before you use any of the Dageikyoku of O-Edo Sukeroku Daiko. This pronouncement raced through the North American taiko community and led to weeks of heated on-line discussion. Kobayashi’s radical move to assert control over several central aspects of taiko (kata, stands and repertoire) had serious ramifications for virtually every North American taiko group in existence; discussion ranged from how/whether he was justified in taking these measures to expressions of sheer anxiety, as most groups could not afford the new ‘registration fee’ and royalty. Ideologically, the predicament forced a widespread assessment of the relationship between North American and Japanese taiko, bringing this geocultural imaginary into sharp (and sometimes uncomfortable) focus. John Ko, a former member of Soh Daiko, has written about the controversy and the issues raised by it. As he summarized it:

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This whole copyright issue has opened up a can of worms and brought into the spotlight certain issues within the taiko community that have always lurked and festered in dark corners. These issues include respect for musical/cultural traditions; public acknowledgment of influences; the idea of artistic lineage; appropriate use of a style or a particular piece; who is qualified to teach others and to pass on or publicly represent certain styles and pieces; getting permission to play certain pieces; innovation, altering pieces/styles; the art of taiko (which involves ‘kata’ or the form, movement, etc.) vs. percussion with taiko drums. (Ko 1999: 31) Ko boils the business down to two contending approaches: the ‘old school or Asian mode’ vs. the ‘new world American or Western mode’, though he immediately disavows any tidy distinctions between the two. Instead, he argues that ‘much of the discussion is arising out of this perceived dichotomy’ (1999: 31, emphasis mine) – a discerning take on the ideological shape of the debate. He basically observes that members of the taiko community theorize their own praxis in ideal terms – and thus essentialize the cultural dynamics of ownership and practice because they do not/cannot/will not acknowledge the difference between theory and practice. In this regard, the Rev. Tom and Kenny Endo (director of the Taiko Center of the Pacific) represent useful similarities and contrasts. They are close in age, started studying taiko at practically the same time, were both in Kinnara Taiko for several years, and both went to Japan for further study during the same period (the late 1970s to early 1980s). Both compose new works as well as perform traditional works, and both have experimented with fusions of taiko and other world music traditions. Their career paths, however, suggest different priorities that are worth considering in terms of taiko as a North American/Japanese American/Asian American tradition. Endo is much more tradition-based than the Rev. Tom, and I mean this in terms of his ideological base rather than knowledge in and of itself. Their respective journeys to Japan took place along different axes. Whereas the Rev. Tom went to Japan and discovered that he was Japanese American, Endo regards the traditional Japanese base of taiko as an authentic source of information and spirit; in going to Japan, he felt he put himself into contact with that source. Traise Yamamoto has explored the literary narratives of Japanese Americans who travel to Japan, arguing that: Going back to Japan . . . is not, however, a sentimental journey to recover ‘roots’ or an authentic Japanese self. It is a necessary journey in the process of disentangling Japanese American identity and subjectivity from racist configurations that elide the differences between Japanese Americans and Japanese. (1999: 82)12

88 Deborah Wong If there is a Western and a Japanese American tendency to construct ‘the Japanese’ as more authentic than the Japanese American, these gestures are not necessarily equivalent. The Rev. Tom’s and Endo’s attempts to locate ‘Japan’ were significantly different from the orientalizing gaze of non-Asian American audiences that finds Japan in every taiko player. That is, the pilgrimage to Japan involved no re-orientalizing, no re-inscribed enfolding of race and identity but, rather, two entirely different answers to the same question of location. Endo does not, however, regard himself as making Asian American music when he plays taiko, despite the deeply innovative nature of much of his work. I asked him whether he thinks of his work as particularly Japanese American or Asian American and he answered, To me, what was missing in Asian American music was the Asian component. . . . [I’ve done taiko workshops titled] ‘Tradition as a Basis for Innovation’, . . . and the idea behind that is if you have no foundation, no basics, and you start creating something new from there, it’s going to lack authenticity as well as quality. . . . The label ‘Asian American music . . .’ Well, I’m pretty uncomfortable with it, no matter what kind of music it is, whether it’s good, bad, or whatever. (Interview with Kenny Endo, 6 March 1999) Endo, thus, situates himself as both a traditionalist and as an innovator, linking the two at a processual level. Both he and the Rev. Tom made similar ideological decisions in Japan, namely to immerse themselves in praxis (language, music study and the like), and both came away from that experience (ten years long, in Endo’s case) with impressive foundations in traditional knowledge, but their attitudes are markedly different. Politically, they ended up in radically different places though both teach taiko. The Rev. Tom says that his political awakening as a Japanese American led him to explore Japanese culture, and that this in turn led him to Buddhist spirituality as a Japanese American; he explains the progression in precisely these terms and then notes that a political sensibility necessarily underlies all these things for him. Endo’s rejection of an Asian American identity that might emerge out of interaction, difference and performance is thus a fundamentally different arrival from the Rev. Tom’s, though both men are successful and effective teachers. While Endo is very sure that traditional Japanese culture is the fount for any meaningful taiko experience, others – like myself – come to taiko in search of a specifically Asian American experience, though this too raises more questions than it answers. In the past 50 years, taiko has been redefined and reconfigured, and these changes represent a dynamic interaction between Japanese and North American musicians as well as the physical movement of musicians between Here and There. Indeed, emer-

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gent questions circulate around the placement of authenticity and authority in taiko as a transnational phenomenon, and authoritative figures like the Rev. Tom Kurai, Kenny Endo, Tanaka-sensei and the members of Oedo Sukeroku Daiko complicate these matters as much as they define them. In North American contexts, taiko is a diasporic music, but its location is anything but simple and its possible meanings continue to prompt strong responses from its practitioners, suggesting that the stakes are high.

Notes * 1

2 3 4

5

6 7 8 9 10 11

Copyright 2004 From Speak it Louder: Asian Americans Making Music by Deborah Wong. Reproduced by permission Routledge/Taylor & Francis Books, Inc. A longer version of this chapter appears in my book, Speak It Louder: Asian Americans Making Music (Wong 2004). I would like to thank the Rev. Shuichi Thomas Kurai and Audrey Nakasone for hours of instruction and conversation about taiko and the taiko community, and my classmates at the Taiko Center of Los Angeles for their camaraderie. Kenny Endo was kind enough to grant me an extended interview after a rather demanding performance. Paul Yoon and Mark Tusler have been constant sources of information, always ready to share their insights as ethnomusicologists and as taiko players. Participants in ‘Audiences, Patrons and Performers in the Performing Arts of Asia’, 23–7 August 2000 in Leiden, the Netherlands, also had useful comments. Traise Yamamoto offered detailed suggestions on a late draft that helped me see the forest through the trees. ‘Shuyu’ was the Rev. Tom’s father’s Buddhist or Dharma name, given to him when he was ordained as a Zen priest. His birth name was Hideo. That is, for use in primary, middle and high school education, i.e. pre-secondary school. In Japan, O-bon is held in mid-August, but Japanese Americans celebrate it at different dates between June and August depending on their temple. In the US, O-bon has developed into a festival and fund-raising event held in conjunction with Buddhist ritual, and in Hawai’i and Southern California, the concentration of Japanese temples has led congregations to stagger their O-bon festivals to avoid competition and to allow attendance across congregations, as the event is an opportunity for the broader Japanese American Buddhist community to come together. See Yano (1985) for more. The bon-odori repertoire is largely traditional in North America, but certain contemporary works with a self-consciously Japanese American sensibility have appeared, such as Nobuko Miyamoto’s ‘Yuiyo Bon Odori’ and ‘Tampopo’ (Asai 1997: 268–72). See Kishin Daiko’s website at http://www3.pair.com/mccarthy/kishin/index. html See Wong (2000) for an examination of gender politics and representation in taiko. The third taiko conference was held at the JACCC in summer 2001. See the San Francisco Taiko Dojo website at http://www.taikodojo.org The letter can be seen in translation at http://www.taiko.com/history/oedo_ letter.html The letter was seen in translation in the version 1.01 of Leong’s website (1999) at http://www.taiko.com/history/oedo_letter2.html. At the request of Oedo Sukeroku Daiko on March 2000, this letter has been removed (see Version 1.02 at http://www.taiko.com/resource/history/oedo_faq.html#letter).

90 Deborah Wong 12 Yamamoto (1999) examines Dorinne Kondo’s Crafting Selves: Power, Gender, and Discourses of Identity in a Japanese Workplace (1990), David Mura’s Turning Japanese: Memoirs of a Sansei (1991) and Lydia Minatoya’s Talking to High Monks in the Snow: An Asian American Odyssey (1992), all sansei autobiographical narratives that address the experience of going to Japan.

References Asai, Susan Miyo (1985) ‘Horaku: A Buddhist Tradition of Performing Arts and the Development of Taiko Drumming in the United States’, Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology, 6: 163–72. –––– (1997) ‘Sansei Voices in the Community’, in Kip Lornell and Anne K. Rasmussen (eds) Musics of Multicultural America: A Study of Twelve Musical Communities, New York: Schirmer Books. Ko, John (1999) ‘Drumming Up a Storm’, Dialogue (a publication of the Asian American Arts Alliance), Fall: 30–3. Leong, David (1998) ‘Interview with Kenny Endo’. Available from http:// www.taiko.com/news/inter_kennyendo_ 022098.html –––– (1999) ‘Oedo Sukeroku Daiko FAQ Sheet’, Rolling Thunder Resource website, Version 1.02. Available from http://www.taiko.com/resource/history/oedo_faq. html#history Malm, William (1959) Japanese Music and Musical Instruments, Rutland Vermont and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle. Rice, Edward (1980) Eastern Definitions, Garden City, New York: Doubleday Anchor Books. Tusler, Mark (1995) ‘The Los Angeles Matsuri Taiko: Performance Aesthetics, Teaching Methods, and Compositional Techniques’, unpublished MA dissertation, University of California, Santa Barbara. Wong, Deborah (2000) ‘Taiko and the Asian/American Body: Drums, Rising Sun, and the Question of Gender’, The World of Music, special issue, ‘Local Musical Traditions in the Globalization Process’, 42/3: 67–78. –––– (2001) Sounding the Center: History and Aesthetics in Thai Buddhist Ritual, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. –––– (2004) Speak It Louder: Asian Americans Making Music, New York: Routledge. Yamamoto, Traise (1999) Making Selves, Making Subjects: Japanese American Women, Identity, and the Body, Berkeley: University of California Press. Yano, Christine R. (1985) ‘The Reintegration of Japanese Bon Dance in Hawaii after World War II’, Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology, 6: 151–62. Yoon, Paul Jong Chul (1999) ‘Musical Spaces and Identity Politics: Negotiating an Asian American Existence in New York City, the case of Soh Daiko’, paper presented at the 44th annual conference of the Society for Ethnomusicology, Austin, Texas, 18–21 November.

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6

Arangetrams and manufacturing identity The changing role of a bharata natyam dancer’s solo debut in the context of the diaspora Magdalen Gorringe

Introduction In November 1999, I attended a free performance of the South Indian dance style, bharata natyam.1 The performance was hosted in the Logan Hall – a venue with the capacity to seat over a thousand people, situated in Bloomsbury in the heart of London. As each audience member entered the hall, we were handed a glossy brochure with photographs of the dancer on the front and back covers. Inside was the programme for the performance, along with letters of congratulation, credits, information giving the context of the performance and a note of thanks from the dancer. The performance lasted a couple of hours with a short interval. When it ended and the 700-odd audience members trooped out of the hall, we were each handed a wrapped package of food – comprising a full South Indian meal. The performance in question was the arangetram of a 15-year-old girl, just about to go into upper school. The ninth-century Tamil verse epic, the Cilappatikaram,2 contains a description of another arangetram. In a section of the poem entitled the ‘Arangerrukatai’ – or the ‘story of the arangetram’, the young dancer Matavi is described giving her first performance before the king. She is 12 years old and has trained for seven years. In return for her performance the king presents her with a wreath and 8,000 gold coins. With this ceremonial performance, she officially becomes a fully fledged dancer. The story is fictional – but it is fair to assume that it has some basis in fact. What is an arangetram? The simplest explanation, and the one most commonly found in the brochures of the style distributed at our London show, is that it is a ‘solo debut performance’. As the brochures will generally go on to say, ‘arangetram’ is a term derived from two Tamil words ‘arangam’ and ‘erru’ to be translated literally as ‘the ascent of the stage’. A popular dictionary of modern Tamil defines ‘arangetram’ as ‘a première or debut’ or as ‘presenting one’s work before a learned assembly’.3 It is a term most

92 Magdalen Gorringe commonly used for a bharata natyam dancer’s debut, though its use is not restricted to this dance tradition.4 So far as this definition applies then, the two performances described above are parallel events, except that one occurred in the ninth century and the other in the twentieth. But what did, and what does, such a debut really entail? Is there a genuine link between one arangetram performed by a dancer in a small town in medieval South India and another by a dancer in one of the world’s largest cities over a thousand years later? Cogently, why is the performance of an arangetram today – as hinted at in the first paragraph – such a very costly business? While the cost of putting on the occasion described was not widely advertised, it is unlikely to have been less than a sum most people earn in a year. Furthermore, for arangetrams, this expenditure is normally met entirely by the family, without support from either governmental or commercial sponsorship.5 As first performances, they are customarily free, so there is no cost recouped through ticket sales. Despite this, the arangetram is one of the most common forms of South Asian dance performance to be found in Britain today. What is it that makes people prepared to spend such large sums of money on presenting these performances? Or, more bluntly, what leads a fairly average middle-class family to spend a good proportion of their annual income on a dance performance by a teenager? These questions, both about the background and about the present extravagance of such performances, are some of those that I asked myself while preparing for my own arangetram in August 1999. They are some of the questions that I have continued to ask as a researcher looking at South Asian dance forms in Britain, and they are the questions that this chapter sets out to explore. What does an arangetram as performed in Britain today really signify? What can its performance tell us about the wider picture of South Asian dance and culture in Britain?6

Bharata natyam and the historical context of the arangetram Bharata natyam, the dance style with which the arangetram is now most commonly associated, has only recently emerged as ‘bharata natyam’ in the forms and with the name we know today. Until the mid-1930s, the dance from which bharata natyam developed was known variously as sadir, chinna melam, dasi attam and nautch. Since at least the seventh century, as attested to by various religious and secular texts, inscriptional records and travellers’ accounts, dancers of one kind or another have been associated with courts and temples in South India.7 In the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the organization of such dancers was powerfully influenced by the political climate which intensified the relationship between temple and court, and led to the development of the devadasi as commonly understood today – a temple woman characterized by ‘skill in

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dance and a hereditary right to support and temple privileges’ (Orr 2000: 177).8 It is this temple woman and her art that stands as the direct antecedent to today’s bharata natyam practitioner. In order to qualify as such a temple woman, it was necessary to go through a dedication ritual, which later appears to have assumed many of the elements of a marriage ceremony.9 The woman was thereby committed to the god’s service or, as became commonly accepted, officially married to the god. This dedication prevented her from getting married in the mundane world, though she was still allowed to have sexual liaisons with men and to have children. Within this tradition, the arangetram represented not only the debut performance, but also the culminating ceremony of her dedication into temple service. The arangetram was effectively a rite of passage signifying the dasi’s cross over from traineeship to professionalism. It also served as an important occasion on which to attract the attention of potential patrons. In this respect, as can be seen from the passage in the Cilappatikaram, the nineteenth-century arangetram continued to perform a very similar role to that it performed for the court dancer of the ninth century, though in the earlier case, there is nothing to suggest any association with a marriage ritual. All this changed in the first half of the last century. The dasis and their profession had long been subject to the censure of various parties, including missionaries, social reformers (both British and Indian) and reformist Hindus, all of whom condemned the devadasi system as exploitative of both women and children.10 In the early to mid-twentieth century, these years of opposition emerged in a lobby sufficiently organized to effect a prohibition on their way of life. In 1947, the year that India achieved independence, the ‘dedication of devadasis’ was officially banned in the Madras State, an influential precedent, soon followed elsewhere. Stripped of their means of livelihood, this ban spelt the end for the majority of devadasis, and with them, one might have supposed, their dance form and the rituals associated with it. This was not the case, however. At the same time that the lobby opposing the devadasis gained strength, so too did a counter lobby associated with the agitation for Indian independence, which sought to preserve and cherish the indigenous cultural traditions. Initial attempts to preserve the form were made by the likes of E. Krishna Iyer who continued to host performances by devadasis, but in ‘more respectable venues’, like the Madras Music Academy. Such performances failed to take off – and by 1940 most of the dancers from the ‘traditional’ community of dancers had stopped performing publicly – with the notable exception of Balasaraswati. The performances succeeded in at least one respect however – in terms of inculcating an interest for the dance among the Brahmin middle classes. In 1925, Bala, the last dasi to perform publicly, had her arangetram in the Kamakshi Amman temple in Kanchipuram. In 1935, Rukmini Devi Arundale, the first Brahmin woman to perform dance publicly, performed

94 Magdalen Gorringe her arangetram for the Diamond Jubilee celebrations of the Theosophical Society. At the time that Rukmini Devi performed her arangetram, she caused quite a scandal in respectable Madras society. Learning the dance form was bad enough, but to give an arangetram – a performance still linked to the dedication rites of the dasis – was going too far even for families who countenanced their daughters learning the art form.11 Such attitudes shifted in a dramatically short space of time. A fondly cherished hope of Rukmini Devi had been that the dance would one day be performed by children from ‘good families’ and not only by ‘a small clan . . . the usual class of people’.12 She did not have to wait long. As Matthew Allen points out, by the mid-1940s, ‘the appropriation and domestication of bharata natyam by “middle class” dancers was virtually complete’ (Allen 1997: 83). Educated, well-to-do and primarily Brahmin, the situation of the new dancers could hardly have been further removed from their low caste and often impoverished dasi counterparts. Since that time there has been a steady growth of interest in bharata natyam, not only across India, but throughout the world. The vast majority of bharata natyam dancers fall into the same bracket as the ‘new dancers’ of the 1930s and 1940s. They are middle class, well educated and in a position to be able to afford the substantial fees and accoutrements (as well as the time) to study bharata natyam. And, for the majority, dance is not a way of making a living.

The arangetram – its contemporary significance What then does an arangetram signify today? If historically the arangetram is associated with a graduation to professionalism, with the culmination of a dedication ritual, and with an opportunity to attract patronage, what role does this performance play when the majority of those who perform arangetrams do not then go on to make dance their career? Or to put the question another way – the arangetram was traditionally intimately bound up with the dancer’s economic status – with her livelihood. When a dancer is not performing for a living what then is the role of a debut? Arangetram as examination The most commonly found rationale for the arangetram is that it is performed when ‘the Guru decides that the student has achieved the required degree of excellence and knowledge to develop her own dance skills’ (Brochure for a London arangetram, 1995). In other words, the arangetram marks the transition from the period of being a dancer in training to that of being a performer. This rationale is clearly linked to the explanation for a dasi’s arangetram in the sense of marking a graduation from trainee to fully

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fledged status as a dancer. Performing an arangetram, then, continues to state, as it did in the ninth century, that one has reached a certain level of knowledge and competence in dance. As an illustration of how the arangetram works as a benchmark of achievement, a number of the senior dance teachers in Chennai (Madras) will not accept students unless they have completed one. In this context the arangetram effectively represents an examination – where the assessors are not specially appointed, but are represented by the audience – an audience that includes, ideally, a number of senior dance practitioners and other bharata natyam savants. Indeed, in order to serve its purpose, as a senior dance teacher in London commented in a recent debate on the subject, the presence of a discerning audience for an arangetram is crucial (Chandratheva 1999: 21). When performing to such an audience of connoisseurs, teachers and critics, the danger of ‘failing the performance’ becomes real. The dancer Valli Subbiah interviewed about her arangetram from the Chennai-based bharata natyam dance school Kalakshetra felt that had she made a mess of that first performance, she would not have been given a second chance.13 Understood in this way, an arangetram is a genuinely special performance – a performance that symbolically unites the artistic community in the pursuit of artistic excellence. The guru is publicly acknowledged for all the hard work in training the dancer. The audience acknowledges and judges the dancer critically, but not too harshly, as after all it is a first performance. The dancer performs a first solo margam (or full bharata natyam repertoire) – and this can prove a significant boost to his or her confidence as a performer. One young dancer described her arangetram as being ‘the most wonderful night’ of her life as she suddenly felt ‘I can do it’. It is for these reasons – to attain a recognizable standard, to proclaim a transition to professionalism, to introduce oneself to the artistic community, and to gain confidence – that the majority of those performing arangetrams will claim that they are doing so. It was for these reasons that I felt it important to complete my own arangetram. This brings us some way towards answering the questions posed at the beginning of this discussion. Up to this point it would seem that there is, indeed, an element of continuity between the arangetrams of medieval India and twenty-first-century London – in that they are both supposed to mark a rite of passage into professionalism in dance. A very important distinction is that the dancer and her family now foot the bill, without any equivalent to the gold coins in recompense given to the Cilappatikaram’s Matavi. Which brings us back once more to the questions raised at the beginning of the essay: why have these performances become so expensive – and why, given that the alleged passage to ‘professionalism’ no longer ensures economic returns, are so many families prepared to countenance this expense?14

96 Magdalen Gorringe Arangetram as cultural commodity The most obvious answer to these questions, of course, is that the arangetram, along with all other social occasions from weddings to bar mitzvahs, has become a great opportunity for conspicuous consumption. Any excuse will serve to flaunt success – and the arangetram is much more than ‘any excuse’. The six changes of silk costume with matching jewels, the 12page glossy brochure, the size of the hall, the extravagance of the food provided and the elaborate gifts to those involved in helping with the performance, all proclaim the wealth and well-being of the family involved.15 Once such a precedent has been set it is difficult to break the mould even if one would rather not spend one’s money in this way, or if one does not have such money to spend in the first place. Musicians have established rates, including a substantial hike for arangetrams (despite the fact that the work involved is near identical to that of other performances)16 and this is not something that can be argued with. In any case, many people would not want to argue with it. As one dance teacher commented, ‘if one person does it at the Logan Hall, they all want to do it there – they want to do it “properly” or not at all’.17 Such is the commodity value of the arangetram that it is interesting to watch the new elaborations develop, much as you might look out for the latest gimmicks on a new TV or washing machine. One arangetram I attended featured a huge rangoli pattern at the hall entrance made entirely of flower petals. Another had life-size photo images of the dancer to welcome guests, like a bizarre bharata natyam take on the cardboard Konica girls. The bharata natyam dancer Anita Ratnam summed up the commodification trend at a recent conference – ‘my cousin in California asked her daughter “Do you want an arangetram or do you want a new car?” . . . An arangetram has become not just an initiation in to a cultural practice, but a social symbol with a heavy cost attached.’ 18 Perhaps, the parallel between an arangetram and a car is slightly misleading, as there is culturally far more at issue – the arangetram also offering the opportunity for cultural reinforcement, even ‘cultural display’. This is true wherever performed, but gains a particular significance for arangetrams of the diaspora. To understand the full implications of the arangetram as a means for ‘cultural display’, it is necessary once again to take a step back and look at the context of the arangetram’s ‘re-emergence’. The reinvention of ‘bharata natyam’ from dasi attam, as described earlier, was very deliberate. It occurred within the context of an Indian nationalist movement which sought to ‘revive’ Indian high culture and which was, itself, as Matthew Allen points out, ‘grounded substantially in Orientalist thought and Victorian morality’ (Allen 1997: 94). Meduri relates how her dance teachers told a story ‘they were never tired of repeating’ – that the dance form was once performed in the ‘sacred precincts of the temple’, but then the devadasi turned ‘corrupt’ (Meduri 1988: 1). The same story, with variations,

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was related to me in the course of my training both in India and in Britain. My ‘theory’ notes from 1990, when I was a student at the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan (the Institute of Indian Culture) in London record: Rukmini Devi was an invaluable contributant to the rebirth of Bharata Natyam as an accepted dance form, removing the unpleasant eroticism of dasi attam, and like Queen Santala of the eleventh century, showing that dance is a means of expression for all and is a true form of beauty. The links with an Orientalist vision of the ‘good Orient’ – ‘invariably a classical period somewhere in long gone India’ (Said 1995: 99) are clear. The choice of the name ‘bharata natyam’, however it was made, was certainly no accident. The two Sanskrit words immediately mark a break from the collection of earlier names for the form (none of them Sanskrit). The term Bharata serves both to conjure the image of the mythical sage Bharata, supposed author of the Natyasastra, as well as the image of an Indian golden age (notably, a Hindu golden age).19 The domestication of bharata natyam not only involved the switch from dasis to middle-class Brahmins as the chief performers, but also a radical shift in the aesthetic of the form. Costumes and movements were modified to be more palatable to the sensibilities of the Westernized Indian middle and upper classes and, as part of this, the expression of devotion through the portrayal of erotic love was replaced by an agapeic emphasis. In line with this, Siva-Nataraja replaced Krsna and Muruga as the chief subject for dance, and was accorded a centrality to the art form that is simply not questioned today. In actual fact, to quote Allen once again, the introduction of Siva as the central deity to the form, a god who incinerates impurity, introduced to bharata natyam a ‘modality quite outside that of the devadasi dance, a dance preoccupied with cataloguing the infinite shadings of feeling in love’ (Allen 1997: 77). These changes arose in line with a broader overhaul of Indian identity at the time of independence, when, as Pallabi Chakravorty points out, the indigenous elite ‘embraced the Western ideals of rationalism and historicism to define the incipient Indian state’ (Chakravorty 2000). The result was the removal or downplaying of ritual, sensuality and, indeed, anything that jarred against the then Western ideal, and bharata natyam was recreated squarely within this framework. This redefined dance form became and remains perceived as the form that ‘encapsulates the phenomenon and depth of the spiritual and artistic heritage of India’ (London arangetram brochure, 1995). The arangetram as the distinguishing performance of bharata natyam (now thoroughly rid of any disturbing associations with dasi rituals) has, in turn, become a symbol par excellence of ethnic heritage. As Greenstein puts it in her paper

98 Magdalen Gorringe considering arangetrams in California, ‘the dance tradition and its package deal debut have become points around which Indian families rally to guarantee the continuity of Indian values, to reconfirm their Indianness to themselves . . . and to prepare their daughters to enter middle class IndianAmerican life’ (Greenstein and Bharadvaj 1998). The successful completion of an arangetram, as Gerry Farrell comments with respect to musical arangetrams – and it applies equally to dance – ‘confers cultural and artistic acceptance within the wider community’ (Farrell et al. 1999: 18, own emphasis). While the audience may admire how well the dancer has mastered the nrtta (steps) and the abhinaya (expressional) aspects of bharata natyam, they also note her knowledge of the stories from the Mahabharata and Ramayana, as well as her adherence to, and acceptance of, the values of respect for the guru, parents and elders. The congratulatory speeches typically applaud the value of keeping in touch with one’s roots. The arangetram offers an opportunity not only for economic display, but also an opportunity to display how far you and your child are in touch with the ‘home’ culture. Hence, the arangetram not only as commodity, but also as ‘cultural commodity’. This perception of the arangetram is strengthened by the fact that in many cases they become ends in themselves. Every arangetram chief guest will reiterate that the performance is only a starting point. Yet, so great is the pattern for young dancers to perform their arangetram and stop, that people can say with genuine surprise, ‘it’s so good to see someone dancing after their arangetram’. Greenstein comments ‘Sadir sold as Bharata natyam now becomes a commodity package of heritage training – the arangetram is the node of ascension in that training’ (Greenstein and Bharadvaj 1998). Once this ‘node of ascension’ has been reached, many clearly see no reason to continue dancing. This brings us to the ironic situation that an occasion represented as archetypically Indian, as an opportunity to ‘get in touch with one’s roots’ and for reinforcing cultural values buys in almost without question to a 1930s’ reconstitution of a supposed classical ideal – and an Orientalist reconstitution at that. The image of Siva on the arangetram invitations or brochures, the deities positioned on the stage, the dance item dedicated to Dancing Lord Nataraja, the costumes, even the dance moves themselves all derive, as discussed, from a reformulation of an earlier dance form self-consciously moulded in line with Western sensibilities. This reformulation has long been contested by scholars and practitioners both from India and abroad. It is a reformulation that was rejected outright by Balasaraswati, the last great practitioner of the very dance form that it sought to preserve. Yet, if we are to extrapolate from the observations of these arangetrams, this deeply problematic interpretation of India, its history and its art forms is one that is favoured by a significant section of the middle-class South Asian diaspora.

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Arangetrams and the manufacturing of identity Does the role of the arangetram as commodity or ‘cultural commodity’ represent a problem? In terms of the expense, people can surely spend their money as they choose, and all the extravagance certainly helps to make the arangetram a colourful and memorable affair. One would never dream of instructing people as to how to conduct their weddings, so why is it different with arangetrams? Similarly in terms of cultural display, which artistic event is free of a cultural dimension? All art forms inevitably reflect to some extent the culture in which they are born, which is why it is so difficult to unpack the distinctions between what is artistic and what is cultural and why culture and art are words that are so easily interchanged. Nevertheless, arangetrams, or at least the current trends in the performance of arangetrams, have come in for considerable criticism in recent years, both in India and in the diaspora. The most common concern is understandably related to the level of expense – or as Chandratheva puts it, ‘the expensive trappings seen in present day arangetrams’. Cost is obviously a problem in that it makes it near impossible for many younger dancers to perform an arangetram and, thereby, in the eyes of many, to continue their careers. Furthermore, if as Chandratheva maintains, the ‘critical yet appreciative’ audience has a ‘crucial role to play’, as unofficial ‘public examiners’, stunning them with a splendid display, and feeding them a good dinner could be argued to be likely to cloud their critical faculties. It is the South Asian dance world’s equivalent to the fêted Hollywood film critics. A related issue is that while arangetrams may now be perceived to privilege economic or cultural display over artistic achievement, performing an arangetram is still considered by many as turning the trainee into a professional (even if this professionalism brings no economic returns). The result is that many young dancers end up considering themselves as ‘professional’, and setting up their own classes when the level of rigour that would really merit that description is far from having been achieved. Particularly in the diaspora, the arangetram’s role as a means to uphold and reinforce cultural practice quite often seems to overwhelm the arangetram as a serious artistic occasion. Flaws like shuffling footwork and crooked bodylines that would be censured in Chennai or Colombo, in the diaspora are noted but forgiven. Well the dance is not perfect, but after all, the child is growing up in a foreign culture. At least the dance training has ensured some knowledge of Sanskrit and Tamil and has inculcated a more thorough understanding of the Dasavataram (the ten incarnations or avatars of Visnu). Chandratheva sums up this attitude: The children learning bharata natyam in the West are doing so against several odds. They are in the midst of an alien culture and do not learn dance full-time. . . . There is of course no excuse for

100 Magdalen Gorringe compromising on basic requirements and standards; but our expectations should be tempered with realism. (Chandratheva 1999) In the light of these concerns, in Britain, there is a voice that says that arangetrams should be scrapped, and that the newly instituted ISTD or Imperial Society for Training in Dance exams for South Asian dance should be used instead as a way to assess standards. There has even been a suggestion that the Arts Council step in to regulate the performances. While adopting these measures may serve a purpose, there will be no lasting change until the root of these problems is addressed, which is, I believe, the identification of bharata natyam (and thereby arangetrams) as an ethnic rather than a transnational form. Chandratheva asks us to be ‘realistic’ in our expectations of children learning bharata natyam in an ‘alien environment’. Britain is undoubtedly an environment alien to that within which bharata natyam developed. But then so is modern day India. This may affect the approach to the dance form, but should it affect the standards of performance? This would be to imply that good ballet could only be performed in France. The implication is also that bharata natyam, while taught, practised and performed transnationally, is still a form bound to a particular geographical area, which can make no real claim to be a transnational art form. In an era of rapid globalization, such identifications of geography with a particular culture are increasingly questionable. Grau makes the point that ballet, a transnational art form, is perceived as being ‘universal and as such a-cultural’. Yet, she continues ‘bharata natyam which is also transnational remains rooted in a specific image of an ancient Indian culture’ (Grau 2001: 5) – with the result that a bharata natyam performance becomes the ‘artistic representative of “Indianness”, an ethnic display, rather than a serious artistic product contributing to the larger framework of theatre dance within a culturally diverse society’ (ibid.: 6). There is a still more insidious consequence of the total identification of an art form with a particular culture. Clearly, art reflects culture. However, surely art should not only represent, but should also transcend and challenge a culture. When it does not do this it can slip into propaganda. This is a particularly real danger when the culture represented is one, as we have seen, that was quite self-consciously manufactured in the early twentieth century. Arangetrams, and likewise the type of performance presented by an English counties arts festival in the ‘Eastern Arts tent’, equally present an idealized vision of a culture now left behind, which in fact no longer exists in India, if it ever did. The presentation of bharata natyam as a form received from the golden age of ancient times, tarnished for a while, but now triumphantly revived plays straight in to the myth of the timeless Orient, and as we have seen, does a gross injustice to the true depth and complexity of the form. Likewise, the presentation of bharata natyam,

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through arangetrams and elsewhere, as ‘encapsulating’ Indianness defines ‘Indianness’ within a painfully narrow parameter, one that automatically excludes the folk and tribal heritages of India, as well as the contributions to Indian culture from other religions (notably Islam). The use of bharata natyam as such an ‘emblem of Indianness’ is particularly unwelcome at a time when the Indian government, led by the BJP (Bharatiya Janata Party), already privileges the Hindu culture and history of India at the expense of minority faiths. The depiction of this Indianness as suffused with ‘ancient continuities’ (effectively an ‘Oriental timelessness’) is particularly unhelpful when the ‘war against terrorism’ is already used to lend validity to polarized, ignorant and facile distinctions between East and West that play straight in to such stereotypes. The challenge for bharata natyam now is to establish its identity as an art form originating from, but not bound by, a particular cultural context, and to challenge rather than reinforce the black and white world we are so often encouraged to inhabit.

Notes 1 The research that this chapter draws on most immediately is work conducted for a two-year project entitled ‘South Asian Dance in Britain: Negotiating Cultural Identity through Dance’, funded by the Leverhulme Trust. The project is based at the Centre for Dance Research at the University of Surrey, Roehampton, and is directed by Dr Andrée Grau with Dr Alessandra Lopez y Royo Iyer as the senior researcher and myself as the fieldworker. In the course of my fieldwork I have attended almost a hundred different performances, lecture demonstrations and rehearsals of many different styles of South Asian dance across Britain, including arangetrams. I have observed classes, taken part in the day-to-day running of South Asian dance organizations, and have interviewed over 50 dancers, venue managers, promoters and others connected with developing South Asian dance in Britain. The chapter also draws on over 20 years of personal involvement with bharata natyam, a form I have studied since I was six years old, growing up as a child in India and now practise and perform professionally. 2 This text has commonly been dated to the Tamil Sangam period of the second and third centuries CE (see Daniélou 1993 and Dikshitar 1939). The Tamil scholar Vaiyapuripillai argued convincingly as far back as 1956 that the language, customs and other works referred to in the text rather suggest a ninth-century work. It would seem that this argument has been largely ignored for reasons connected with Tamil nationalism (see Dominic Goodall’s discussion of this in Goodall 1998: xxxvii, footnote 85). 3 Subramaniam (1997), Dictionary of Contemporary Tamil (Tamil–Tamil–English), Chennai. 4 One can also have a musical arangetram – for mrdangam (drum), for instance, or veena (lute). There are also equivalents to the other classical Indian dance traditions – for example, the rangapravesh for kathak, one of the dance styles originating from north India, or the rangmanchpravesh for odissi, a dance style from the eastern state of Orissa. 5 Occasionally arangetram brochures feature advertisements for local businesses. However, in over a dozen arangetrams that I have studied, only two made use of such commercial support. 6 The term ‘South Asian’ was originally used with respect to ‘South Asian’ art forms in Britain by the arts funding system, as a useful tool by which ‘to encompass the political distinctions in the Indian Sub-continent of India, Pakistan,

102 Magdalen Gorringe

7 8

9 10

11 12 13 14

15 16

Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka, whilst seeking to underline the cultural continuity of the area’ (Farrell et al. 1999: 2). It is a problematic term, but is one commonly used within the ‘South Asian’ dance community, which is why I have continued to use it in this chapter. The use of the terms ‘India’ and ‘Indianness’ later on in the chapter is deliberate, as while bharata natyam is often claimed to represent India (and possibly Tamil Sri Lanka), it is not claimed to represent Pakistan, Nepal or Bangladesh in a similar way. There were, of course, professional performers and dancers working in South India long before this – though there is no evidence to show that they were attached to temples in any structured way. There are references to devadasis from the second century BCE – but there is nothing to suggest that these early dasis shared the characteristics of the devadasi as she is now understood. Equally, there were women performing in temples from at least the seventh century, but again, we cannot be certain as to the organization and character of these early temple dancers. See Orr (2000) for a fuller account of the role of the early temple woman and her transition into the devadasi as we understand her today. See Kersenboom 1987 passim. See also Gorringe 1998 for a detailed study of one dedication ceremony as described in the mid-twelfth to mid-thirteenth century text, the Kamikagama. As the devadasis were often dedicated at a young age, the institution met with criticism similar to that lodged against child marriage. Devadasis were presented as ‘prostitutes’, somewhat of a misnomer for the long-term relationships with one man, which appears to have been the norm for many dasis. Possibly what tipped the balance against the dasis was that the institution was seen as incompatible with the reconstructed Hinduism promoted by reformers such as Ram Mohan Roy, which sought to re-invent Hinduism from the sastras, in a manner deeply influenced by European values and sensibilities. The temple dancer ‘married to the god’ and living with a man did not fit comfortably within this streamlined ‘new Hinduism’. Thus, Anne Marie Gaston relates how K. Lalita, a Brahmin woman studying bharata natyam in the 1930s, was not allowed by her family to give her arangetram because of its associations with dasis (Gaston 1996: 182). In S. Sarada, Kalakshetra Rukmini Devi: Reminiscences by S. Sarada, Madras 1985 (cited in Allen 1997: 65). Valli Subbiah, interviewed for 1984 Channel 4 TV production, ‘Siva’s Disciples’, narrated by Richard Attenborough. The issue of professionalism within South Asian dance in Britain is another contested area. As indicated, many believe that the completion of an arangetram automatically means ‘professionalism’ – when the present context of an arangetram means that this is often very far from the case. Equally, many South Asian dancers claim to be professional dancers while pursuing full-time careers in other areas. A recent copy of the Law Society Gazette for instance announced the switch of ‘professional South Indian dancer’ from a full-time job as a solicitor in one firm to another full-time post in another firm. At the same time, there are South Asian dancers in Britain who spend the whole of their time and make all their income from dance. Yet, they appear in the same ‘professional’ bracket as this dancing solicitor! I was once given a gold pendant simply for making announcements at an arangetram. Thus, four rehearsals and a performance can cost between £250 and £300 for a mrdangam player – a sum which becomes £500–600 for an arangetram. Indeed, for many musicians (and the majority of dance teachers), the sums paid out at arangetrams – substantially more than would be paid for an equivalent number of classes under other circumstances – represent a key source of annual income. I have heard teachers comment on how they would prefer not to conduct another

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arangetram in one year, but are persuaded to do so by considering their mortgage. See also Gaston (1996: 225–7) for further detail on this subject. 17 Dance teacher interviewed as part of the SADiB project on South Asian dance in Britain, January 2001. 18 Anita Ratnam in Navadisha 2000 – a SAMPAD conference held in Birmingham, UK. 19 The term Bharata has manifold associations. A cursory look at the Monier Williams Sanskrit–English dictionary lists it as, among other things, the name of ‘the celebrated hero and monarch of India . . . the first of 12 Cakravartins or universal emperors’; ‘the devoted younger brother of Rama’; ‘another name for Agni’; ‘a priest’. Bharata with a long first ‘a’ is also, of course, a name for the country India.

References Allen, Matthew Harp (1997) ‘Rewriting the Script for South Indian Dance’, The Drama Review, 41/3: 63–100. Chakravorty, Pallabi (2000) ‘From Interculturalism to Historicism: Reflections of Classical Indian Dance’, Dance Research Journal, 32/2: 108–19. Chandratheva, Uma (1999) ‘Izzit. or Innit? Are arangetrams outdated?’, in extradition, South Asian Dance Quarterly, Autumn: 21. Daniélou, Alain (1993) The Shilappadikaram by Prince Ilango Adigal, New Delhi: Penguin Books. Dikshitar, V.R. Ramachandra (trans.) (1939) The Silappadikaram (The Lay of the Anklet), Oxford: Oxford University Press. Farrell, Gerry, Bhowmick, Jayeeta, Welch, Graham F. and Stanton, Steve (1999) ‘Mapping South Asian Music in Britain – Genre, demography and cultural meaning’, unpublished report. Gaston, Anne Marie (1996) Bharata Natyam from Temple to Theatre, Delhi: Manohar. Goodall, Dominic (1998) Bhatta Ramakantha’s Commentary on the Kiranatantra, Pondicherry: Institut Francais de Pondichéry. Gorringe, Magdalen T. (1998) ‘Daughters of Rudra: The devadasi institution considered in the light of a Southern Saivagama, with special reference to the process of initiation’, unpublished MPhil. thesis, Oxford University. Grau, Andrée (2001) ‘Dance and Cultural Identity’, Animated, Autumn: 23–6. Greenstein, M.A. and Bharadvaj, R. (1998) ‘Bharata Natyam: Translation, Spectacle and the Degeneration of Arangetram in Southern Californian Life’, Proceedings, Society of Dance History Scholars, 21st Annual Conference, published by the University of California. Kersenboom, Saskia (1987) Nityasumangali, Devadasi Tradition in South India, Delhi, Motilal Banarsidass. Meduri, Avanthi (1988) ‘Bharata Natyam: What Are You?’, Asian Theatre Journal, 5/1: 1–22. Orr, Leslie C. (2000) Donors, Devotees and Daughters of God, New York: Oxford University Press. Said, Edward W. (1995) Orientalism, London: Penguin Books. Subramaniam, P.R. (ed.) (1997) Dictionary of Contemporary Tamil, Chennai: Cre-A Publishers. Vaiyapuripillai, V.S. (1956) History of Tamil Language and Literature from its Beginnings to 1000AD, Madras: New Century Book House.

7

South Asian music in Britain Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch

Introduction In this chapter1 we explore South Asian music in contemporary Britain.2 A study of South Asian music in Britain is timely. In recent years, chiefly in the field of cultural studies, there has been an upsurge of interest in ideas of identity, ethnicity and place, often with music as a central constituent (Slobin 1992; Stokes 1994; Sharma et al. 1996; Woodward 1997; Leyshon et al. 1998; McCarthy et al. 1999). Such work draws largely on a post-modernist view of cultural formations in which concepts of gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, diaspora and nationality are in a constant state of flux, never entirely defined, nor wholly defineable. In these types of analytical frameworks, places are no longer merely the physical or geographical locations of specific peoples or individuals, rather, they may have a central function as dimensions of what Appadurai has termed ‘imagined world’ and ‘ethnoscapes’ (Appadurai 1990). The ethnomusicologist John Baily has observed: ‘Issues of cultural identity seem likely to constitute some of the major problems confronting humanity in the twenty first century’, going on to note that it is the very disintegration of nation-states and empires that displays the ‘tenacity of this phenomenon we call “culture”’ (Baily 1994: 45). From this perspective, notions of identity and place linked to music are of particular relevance to studies of immigrants or displaced groups such as political and economic refugees. South Asian music in Britain can, therefore, be approached from cultural, musical and geographical perspectives – musical identities cross and mingle, are discarded and reconstituted, and musical styles are in a constant state of change and adaptation. However, part of the difficulty inherent in discussing South Asian music in Britain is that it cannot be viewed only within a local context restricted to British cities and communities. The relationship between local and global manifestations of South Asian music in Britain is dauntingly complex. By definition, this music has its roots in the diverse musical cultures of the Indian Sub-continent and – particularly in its popular forms – has a global market with far-reaching cultural implications. The recent

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upsurge of mainstream interest in South Asian popular music in Britain is replicated by an interest in the same music in the Indian Sub-continent. We are beginning to see, perhaps for the first time on any appreciable scale, a process of re-exportation of South Asian diaspora music to India that is having a significant influence on the popular Indian music industry. Therefore, any study of South Asian music in Britain must attempt to take a global, as well as local, perspective. Music, both for creator and consumer, is increasingly electronically mediated, and the distance between Southall and Mumbai (Bombay) is measured in the digitalized transfer of images, songs and musical commodities as well as miles. South Asian music in Britain is a music of homes, schools, community centres, temples, cinemas, recording studios, clubs, stadia, websites – it does not have one stylistic identity, but many. Sometimes it is not heard outside the bounds of particular communities; at other times it is in the Top Ten. It is big business, or small business, or no business; mainstream and specialized. It is a music of many tongues: Urdu, Hindi, Punjabi, Bengali, Gujarati, Sylheti, Tamil, English, and many patois and fashionable argots – Punjabi and West Indian, English and Punjabi, Hindi and Punjabi. It is devotional, classical, popular, folk, world, and a vehicle for political and social comment about the place of Blacks and Asians in contemporary Britain, with all its complex problems of identity and, often, alienation.3 Despite the apparent richness and diversity of South Asian music in Britain it is, perhaps, surprising that it has as yet received little attention in the literature of ethnomusicology. Notable exceptions are Oliver on Black music in Britain (1990); Banerji and Baumann on bhangra (1988, 1990); and Baily on qawwali in Bradford, and music in three British Muslim communities (1990, 1995). In the wake of the rise in prominence of South Asian music on the British popular music scene in the late 1990s, recent work has focused on specific British artists such as Sheila Chandra and Apache Indian and their place in the world music industry (Taylor 1997; Asher 1999), as well as in cultural studies, the social and political meaning of emerging South Asian dance and popular musics in a British context (Sharma et al. 1996). However, despite the value of such work in providing ‘snapshots’ of the place of South Asian music in Britain, no single study has attempted to draw a broader picture of the South Asian community in Britain and explore the complex connections between language, religion, regional background, demography and musical genres. Significantly, in sociological studies of South Asians in Britain, there is little discussion of music, despite its apparent importance as a form of cultural identity and a symbol of both continuity and change. A central purpose of the present research has been to begin to fill this gap in the literature of ethnomusicology and to provide a wider theoretical framework for more in-depth musical studies of specific communities.

106 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch

South Asian music in Britain: demographic perspectives The idea of viewing South Asian music in Britain from the perspective of locations and demography emerged from an analysis of findings of the UK Office for National Statistics on ethnic communities in Britain (Coleman and Salt 1996) and the Fourth National Survey of Ethnic Minorities (see Modood and Berthoud 1997). A question on ethnicity was first included in the 1991 Census. Those with South Asian origin numbered some 1,479,645 people or 2.7 per cent of the population of Britain (Owen 1996: 88). Based on the resulting statistical information, maps of the South Asian communities in Britain showed regional breakdown derived from states of origin: India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, but not for Nepal or Sri Lanka as separate categories (Owen 1996: 101–2). Nevertheless, from these data several areas emerged as having concentrations of South Asian communities: greater London, which had the highest percentage, some 7.8 per cent of the resident population; the West Midlands, particularly Birmingham, and greater Manchester and West Yorkshire (ibid.: 93–5). Northern Ireland does not feature in these figures, or in the present research. The choice of locations for our research was based primarily on an analysis of these data. Figure 7.1 shows these locations and the number of South Asian musical genres identified throughout the country (see the Glossary for an explanation of the musical terms). With the exception of one location (Devon), these correlated with particular densities of South Asian communities. The cities of London, Birmingham and Manchester emerged as areas of special interest because of the diversity of musical genres performed and taught there.4 Although census data were invaluable in giving a general picture of the geographic distribution of South Asian communities in Britain, breakdown by country of descent cannot reveal the cultural complexity inherent within it. South Asian communities in Britain are linguistically, regionally and culturally diverse and, as the census findings indicated, certain areas of Britain and specific localities of particular large urban districts may have widely differing regional compositions in their South Asian communities. Despite these cultural ambiguities, which are not explicitly discussed in the census data, this information, nevertheless, provided a useful starting point for viewing locations as frameworks for musical investigation, or (in a more abstract sense) as possible maps of musical activity. For as Finnegan (1990) and others have shown, certain locations, because of a number of demographic, economic and cultural factors, may define the pathways of musical activity that take place within them and contribute to the development of musical networks and identities. Stokes (1994) has noted that music is also a crucial factor in defining or creating a sense of place or identity – not only existing within a context but creating,

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S. Asian musical genres

Edinburgh Glasgow

Leeds/Bradford/Wakefield Manchester/Oldham Liverpool Sheffield Nottingham Leicester Birmingham Bedford London

Dartington

acid bhangra Adhunik gan Alimer gan Atul Prasadi gan Baul gan bhajan bhangra bhatiyali gan bhojpuri lok git bichhed gan dijendra giti filmi fusion/club/mix garage bhangra garba/dandiya ghazal girdha gitam Hariyanvi lok git Hindi pop Jalal Uddiner gan Kannara songs kirtan Marathi lavni marfati Nazrul giti N. Indian classical pahari lok git palli giti Purandas’s kirtanam qawwali Rabindra sangit Rajani Kanter gan Rajasthani lok git rap ras reggae bhangra Sanskrit songs shabad kirtan S. Indian classical Tamil songs tappa telegu songs thumri varnam

Figure 7.1 South Asian music in Britain: research locations and musical genres

shaping and changing that context, or defining it as part of the cultural or artistic imagination.5 But, clearly, a musical map cannot simply be superimposed over a demographic one. People come to live in particular locations for a variety of historical, social and economic reasons. Culture weaves and grows around and through these locations and it is in the cultural detail that music resides. Although, through demographic information like census figures, communities can be located in physical, geographic and economic space,

108 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch the role of music within those communities may be less clear and more difficult to analyse. Music would appear to be infinitely more mobile than people, moving on airwaves, spanning continents and carried in the memories of many generations. An overview of South Asian music in Britain could, therefore, not only be achieved with reference to the broad concepts of community, music and place, even if these were initially helpful as a starting point. We must be clear that the aim of this research is not to provide a comprehensive picture of South Asian music in Britain, a kind of musical census, as it were. Rather, it is an attempt to draw a broad picture of the South Asian music scene in Britain at a time of rapid change and development by focusing on the lives and works of individual musicians, showing how they sustain tradition and initiate musical change, and how they view South Asian music in a changing cultural context. For, as Blacking (1995: 160) has observed, musical change takes place mainly through ‘decisions made by individuals about music-making and music on the basis of their experiences of music and attitudes to it in different social contexts’. In the course of our research, individuals, perhaps inevitably, became the focus, foregrounded against place. These musicians, male and female, have varied musical backgrounds and experience. Some have only recently come to Britain from the Indian Sub-continent; others are second or third generation who have been born and brought up in Britain, and have never visited India, Pakistan or Bangladesh. Others come from displaced Indian communities in East Africa. Others have no South Asian background at all and have learned South Asian music in Britain or have travelled to the Indian Subcontinent to study. Some are professional musicians, others are not. Some teach full-time, others part-time. Some have formal musical qualifications, others have none. They work in state schools, adult education centres, institutes of higher education, or teach privately. They may own recording companies or work as DJs and have a high media profile. Some are recipients of funding from bodies such as the Arts Council, others work entirely within the community and are supported financially by it. Some travel regularly to work in the Indian Sub-continent, others work entirely in Britain. It is their lives and stories that have influenced and shaped contemporary South Asian music in Britain.

Pan-South Asian musical genres in Britain Patterns of post-war immigration have significantly shaped the present musical picture.6 These are a direct consequence of a number of political and economic situations occurring in the Indian Sub-continent and East Africa over the last five decades. In the main, South Asian immigrants to Britain came from the northern part of the Indian Sub-continent, which had been subject to radical upheavals. These include partition in 1947,

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Pan-South Asian musical styles

classical: Hindustani Carnatic ‘light’

filmi: Hindi Urdu Tamil (and other languages)

Figure 7.2 Pan-South Asian musical styles in Britain

subsequent conflicts between India and Pakistan, the secession of Bangladesh in 1972, and the process of ‘Africanization’ in some East African states in the 1970s. One feature of the South Asian music scene in Britain which becomes immediately apparent from any general overview is the presence of what may be called pan-South Asian music styles, and those which are region-, language- or religion-specific. Figure 7.2 shows a possible formulation for pan-South Asian music styles practised in Britain. These genres of music are heard, performed or taught in all South Asian communities in Britain in some form or another, although the degree of training, professionalization or stylistic continuity may vary. Popular music: filmi Filmi song or songs from the films, may be viewed as a kind of popular musical lingua franca throughout the South Asian diaspora. This parallels its role in India as a unifying force in popular culture, in terms of language, fashion and the promotion of national identity, particularly in the years following Indian independence (see Manuel 1988, 1994). The massive distribution network of the Bombay film industry assures that, as the latest Indian hits are disseminated throughout the Indian Sub-continent, they are simultaneously heard in Britain. In turn, bhangra, which in its popular form developed in Britain, has had a significant impact on the language of Indian film music, and British bhangra bands are regularly featured on Zee TV, AsiaNet and other media, alongside the film hits of the day. Indian popular music directors visit Britain to use technical facilities, or perhaps to mix previously recorded material. British South Asian musicians and producers now play a central role in creating music that is later consumed both in India and Britain. Crucially, it is the language and structure of filmi song that have been an important musical and aesthetic reference point for emerging popular

110 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch South Asian musicians in Britain in recent years, including Najma Akhtar, Sangeeta, Apache Indian, Bally Sagoo, Cornershop, Asian Dub Foundation and others. Either in the use of actual (often sampled) musical material or as a wider cultural reference point, filmi song represents a parallel popular musical culture to mainstream pop or rock which today’s young South Asian musicians acknowledge and draw upon extensively, if not exclusively. The translation of the musical language of filmi songs into other forms has become a central feature of the new South Asian music in Britain. The music of famous music directors and composers from Bollywood’s ‘golden era’ is often the raw material for new South Asian music. Bally Sagoo’s widely successful 1994 CD Bollywood Flashback contained the following dedication: BOLLYWOOD FLASHBACK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE AND GREAT R. D. BURMAN. ‘The music you gave the

world, will live forever’. Thank you B. S. (Sagoo 1994: liner notes) Najma Akhtar’s album Forbidden Kiss also re-worked Burman’s music. Cornershop’s 1998 no. 1 hit ‘Brimful of Asha’ was a nostalgic paean to Asha Bhosle, one of India’s leading playback singers. This and other work from British South Asian artists has brought Indian pop music into the world music scene in a new and different way and, more importantly, through a different musical route. Classical music genres The other pan-South Asian styles that are indicated in Figure 7.2 are those of North (Hindustani) and South (Carnatic) Indian classical music. Although these styles are over-arching systems of music developed in India over many centuries, their representation in Britain demonstrates one clear demographic/musical feature. The predominant classical style of South Asian music in Britain is that of Hindustani, or North Indian music. The Hindustani tradition is found across the whole of the northern part of the Sub-continent, encompassing Pakistan, North India and Bangladesh. Elements of this system are also present in the musical cultures of Afghanistan to the west and Nepal to the north (Baily 1988; Grandin 1989). In contrast, the Southern or Carnatic system of Indian music is practised mainly in an area from Central India to the south, including Sri Lanka. Although these two musical systems share many similarities such as the structure of ensembles, forms of notation and some elements of modal organization and instrumentation, there are also, for historical reasons, important differences of style and musical expression. They may, therefore, be viewed as distinct, though related, musical systems (Wade 1979; Pesch 1999).

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The Hindustani classical tradition is remarkable for its stylistic continuity across the large, culturally and linguistically diverse area of the northern Indian Sub-continent. Notation and instrumentation, though not standardized, are consistent. Recordings of great Hindustani musicians such as Vilayat Khan or Ravi Shankar would sell equally well in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh. This style is recognized as crossing ethnic, religious and linguistic divides and occupies the same position in British South Asian communities. The predominance of immigrants with North Indian origins in British South Asian communities has meant that North Indian classical music is a vital musical presence that informs other musical activities in a number of complex ways, particularly in the types of notation used and instrumentation. Carnatic (South Indian) classical music does not have the same distribution across the Indian Sub-continent and is similarly less prevalent in Britain. Again, this is directly linked to the composition of South Asian communities in Britain. Even in the most authoritative demographic and statistical data available on ethnic minorities in Britain, the distinctive cultural identity of South Indians and Sri Lankans – who are largely Tamilspeaking and concentrated in Greater London – is rarely, if ever mentioned or discussed (see, for example, Coleman and Salt 1996; Modood and Berthoud 1997). However, their musical identity is clear, and contrasts in style, form, and teaching methodology to Hindustani music, underlining the fact that the classical systems of South Asian music in Britain do not represent an homogeneous musical culture.

The community organization of North and South Indian music in Britain South Indian music in Britain occupies a very different cultural milieu from its northern counterpart. Perhaps what is most striking is the level of community organization of Carnatic music teaching and performance, and the importance of the arangetram, or graduation, for musicians and dancers. This is a South Indian tradition which literally means ‘ascending onto the stage’. It has no direct equivalent in the North, but it has transferred to Britain as an important cultural expression of musical skills and standards within communities with origins in South India. As Pesch puts it, the arangetram is: ‘the culmination of several years of training which helps the candidate and others to gauge whether or not the requirements for a successful career can be met’ (Pesch 1999: 80). In South India the arangetram applies to both music and dance performances. The successful completion of an arangetram confers cultural and artistic acceptance within the wider community of musicians and audiences. The musical and social complexity of the arangetram procedure, and its high economic cost, were described by one musician and teacher of the mrdangam in the Tamil community of London:

112 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch In dance we say Arangetram so we do the same Arangetram for violin, veena and all other instruments . . . Once he [the student] goes on to the stage in front of two thousand people he should know all thirty five talas [metrical cycles]. He has to play for three hours of full concert . . . he can play whatever he feels like, but at the same time he has to understand what is he playing, that is very important. He has to improvise his music. When he knows that he is doing wrong – that is the graduation level . . . We invite a few judges on those days – a person who is expert in this field who tells the people what he has done, and the mistakes [he has made] then he is the one who gives the certificate . . . At the same time they have to think that it is not like India . . . In India when he joins the school itself he will already know what Carnatic music is. Here they join the school just to keep up our culture. Later on he gets involved with the music . . . They spend 10 to 15 thousand pounds for the Arangetram to book the hall, musicians from India or locally, getting the rehearsal done. You may have seen minimum 500 hundred students who have done the Arangetram in this country. (Personal communication 1997) Glossy brochures are published advertising the arangetram. The format of the brochure is strict and traditional emphasizing the values of hard work and dedication to music, the close and respectful bond between the guru (master/teacher) and the shishya (disciple/student), and the importance of cultural continuity in the wider community. The brochures are lavishly illustrated with photographs of student and teacher, details of the programme, lists of sponsors and commendations from local community figures including teachers and politicians. The text is usually in both English and Tamil. The organization of South Indian music teaching and performance in Britain contrasts sharply with that of North Indian classical music which is often characterized by the musicians themselves as under-funded, unsystematic and lacking in coherent strategy in a general way, not necessarily only in contrast to South Indian music. Musicians agree that the lack of funding from both within the community and from statutory bodies such as local education authorities and arts organizations has made the development of North Indian music in Britain, at education level and as a performing art, erratic and unpredictable. There are many complex reasons for this, not least that there are no qualifications for teaching North (or South) Indian music that are accepted as equivalent to teaching qualifications in other forms of music. This has led, for example, to peripatetic teachers of Indian instruments in schools being paid less for doing the equivalent jobs of colleagues teaching other instruments. Several teachers of North Indian music who were interviewed were clear in their views on how North Indian music had developed in Britain. As one teacher with

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many years experience of teaching sitar in London schools put it: ‘Now whatever is happening is a very little tokenism and piecemeal work. There is no co-ordinated effort.’ This was not an uncommon view. It was apparent that the way in which North Indian classical music is manifest in the community was very different from that of South Indian, even though the former has a vastly greater distribution across Britain. There was no evidence that there was a mingling of South and North Indian musical styles in British South Asian communities, rather, the musical identities remained distinct. This, however, may not be the case for South Indian and North Indian dance styles (also see Farnell 1990, 1994, 1997b). Apart from these broad musical and stylistic categories, in some areas of Britain particular cultural groupings predominate, with related musical cultures, although these are subject to complex patterns of musical change. For example, before bhangra became a South Asian popular music form, it was (and still is) a folk music from the Punjab. But what was more important for its future as a popular music was that it was a music of the Punjabi community in Britain – in particular of the west London suburb of Southall and the midlands city of Birmingham. In its earliest popular incarnations bhangra was inextricably linked to the Punjabi communities in these areas. It even became known as the ‘Southall Beat’ (Baumann 1990). But it was also the wider musical environments of large cities like London and Birmingham, the venues, recording studios and musical distribution networks, that allowed bhangra to become a mass market, global pop music and, after filmi music, the most widespread popular South Asian music in Britain.

Music in South Asian communities: location It was evident from our research that location plays an important role in the construction of histories and myths about South Asian popular music in Britain. For example, when musicians speak of the origins of pop bhangra in Britain, they often talk in terms of places where important bands began or venues where the music took root, sometimes contrasting styles of playing in terms of place. Some musicians say Birmingham is the focus of bhangra, others London. Musicians also underlined how fashions changed and the focus shifted between London and Birmingham. Birmingham was considered to be more traditional, especially in recent years, whereas London was the locus for hybridity and diversification. This contrast may also be expressed in terms of what constitutes popular or classical in traditional music. Several musicians contrasted the sound and meaning of London and Birmingham bhangra. For example, a leading Birmingham musician observed: London was first because Deepak Khazanchi was there. They released a good product. It depends upon the producers. Channi and Heera

114 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch were there. Now all the good singers are here [Birmingham] like Malkit [Singh], Apna Sangeet, DCS – they all live in West Midlands. It [bhangra in London] is not for the community. Londoners are the biggest community, but I can’t find very good producers there who could release a very good album which can appeal to the youngsters and the older generation. There are many good musicians in London who are doing different things, they are playing with classical music, people are doing Mehfil [small musical gatherings] type private shows. I think Londoners are more into classical then bhangra. (Personal communication 1998) Another musician from Birmingham underlined this point: [in Birmingham] it is just like the olden days when Heera, Alaap, Holle Holle from London used to perform. They mixed Western Instruments and music a lot, but the Birmingham bands are traditional. (Personal communication 1998) Another striking feature of South Asian music in Britain was the manner in which widely differing musical forms, specific to particular communities, may be present in the same geographic location. For example, in London, although Punjabi musical forms may be a central feature of life in Southall, in the east London borough of Tower Hamlets, particular kinds of Bengali and Sylheti language-specific music such as palli giti, bhatiyali, bichhed, Baul, Jalal Uddin and Alim songs are performed regularly in homes and at cultural gatherings, but are rarely heard outside the community, or have any place in a wider British South Asian music. This often has to do with language or religion, and the preservation of language through music. This issue will be addressed in more detail below. These broad formulations of South Asian musical styles in Britain describe outlines of musical cultures that are subject to subtle variations of expression because of a number of factors including language, religion and regional background.

Language, religion and region as reflected in music The linguistic, religious and regional complexity of the South Asian community in Britain has been noted in a number of recent studies: ‘The Indian population arrived as a mosaic of groups from different parts of the sub-continent or from East Africa practising different religions, speaking different languages and drawn from different social and economic backgrounds’ (Robinson 1996: 119). It would be expected that such cultural diversity would be reflected in music, and this, to an extent, is the case. However, the rise of popular South Asian musical forms in recent

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decades has also meant that cultural identities, particularly for youth, have undergone significant changes, where clear differences between language, religion and region are no longer clearly discernible. Although language and region cannot be separated and reflect each other closely, this is not always directly replicated musically in Britain. Of the languages spoken in South Asian communities in Britain, Hindi, Urdu, Gujarati, Punjabi and Bengali are the most prevalent, once again reflecting the North Indian roots of British South Asian communities. However, other languages are significant such as Sylheti which was a major regional language among the wider Bengali community, particularly in Tower Hamlets (Modood and Berthoud 1997: 309). Tamil was another major language of South Indian communities. Discounting the divide between North and South Indian language groups, it is usually the case in Britain that at least Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi and Gujarati are comprehensible and intermingle in usage across a wide spectrum of the communities, despite regional origins (ibid.: 309–10), making for a kind of Hindustani lingua franca, which is often spoken with elements of English included. Our research has shown that music is often viewed as one vehicle for the preservation of language. Language is the most central facet of group identity in immigrant communities, and is valued as a way of preserving tradition and culture across generations, and in the midst of rapid and often radical change. The lessening of importance of the mother tongue is often considered a major cultural dislocation and a symbol of loss of identity. Music can be important for the preservation of language. One Bengali singer and teacher related the complexities of this situation: I was involved with both young and old. I used to love and enjoy teaching the younger generation and many of them became involved. When we came first to this country, we found that the people especially from West Bengal were ashamed of talking in Bengali and even they were speaking in English with their children. Their idea was if they talk in English with their children they will be able to pick up English very quickly and therefore will be able to learn things quickly in school. But this idea was wrong . . . someone can only pick-up other languages quickly if they are strong in their own mother tongue. During teaching songs we realized that they [the children] did not know Bengali at all and their pronunciation was rather like English. As a result we established a Bengali school in order to first teach them Bengali language. (Personal communication 1997) This quote also underlines the differences that exist between generations in relation to language. Another musician put it this way:

116 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch I have lost my identity, I am not totally Indian, I would like to think I am, but in my heart I know I am not and my kids are even less Indian and their kids will be even less. So what is happening we are very possessive. We are forcing our kids to adapt to Indian ways, to learn Indian music, to do Indian rituals and festivals in Indian way because we want them to pass it on to their children. (Personal communication 1997) The dissonance between the need for the preservation of culture and the inevitability of change is exemplified in this statement. Music, like language, is a central symbol of tradition and yet it is also a cultural domain where tradition can be challenged, and change can be negotiated, discussed and understood. This is particularly evident in the rise of new South Asian popular musics in Britain and how these reflect changing generational attitudes to concepts of tradition and cultural identity. One young musician observed: If we keep doing it [bhangra], they will be together with our culture and our language. I think bhangra music helped a lot to keep the youngsters in control and keep them together with the language. Even if they don’t understand the lyrics fully, they enjoy the music and the beat. (Personal communication 1998) Music continues to be a central facet of religious worship throughout South Asian communities in Britain. Religious worship also provides a context where music can be learned in an informal manner, as in Sikh gurudwaras (temples). Several religious or devotional musical genres have a wide distribution that crosses religious divides. Generic devotional forms such as bhajan and kirtan are common across Sikh and Hindu communities; the form and aesthetics of the ghazal, essentially North Indian in origin and sung in Urdu, are now common in a number of religious and popular musics. Qawwali, a form of Sufi devotional song sung in Urdu, has less prevalence in Britain as a community music, but has a wide distribution as a South Asian popular music, and in the world music scene. This is exclusively due to the massive popularity of the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.7

Concepts of ‘classical’ and ‘popular’, ‘tradition’ and ‘change’ Within any sphere of musical activities there are definitions of musical style and genre that are used and understood by performers, listeners and learners. Such definitions may be more or less explicit, with varying degrees of rigidity or fluidity in their usage. Among musicians the definition of a

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musical style as ‘classical’, ‘popular’ ‘traditional’ or ‘devotional’ will have a number of outcomes for the way in which that music is taught, performed, distributed and ultimately perceived in the wider community. In the case of South Asian music in Britain, the way in which a minority music is viewed in relation to wider currents of musical life within society also has an important effect on perceptions of that music by its practitioners. Adaptation of traditional musical forms so that they may function within a changing social context is a complex process. In analysing this process, the natures of musical systems need to be discussed, and attention should be paid, primarily, to the procedures by which systems may be altered or ‘fine-tuned’ to suit a particular situation. The responsibility for such changes in a system often lies with an individual musician working within a specific situation that demands adjustments to suit community requirements, audience tastes or the needs of learners. In Indian culture a conceptual divide has long existed between classical and folk music. This is expressed by the terms shastriya sangit (classical) and lok sangit (folk). These terms and their particular meanings in Indian aesthetics cannot be easily transferred as reference points for analysis of South Asian music in contemporary Britain. However, the terms ‘classical’ and ‘popular’ were frequently used by musicians interviewed in the course of this research, as were the concepts of ‘traditional’ and ‘Western’. Such terminology and its application to music within often rapidly changing cultural circumstances require continual interrogation and scrutiny. These terms may or may not refer to clear stylistic categories – more often they may be markers of status or fashion, delineating a hierarchy of musical values, real or imagined. Among second- and third-generation South Asian musicians in Britain, our research has shown that knowledge of, or training in, classical music is not the norm. There are a number of reasons for this, but the main one is that formal structures have not yet developed for the teaching of Indian classical music in Britain. Therefore, musical learning takes place at the interface of a number of formal and informal learning situations: within the community, at religious worship, in schools, colleges and adult education centres, in clubs and recording studios. The musical languages that develop in such contexts often stem primarily from exposure to South Asian popular musical forms rather than classical systems. Several musicians noted how popular music was often the way into wider or more in-depth musical learning for the young; and young musicians themselves, if learning classical music, often translated their knowledge into their own music, by adapting classical compositions and structures. It is these types of processes that have resulted in the development of new forms of South Asian music in Britain in recent years. This is part of a wider current of cultural change in which notions of ‘Asianness’ and ‘Britishness’ are negotiated through music. This situation was summed up well by one young musician:

118 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch I will use a lot of Indian classical traditions or ideas or influences in certain parts of my music, quite often not at all. But sometimes I will use them in a way to actually get across what I want to say because it feels more natural to the ambivalent lifestyle that you have as a British Asian person growing up here. For instance, you have one life style at home and another one at school when you are a child. In order to integrate those two things you have to find your personal vocabulary in your personal way of expressing, because you are neither one thing nor the other. If I go to India I will never be accepted as Indian, if I am here white people will not accept me as white. There is a sense of displacement that actually demands its own vocabulary musically and artistically in any way, so to try to adopt wholesale any other form of music is the wrong thing to try because I think that would be inappropriate to what you are trying to express as a British Asian. (Personal communication 1997) Another musician, who performed bhangra, noted how difficult a balancing act it could be to negotiate tradition and change, and how the mix of elements from different musical systems in his own music reflected this: Our bhangra is not traditional, not modern as well. It is in the middle. I listen to lot[s] of English music. Sometimes certain chords, structure that we use it sometimes can be a bit more Western than the basic bhangra percussion. We will try to do something what we hear on the Radio One perhaps. You can pick that out when we play. It represents our youth culture . . . It is nice if it can be traditional. To exist it needs a touch of it [tradition]. It has to be there because if it is not there it will be something else, not bhangra. Without the dhol or tabla it won’t be bhangra. Because it won’t have the beat there to drive it. In our [music] it won’t be one hundred per cent there, but we will have five or ten per cent there. (Personal communication 1998) Young musicians in Manchester who were learning classical music and who also had their own band playing popular music had a range of interesting perspectives on questions of tradition and change, classical and popular. In their terminology ‘classical’ referred to specific genres like khyal and dhrupad, but also functioned by extension, it appeared, to any music that was more interesting or complex musically than accepted forms of Indian popular music such as ghazal or filmi: In our rehearsals if we find something we say, ‘Oh, that sounds really English’. Sometimes we hear something in the Top of the Pops, then we say that sounds classical. We say the tune is similar. If I want to be

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a singer and if I have to choose I will pick the classical. Because its got lots of scales. I enjoy classical more. Definitely it is more challenging than film music. (Personal communication 1998) This extract also reflects our finding that terminology regarding classical and popular music was subject to change, and that there existed a complex continuum of musical reference points linking traditional South Asian musical forms and their manifestation in contemporary Britain. Another interesting finding related to the role which musicians of nonSouth Asian origin played in preserving classical musical styles, primarily North Indian, in Britain. This situation is too complex to go into in detail here, but suffice it to say that a significant number of non-South Asians have studied Indian music to a high level, often with long periods of study in India, and now teach and perform extensively in Britain. Their stories and the routes through which they have reached Indian music would constitute a separate study on its own.

New popular South Asian musics in Britain: influences During one interview for this research, a young bhangra musician remarked, ‘We are building the road and then walking upon it’. This comment seemed to sum up a widespread attitude among young second-generation South Asian musicians in Britain. Whereas previous manifestations of Indian music in the West in the sphere of popular music were closely connected with the classical traditions of India (see Farrell 1997a), the development among young British Asians of new popular forms draws almost completely on existing popular music forms, whether Western or South Asian. Young musicians have rarely had formal training in Indian music, and have learned in the spectrum of informal contexts – ways usually associated with popular music. A young bhangra musician explained the attitude towards music and the learning environment in one large northern British city: Basically we have all got talent. If a band on stage can do it, why can’t we do it? I have always been involved in music. I started playing tabla first of all, never took professional lesson[s]. I played with a few English bands in Bradford. That helped me. I knew basics of how to get a band together, do gigs now and then. We are totally selftaught musicians. We listen to all of the bands who are doing well and who are not doing that well. We have good relationship with the other bands. We ask their help and opinion and most of them are quite helpful. (Personal communication 1998)

120 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch The ways in which tradition and change are negotiated in British South Asian popular music are varied and complex, as are the influences that have come to shape it, and do not fall into any particular pattern. Tradition, on occasions, may be regarded as restrictive or retrogressive, or as the foundation on which change can be based. The period of this research coincided with rapid and unprecedented developments in the profile of South Asian music in British popular culture. Bands such as Cornershop and Asian Dub Foundation broke into mainstream British popular music, and artists like Nitin Sawhney and Talvin Singh became important figures in jazz, drum ’n’ bass and experimental music. New Asian music in Britain received a massive boost in profile when Talvin Singh won the coveted Mercury Award in 1999. Bhangra, since its rise to prominence in the Asian community in the early to mid-1980s, has now occupied a central place in South Asian popular music in Britain (see Banerji 1988; Baumann 1990; Banerji and Baumann 1990). Although the original forms of pop bhangra have changed and developed, bhangra retains a singular importance in the South Asian pop scene. Figure 7.3 shows a 12-month sample, taken between August 1997 and August 1998, of South Asian musical events in Britain. This sample indicates how popular bhangra remained and also how other musical developments were related to it. However, there are problems of terminology related to the manner in which musics are advertised. The dominance of club music is clear, as is the proliferation of styles in what may broadly be called ‘fusion’. Such music also represents a growing sense of cultural identity in Britain, whereby Asian youth links itself with trends in Black music and fashion. It is difficult to ascertain whether many of these categories represent distinct musical styles; rather, they are created by musicians as badges of identity, differentiating particular musicians and fans from others, in a continually shifting scene of sub-cultures and fashion. The proliferation of categories and sub-categories evident here is a common feature of all popular music culture. The connection between such new categories of South Asian music and traditional forms was an issue for several of the musicians interviewed. One prominent bhangra musician in Birmingham remarked: Traditional music has got a long life. All these new music came along like Jungle music, Ragga, Rap and they didn’t stay for long. People get fed up of that. Traditional music gives you freshness all the time. Whether it is Bengali music or Gujarati music, or Punjabi, any tradition from any country or state has a long life. You can mix it sensibly. (Personal communication 1997) Yet, other British South Asian musicians see the dominance of bhangra, in particular, as a kind of musical strait-jacket which has led to it being perceived as the Asian music in Britain at the expense of all other, possibly

South Asian music in Britain 121 12-month sample of South Asian concerts in Britain 100

Club Bhangra

90

Classical

80

Hindi

70

Ghazal

60 Gigs

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CSAI

50

Fusion

40

Qawwali

30

Devotional Bengali

20

Punjabi

10

Gujarati

0 Genres

Underground

Figure 7.3 Mapping South Asian music in Britain Notes: Club includes hip-hop, soul, bhangra, reggae, dj, swing, rap, jungle, jazz, hindi tunes etc. CSAI = Contemporary South Asian Influenced. Bengali, Punjabi, Gujarati = Languagespecific regional. Sources: Eastern Eye and miscellaneous publicity materials, August 1997–August 1998.

more experimental, or innovative forms. One musician who is well known for his work with Indian music, jazz and world music was unequivocal in taking a critical view: The media and journalists have picked up on the term bhangra and will apply to anything. I saw Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan in the bhangra section and Sheila Chandra in the bhangra section. It doesn’t even make sense. The term bhangra has become widely used term by white people here to actually embrace anything that is Asian. They will probably stick Ravi Shankar on the bhangra section in the shops . . . Musicianship is incredibly low in bhangra. I have to say I find it embarrassing at times. (Personal communication 1997) He also noted how he had written to Eastern Eye (an English-language Asian newspaper) expressing this view and had received an angry response from its readers. Another striking feature of the new British South Asian popular music, is its often overtly political tone, promoting a viewpoint linking Blacks and Asians as victims of racism and discrimination in contemporary Britain and reflecting this through a fusion of musical styles, such as the amalgamation of bhangra and reggae, rap and bhangra, and Asian ‘grooves’ with drum ’n’ bass. The political resonances may go beyond Britain, with a global perspective on contentious issues like calls for unity between Pakistan and India, or the rise of Muslim fundamentalism. For example, in the

122 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch insert notes of Erotic Terrorism by Fun-da-Mental, the whole of the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights is reproduced. The overt politicization of South Asian music in Britain as exemplified by Hustlers HC, Fun-da-Mental and the Asian Dub Foundation is often characterized as a post-bhangra phenomenon. It is presented as a challenge to the perceived stereotypical image of the hard-working and passive British Asian, who knows his or her place in the hierarchy of British society, and yet retains traditional links with South Asian culture in matters of religion, marriage, sexual morality and work ethic. The challenge to this image inherent in new British South Asian popular music is a potent symbol of the divergence between generations.8 This position was paralleled in the award-winning radio and TV comedy show Goodness Gracious Me which lampoons South Asian culture in Britain – much of the humour derives from comical clashes of lifestyle and attitudes between generations.9 Gender is another area where stereotypical images of Asians are consciously challenged through the medium of music. In traditional musical genres there is often a complicated sexual division of labour, which is not always explicit or clearly defined. For example, certain classical vocal genres like dhrupad have long been the province of men, as are devotional styles such as qawwali, whereas khyal is performed by both men and women. In instrumental music, particular instruments like the tabla and sarangi have traditionally been played only by men, whereas the sitar is commonly taught to women in educational institutions in India, although few will go on to be professional players. Bhangra has typically been male dominated, with a female counterpart in girdha. There are complex historical, social, religious and cultural reasons for many of these gender divisions that cannot be discussed in full here. Suffice it to say that throughout the course of the present research it has been clear that many of these divisions still pertain in Britain, though in forms altered in myriad subtle ways. One female singer put it this way: Music is male dominated here [in Britain]. Females on their own here can’t do much. There are plenty of people to take advantage of you. So every female here is presented by a male person, be it an organizer, be it a promoter, brother, husband or it could be a mother as well promoting her daughter. On their own they haven’t any chance. As I said, the crowd is not literate [sic]. So a female fears for her dignity as well. For us if we do a show, first we want to know what kind of crowd it is. Even today we are trying to hold on to our culture, we want to teach our girls the way we do in India, protected, sheltered, whereas boys have freedom to go out, girls don’t. Parents would rather like the girls to learn the Indian music, to be on the Indian side, than go towards the English music and be more Westernised. That’s how they will learn the language. Whereas boys come with choice. (Personal communication 1997)

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This view was supported by our research: there is a predominance of women teachers of traditional musical forms in Britain, with far fewer women as public performers. However, in popular music this is not the case. The music and images of well-known performers Najma Akhtar, Sheila Chandra and Sangeeta differ, but they all challenge Asian gender stereotypes through music in their own ways. Najma is a Muslim singing traditional ghazals fused with jazz; Sheila Chandra mixes Indian, Celtic and other musics in a highly experimental music; Sangeeta sings bhangra. For these and other new female Asian singers in Britain, mass-market popular music is a realm where gender is no longer defined by traditional value systems.10

Conclusion Our research indicates that there is wide diversity of South Asian music in contemporary Britain. This music exists in a complex and rapidly changing social and cultural context. South Asian musical genres present in Britain are, to a significant extent, linked to demographic trends in immigration over the last four decades. This is particularly in the predominance of musical genres and procedures from the northern area of the Indian Sub-continent. Reflecting this connection between music and wider patterns of immigration, close and clearly discernible links remain between religion, language, region and music. Although there is evidence that music is still perceived as a means of preserving language, this link may be loosening, because of the changing attitudes of second and third generations. Religious worship still functions as an important focus for playing and learning traditional South Asian music styles. A large body of region-specific music is still practised. Location has played an important role in the development of new South Asian music in Britain, particularly bhangra. For example, London and Birmingham bhangra were often contrasted by musicians in terms of musical style. In terms of musical genres, pan-South Asian musical genres such as filmi songs and North Indian classical music have a wide distribution in Britain whereas South Indian classical music is less well represented – again a direct reflection of patterns of immigration. Filmi music represents a kind of musical lingua franca across all communities and has proved to be an important musical reference for new generations of musicians. For these musicians definitions of ‘classical’ and ‘popular’ in music have undergone changes in the British South Asian musical context. These terms have become more fluid indicating an increasing cross-fertilization of musical styles. During the period of our research new South Asian music in Britain has had a significant impact on the general popular music scene of Britain. In recent years a new generation of musicians has used music as a way to speak about identity, racism, gender and many other issues.

124 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch Moving away from traditional forms, this music also represents a generational shift in attitudes through which notions of tradition, ‘Asianess’ and ‘Britishness’ are contested. The continuing importance of music in life in South Asian communities in Britain was succinctly summed up by one well-known London sitar player: Music is learning and listening. Music is very much cultural, which people develop depending on their beliefs, quite a lot on their religion. All sorts of things get integrated in music and then it is the whole art. It has to be a part of people’s life. (Personal communication 1997)

Glossary acid bhangra Fusion between elements of bhangra and acid rock in British popular music culture. Adhunik gan Modern (non-filmi ) Bengali songs. Alimer gan Bengali songs sung by a famous Bengali folk singer Abdul Alim (1933–75). Songs include mainly Islamic devotional music. Atul Prasadi gan Bengali songs written by Atul Prasad Sen (1891–1934). Songs describe emotion aroused in the heart in the separation from the ultimate one. Songs can be divided into five parts including devotion, nature, patriotic, humane and various. Baul gan Devotional songs of Baul community in Bengal (a religious sect which espouses a humanistic religious view). Widespread in West Bengal. Baul songs are accompanied by ektara (one-stringed plucked instrument) and other instruments. These songs have melodies which use distinctive modes that are not necessarily linked to other widespread modal systems of melodic organization in South Asia. bhajan Devotional song form common in many South Asian communities. Derived from the Hindi verb bhajna (to join). Although the subject matter of bhajans are traditional devotional themes they have flexible form and instrumentation, and can be adapted to many musical situations, and for different numbers of performers. May be based on classical music or other genres. bhangra Punjabi folk song and dance performed at harvest time. In Britain in the last three decades it has been transformed into a new form of popular dance music that mixes traditional musical elements with elements from Indian and Western pop music. Characterized by a driving eight-beat syncopated rhythm. bhatiyali gan Bengali folk songs (lok sangit) of boatmen and fishermen. Songs mainly describe the separation from loved ones. bhojpuri lok git Folk songs of Uttar Pradesh, India, in Bhojpuri dialect. bichhed gan Love and separation songs sung in different dialects in Bangladesh. dijendra giti Bengali songs written by Dijendralal Ray (1861–1913), a contemporary of Rabindranath Tagore. filmi Popular songs from the Indian cinema, which incorporate a diversity of musical styles both Indian and Western. Has wide distribution throughout the Indian Sub-continent. Mainly sung in Hindi and Urdu, but also in many other languages.

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fusion/club/mix Generic terms for a number of popular and experimental musical genres, which employ state-of-the-art technology and are stylistically diverse. garage bhangra Fusion of bhangra and ‘garage’ music, a technology-based popular club music. garba/dandiya Folk song/dance of Gujarat, India. Garba dance is performed by women only. ghazal A Persian poetic form that developed as a musical genre in the courts of North India in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It is now widespread as a light classical and popular musical form. girdha Punjabi folk songs sung by females in a fast rhythmic tempo, similar to bhangra. gitam South Indian generic term for song. Hariyani lok git Folk songs of Hariyana, a province of Northern India. Hindi pop Hindi language songs derived from various styles of South Asian popular music. Jalal Uddiner gan Bengali Islamic devotional songs written by Jalal Uddin. Kannara songs Songs in Kannara language, from South India. kirtan A Bengali devotional genre. Originated in the Vaishnav religious sect in India. Accompanied by khol and mandira/kartal (instruments). Marathi lavni Folk songs in Marathi language, sung in Maharashtra province of India. marfati Bengali Islamic devotional songs. Nazrul giti Bengali songs written by Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899–1976), a contemporary of Rabindranath Tagore. He wrote more than 5,000 songs in his creative period of 13 years. Themes range from the political to the devotional. North Indian classical Also known as Hindustani classical music. The classical music of the Northern part of the Indian Sub-continent: India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. Also played extensively in Afghanistan and Nepal. pahari lok git Different language/dialect songs of people who live in mountain and tribal areas of India. palli giti Songs of village people describing their social customs, culture and nature. Purandas’s kirtanam Genre of South Indian devotional songs. qawwali Sufi devotional music, popular in Pakistan and North India. Well known as a popular music in the West, particularly in world music. Rabindra sangit Bengali songs by writer, musician, painter, philosopher and educationalist Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941). This large body of work (some 2,000 songs) covers a wide range of subject matter including devotional and patriotic themes. Many are influenced by the language and imagery of Baul song (see above). Rajani Kanter gan Bengali devotional songs written by Rajanikanta Sen (1865–1910). Rajasthani lok git Folk songs of Rajasthan, India. rap Afro-American popular music form, characterized by ‘rapping’ against repetitive beats. In recent years British South Asian musicians have fused rap and Asian styles. ras A popular folk-dance of Gujarat. reggae bhangra Fusion of Jamaican reggae and Punjabi bhangra. This trend has been exemplified in the 1990s by artists such as Apache Indian. Sanskrit songs Songs (Strotra) in Sanskrit. Mainly from Gita, Vedas, Puranas etc.

126 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch shabad kirtan Sikh devotional composition generally sung in classical rag with the appropriate tal. South Indian classical Also called Carnatic music. The classical musical system of the Southern part of the Indian Sub-continent. Tamil songs Songs in Tamil language, one of the South Indian languages of the Dravidian family. tappa Genre of semi-classical North Indian vocal music. telegu songs Songs in Telegu language, one of the South Indian languages of the Dravidian family. thumri Genre of North Indian classical vocal music. varnam South Indian composed vocal genre for initiating a dance, or music concert.

Notes 1 We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Leverhulme Trust for making this research possible. Thanks are due to the many musicians and organizations who have given their time to help us with this project, and to my colleague Dr Annegret Fauser for detailed and insightful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. Also to the students at City University, and especially Yumi Cawkwell, for their interesting insights and observations on South Asian music in Britain during the course of several modules that Gerry Farrell taught on the subject. 2 The generic term ‘South Asian’ in reference to communities in Britain with origins in the Indian Sub-continent is controversial. It is essentially a geographical term which encompasses the political distinctions in the Indian Sub-continent of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, while also seeking to underline the cultural continuity of the area. Undoubtedly, at one level it is clearly too broad – a blanket term for irreducible and complex cultural diversity. But in another way it is more specific than the term ‘Asian’ which is often used by people themselves who come from these communities. It also has a neutrality in terms of cultural description seeking to identify over-arching cultural continuities and traditions which may contrast with other groups and identities within British society. The term is used throughout this chapter with these qualifications in mind. 3 See Sharma et al. (1996) for a collection of strident, angry and fashionably antiacademic essays on the new Asian dance music. Interestingly, in the introduction the writers are clear that their discussion is not for ‘an ever-eager academic audience and other agencies of control’ (p. 2). However, in the acknowledgements, thanks are given to the International Centre for Contemporary Cultural Research, and the Economic and Social Research Council. 4 We felt that it was important to reflect the growing interest in South Asian music in Britain by those who have no South Asian background. A number of such musicians were included in the data collection process; hence, the inclusion of Dartington as an area for investigation. Dartington College of Arts in Totnes, South Devon, holds a special place in the history of South Asian music in Britain. It was established by Dorothy and Leonard Elmhirst, and was greatly influenced by the work of Rabindranath Tagore, and his school in Santineketan, West Bengal. From the 1930s to the 1990s, Dartington has been one of the very few centres for learning Indian music in Britain, and during this period produced a significant number of non-Indian players of Indian music some of

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whom are now professional performers and have worked as teachers of Indian music in Britain and abroad. See also Baily (1988) on music in Heart, Neuman (1990) on North Indian classical music in Delhi, and Berliner (1994) on jazz in New York. For discussions of the earlier history of the Indian communities in Britain and their musical activities, see Visram (1986), Oliver (1990) and Farrell (1997a). See Farrell (1997a) for a discussion of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s popularity in the West. See Sharma et al. (1996). In an inspired reversal of roles, a now famous sketch from Goodness Gracious Me shows two Indian parents urging their son, who is determined to have a proper career as a doctor, to become a pop star instead, because being Asian is now ‘cool’. See Farrell (1997a) and Taylor (1997) for further discussions of Najma Akhtar and Sheila Chandra.

References Appadurai, Arjun (1990) ‘Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy’, in Mike Featherstone (ed.) Global Culture: Nationalism, Globalization and Modernity, London: Sage. Asher, Nina (1999) ‘Apache Indian’s Syncretic Music and the Re-Presentation of South Asian Identities: A Case Study of a Minority Artist’, in Cameron McCarthy, Glen Hudak, Shawn Miklaucic and Paula Saukko (eds) Sound Identities, New York: Peter Lang. Baily, John (1988) Music of Afghanistan: Professional Musicians in the City of Heart, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –––– (1990) ‘Qawwali in Bradford: Traditional Music in the Muslim Communities’, in Paul Oliver (ed.) Black Music in Britain, Milton Keynes: Open University Press, pp. 156–69. –––– (1994) ‘The Role of Music in the Creation of an Afghan National Identity’, in Martin Stokes (ed.) Ethnicity, Identity and Music: The Musical Construction of Place, Oxford: Berg, pp. 45–60. –––– (1995) ‘The Role of Music in Three British Muslim Communities’, Diaspora, 4/1: 77–88. Banerji, Sabita (1988) ‘Ghazals to Bhangra in Great Britain’, Popular Music, 7/2: 203–13. –––– and Baumann, Gerd (1990) ‘Bhangra 1984–88: Fusion and Professionalization in a Genre of South Asian Dance Music’, in Paul Oliver (ed.) Black Music in Britain, Milton Keynes: Open University Press, pp. 137–52. Baumann, Gerd (1990) ‘The Re-Invention of Bhangra: Social Change and Aesthetic Shifts in a Punjabi Music in Britain’, The World of Music, 32/2: 81–97. Berliner, Paul (1994) Thinking in Jazz, Chicago and London: Chicago University Press. Blacking, John (1995) ‘The Study of Musical Change’, in Reginald Byron (ed.) Music, Culture & Experience: Selected Papers of John Blacking, Chicago: Chicago University Press, pp. 148–73. Coleman, D. and Salt, J. (eds) (1996) Ethnicity in the 1991 Census, vols 1 and 2, London: HMSO. Commission for Racial Equality (CRE) (1986) Ethnic Minorities in Britain: Statistical Information on the Pattern of Settlement, London: CRE.

128 Gerry Farrell with Jayeeta Bhowmick and Graham Welch Farrell, Gerry (1990) ‘Survey of the Provision for Teaching Music Styles from the Indian Sub-continent in the Greater London Area’, Greater London Arts (GLA), unpublished report. –––– (1994) South Asian Music Teaching in Change, London: David Fulton Publishers. –––– (1997a) Indian Music and the West, Oxford: Oxford University Press. –––– (1997b) ‘Thinking, Playing, Saying: Children Learning the Tabla’, Bulletin for the Council for Research in Music Education, 133: 14–19. Finnegan, Ruth (1990) The Hidden Musicians: Music Making in an English Town, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grandin, Ingemar (1989) Music and Media in Local Life: Music Practice in a Newar District of Nepal, Linköping: Tema. Leyshon, Andrew, Matless, David and Revill, George (eds) (1998) The Place of Music, New York: The Guilford Press. McCarthy, Cameron, Hudak, Glen, Miklaucic, Shawn and Saukko, Paula (eds) (1999) Sound Identities, New York: Peter Lang. Manuel, Peter (1988) Popular Musics of the Non-Western World, Oxford: Oxford University Press. –––– (1994) Cassette Culture, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Modood, T. and Berthoud, R. (1997) Ethnic Minorities in Britain, London: Policy Studies Institute. Neuman, Daniel (1990) The Life of Music in North India, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Office of Population Censuses and Surveys (OPCS) (1992) County Monitors 17/1 and 17/2: Inner and Outer London. London: HMSO. Oliver, Paul (ed.) (1990) Black Music in Britain, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Owen, D. (1996) ‘Size, Structure and Growth of Ethnic Minority Populations’, in D. Coleman and J. Salt (eds) Ethnicity in the 1991 Census, vol. 1, London: HMSO. Pesch, Ludwig (1999) An Illustrated Companion to South Indian Classical Music, New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Robinson, V. (1996) ‘The Indians: Onward and Upward’, in D. Coleman and J. Salt (eds) Ethnicity in the 1991 Census, vol. 2, London: HMSO. Sagoo, Bally (1994) Bollywood Flashback, audio CD liner note, Sony, ASIN: B0000259G4. Sharma, Sanjay, Hutnyk, John and Sharma, Ashward (1996) Dis-Orienting Rhythms, London: Zed Books. Slobin, Mark (1992) ‘Micromusics of the West: A Comparative Approach’, Ethnomusicology, 36/1: 1–89. Stokes, Martin (ed.) (1994) Ethnicity, Identity and Music, Oxford and New York: Berg. Taylor, Timothy D. (1997) Global Pop, London and New York: Routledge. Visram, R. (1986) Ayahs, Lascars and Princes, London: Pluto Press. Wade, Bonnie (1979) Music in India: The Classical Traditions, New Jersey: Prentice Hall. Woodward, Kathryn (ed.) (1997) Identity and Difference, London: Sage and Open University.

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8

Idealization and change in the music of the Cambodian diaspora Giovanni Giuriati

Introduction It was in the early 1980s that I began my research on the music of Khmer1 refugees, when I was enrolled in the Ph.D. programme in ethnomusicology at the University of Maryland Baltimore County. Since then, even though only indirectly, I have come across the same issue while continuing my research on Khmer music in Cambodia.2 The first outcome of the research was my dissertation on the music of Khmer refugees in Washington, DC (Giuriati 1988, 1993). Further and more updated ideas were published in a paper which appeared in the Cahiers de Musiques Traditionnelles (Giuriati 1996). In this chapter I will reconsider those findings in the light of the developments in Khmer traditional music among displaced Cambodians in recent years. An examination of such developments can provide a clearer diachronic perspective on the ways in which the Khmer diaspora makes use of their traditional music. This musical development, in turn, reflects their strategies both in the process of integration into a new society and in their relationship with the country of origin. I will consider mainly the traditional music of Khmer people, rather than modern popular music. I will do this for two main reasons. First of all, traditional music is the field about which I am most knowledgeable. Second, I believe that in the Khmer diaspora, as well as in Cambodia itself, for reasons yet to be fully analysed, traditional music is still widely used, even in some events of everyday life, such as religious ceremonies at the pagoda, or traditional weddings. In other words, traditional music among Khmer refugees is still fairly strong in comparison to other refugee communities.3 The Cambodian diaspora – just to give a brief overview of the last 30 years of Cambodian history – began in 1975 after the collapse of the USbacked regime of General Lon Nol and the victory of the Khmer Rouge. This first, and rather limited, wave of refugees was composed mainly of those Cambodians who were connected, in different ways, to the US and other Western countries, and therefore had good reasons to be wary of the Khmer Rouge. A second more important wave began in 1979 when

130 Giovanni Giuriati the Khmer Rouge were defeated by the Vietnamese Army that liberated (occupying it at the same time) Cambodia. For the ensuing years France, the US, Australia and, in lesser numbers, other countries accepted thousands of Khmer who were forced to leave their country because of war, famine and the genocide perpetrated by the regime led by Pol Pot. Subsequently, at the beginning of the 1980s, Western countries accepted a sudden and important flow of Khmer refugees in a rather limited span of time. Ties with the motherland were virtually cut for a number of years, at least until 1993 when a peace agreement was signed by the Cambodian government and by the guerrilla factions that were fighting it. In my chapter I will elaborate on some aspects of the musical life of the refugees, stressing two main issues. The first one involves the changes that took place in music, both in its function and in the music itself, during the transplantation from Cambodia to the US and France. The second issue has more diachronic implications. I will attempt to describe and discuss the imagination of these refugees with regard to music, culture and society of their country of origin, Cambodia; and how the gap between this diaspora’s imagination and the actual development of musical tradition in their homeland throughout the last 20 years has had consequences on the music of the exiled, the performers themselves, and their performance practices. Before entering into the analysis of change in the music of the Khmer diaspora, I would like to emphasize some methodological issues that I consider to be important for the studies of the music of exiled or refugee communities: •

•

The importance of knowing well, and for an extended span of time, the musical life of the exiled communities as well as in the country of origin. In fact, the music in exile develops in a continuous relationship, real and imagined, with its country of origin. The dynamics of musical changes in a constant social and cultural transformation. This is certainly true for any kind of music. However, in the case of musics of the refugees, change manifests itself at a faster pace because of the unstable, if not precarious, social conditions in which the displaced communities find themselves.

In support of this view, I can quote Adelaida Reyes who recently devoted a book to the music of the Vietnamese refugees in the US as follows: Displacement – being in a context where one is not native, living a musical life where the dominant language may not be one’s first (musical) language – automatically raises important questions about music and meaning (both as object and as act), musical identity, musical and cultural boundaries, the nature of tradition (especially as historical validation of identity), and various other related matters.

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The indigenous, the native, the ‘authentic’ have loosened their grip on the ethnomusicological imagination; the transplanted, and the bordercrosser have steadily replaced them at center stage. (Reyes 1999: 169) Furthermore, Reyes argues that forced migration such as that of the Southeast Asian refugees in the 1980s amplifies and magnifies processes of movement through space and time that are inherent in migration. She also suggests that: ‘Through such amplification and magnification, what may have escaped us before may now submit to closer examination’ (Reyes 1999: 17). I would argue that Cambodia, together with Vietnam, certainly represents a case study of forced migration and the music of this diaspora provides a convenient focus for close examination of ethnic identity and cultural boundaries in displacement.

Music of Khmer refugees in the US and in France Turning to the musical life of Khmer refugees in the US and France, I believe that one can identify two main functions of their music that can be termed ‘music as necessity’ and ‘music as marker of cultural identity’. With ‘music as necessity’ I refer to those musical genres that are necessary and integral to the traditional Khmer way of life. Refugees continue, at least in part, their traditional life in their new host country, especially in the first years following their arrival. In this traditional way of life there are a number of rituals in which music is an essential feature, for example, weddings, funerals, rituals associated with their Buddhist practice, and possession cults (coul rup). While these rituals are usually performed exclusively within the community of refugees, it must be stressed that the Khmer people believe that these rituals cannot be performed without music. In other words, music is a necessary element to guarantee the unfolding of traditional life in the new country where these refugees now live. A personal anecdote can explain the importance to Khmer people of having live music at their weddings. When I had the opportunity to visit Cambodia for the first time, in 1987, I went, like most of the foreigners did and still do, to visit the prison of Tuol Sleng (today the Museum of Genocide). It was a high school in Phnom Penh that the Khmer Rouge had turned into a prison where nearly all the inmates were tortured and killed. In that prison there is a room where some paintings by the prisoners are on display. One of them contains the depiction of the collective forced weddings that the Khmer Rouge used to organize.4 To explain to me the content of that painting, the guide, who did not know that I was interested in music, told me only the following: ‘No music at those weddings’. It was, for me, a significant indication of how Khmer people consider music to be necessary in order to have a proper and valid wedding.5

132 Giovanni Giuriati Another ethnographic example of what I define as ‘necessary’ music is the event of a possession ritual coul rup (to usher in the medium) held in suburban Virginia in 1984. On this occasion, an old woman needed to be ‘entered’ by a spirit in order to fulfil a vow she had made during her journey as a refugee. To be ‘entered’ by the spirit (neak ta) she needed a specific kind of music. Without that properly performed music she could not accomplish the ceremony. And a failure could have created great anxiety and a host of difficulties for her and her relatives, because they would not have been able to communicate with the protecting spirit. I was there with my teacher Chum Ngek, a roneat ek (xylophone) player. After some difficulties, because my teacher and his fellow musicians were not expert in the musical repertory specifically used to accompany coul rup ceremonies but in pinpeat music (court and theatre), the woman was finally able to fall into a trance. She could then perform her divination, in order to assure the prosperity of her community for the following year. Evidently, the music was expedient (necessary) to the trance. In this way, one important part of the cultural life of the refugees, especially in the first period following their arrival in the host country, is constituted by performances that include music as an integral and necessary aspect of it. By the expression ‘music as cultural identity’, I refer to the music performed with the primary function of establishing a ‘Khmer’ identity within a larger multi-ethnic society. In fact, this music is often, but not necessarily, performed for a general public that includes Cambodians as well as the larger American or French community. On these occasions it is not so important for the music to be strictly connected to a ritual. Rather, the music should be clearly, univocally and immediately identifiable as Khmer, representing Khmer culture at its best. For this purpose, both Cambodian Americans and Cambodian refugees in France often choose the music of the Royal Ballet, a trademark of Khmer culture throughout the world ever since the tour of the troupe accompanying the first visit to France of the King Sisowath in 1906. The main function of the music in this case is that of defining Khmer cultural identity within the larger American or French host society. Again, in this case, two examples drawn from my fieldwork among Khmer refugees in the Washington, DC, area in the 1980s can serve to illustrate my point. The first example concerns the use of music at a wedding reception of an affluent Cambodian record producer. While the music at the party was performed by a band playing Khmer popular music, the host also wanted some traditional music to be performed as a vehicle to articulate his identity to his guests, several of whom were nonKhmer. In this case, Khmer traditional music was not so much necessary to the ceremony, and it was not even wedding music known as phleng kar. Rather, it represented and reaffirmed the Khmer-American cultural identity to the Khmer as well as the non-Khmer guests.

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A second example concerns the public celebrations of Khmer New Year (14 April) that were held among refugee communities. In these festivals the Khmer community members used to invite all their friends, especially the non-Khmer, to attend public concerts and eat Khmer food. In this instance, the performances that are more frequently staged are Khmer classical ballet and Khmer popular music played on modern instruments. The classical ballet is considered by the Cambodians to represent their culture at its best, although the popular music that accompanies the modern dances such as Ram Vong or Saravann would be their own personal choice. It is this world-renowned classical ballet that the Khmer people choose to present as their hallmark of identity towards non-Khmer in their new home. It is this emblematic function6 of the music that defines and represents a cultural identity of Khmer people in a complex multi-ethnic society. It is notable that there are other scholars who have also suggested a different set of terms for the dichotomy that I have denominated in this article as ‘necessity versus cultural identity’. For example, Reyes (1999), in considering the music of Vietnamese refugee communities in the US, makes a distinction between ‘private’ and ‘public’ music. However, I would like to think that this dichotomy of private versus public is a different kind of opposition that privileges a notion of use (or occasion) rather than a function. For example, one can play necessary music at a private and domestic ritual, but also in a pagoda. The opposite is also true: even though the identity function of music is prevalently associated with public, one cannot exclude a possibility of its use as re-enforcement of cultural identity in a private setting.7

Patterns of change As mentioned above, my acquaintance with Khmer refugees began in the early 1980s. As time went by, I could observe a gradual shift in the use they were making of their traditional music. Immediately after the arrival of the refugees there were more occasions in which ‘necessary’ music was performed, then after some years I noticed a prevalence of performances for identity purposes. This transition is linked, in my opinion, to the increasing integration of the refugee community into their host society. The life of the refugees changes, their children go to school, their ties with the motherland attenuate, and the need for reassurance through performance of traditional rituals yields to the desire to articulate their cultural identity in the new society. Consequently, the music they per-form also follows this pattern of change, becoming instrumental in helping the refugees to cope with the difficult task of integrating into the new society. Music as an identity marker is used on all those occasions in which the refugee community establishes some sort of relationship with the larger society or with other communities. One’s own identity (through music) serves the purpose of entering into a dialogue with other identities while

134 Giovanni Giuriati traditional ritual music remains confined mostly within the community and becomes, as time goes by, less and less relevant. The above pattern of change was beginning to reveal itself already during my research in the 1980s, when the refugees had been settled in the US only for a few years. It was then confirmed by my observation of the same cultural contexts ten years later, in the US as well as in France. The use of music as an identity factor also brought transformations in the musical form and performance practices. Of course, this is a trend that can be observed everywhere as a consequence of urbanization, modernization and globalization. These changes in the music had already begun in Cambodia and they still continue today keeping pace with the transformation in Cambodian society. However, I can argue that, in the case of the music of the refugees, the pace and the degree of change are much more rapid and consistent with the shift in function and the fact that it is performed in a Western setting. The interest in this kind of musical analysis lies in the fact that while it can reveal musical transformation and change, it also provides insight into the cultural context in which music is performed, therefore, becoming an indicator of social and cultural change. Musical differences between traditional performances in Cambodia and those of the refugee communities can be observed at different levels: • • • • •

perception of time (length of performance); choice of the repertoire and performance practices; interaction between performers and audience; standardization of musical repertories and practice of improvisation; stylistic eclecticism (hybridization).

A significant example that encompasses the differences mentioned above is the performance in a concert format. The music that was once integral to a ritual or a ceremony is now performed in a theatre hall for audience members who do not necessarily know the context from which that music is drawn. Ritual music becomes a part of a theatrical performance or a concert, losing or loosening its ties to the ritual context to which it used to belong, while (sometimes) gaining strength by stressing the identity function in the new context. Without entering into a detailed analysis, it is worth considering how the differences above mentioned become apparent and take shape in the ‘concert’ setting: •

There is a need to comply to a standard length of a performance. This is typical of a concert in the West, but it does not always coincide with the duration of a traditional musical piece or a traditional ceremony. I recall, for example, lengthy debates between Cambodian artists of the Khmer Classical Dance Troupe in Washington, DC, and

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•

•

•

•

the concert organizers on this issue. The performers did not understand the need to ‘squeeze’ their dances into the standard time of a concert. An anthological flavour often prevails in the choice of a repertoire. The artists often choose to display the variety of the music genres of their culture. This is in sharp contrast to Cambodia where the separation of different genres is still customary. Performance practices tend to become more similar to those of the West, in terms of musical instruments, tuning and tone colours. The spatial setting of performers and audience changes as well, often dramatically. The concert setting, with an audience seated in front of the performers who are on stage, is very different from the traditional setting where the audience is all around the performers and can move freely in the space. Another important spatial difference affects propagation of the sound: in Southeast Asia usually performances take place in an open space, whereas concert halls and closed spaces are prevalent in the West. Furthermore, the audience often does not share the same cultural background with the performers. Therefore, its members cannot appreciate the nuances and the stimuli to which an audience in a traditional setting would immediately react. This gap between the performers and audience can trigger a process of standardization of both musical repertoires and the practice of improvisation. Not finding a context that can judge and value their performance with a deep knowledge of the repertory, the musicians are not encouraged to play a variety of pieces and add constant improvisation to their music. At the same time, standardization becomes a need to make one’s own music more clearly recognizable and identifiable to an audience which is unfamiliar with Khmer music and culture and, therefore, ill equipped to appreciate stylistic and individual variations. Stylistic eclecticism is prompted by the fact that musicians among refugee communities are usually limited in number and must serve different roles, having to learn how to play the different genres of their traditional music. This is a great difference with Cambodia, where performers are much more specialized in one or two genres. As a consequence refugee musicians tend to blend stylistic features pertaining to different genres, leaning towards a more eclectic and unified musical style, in which also some influences of the surrounding Western musical environment are present.

These changes emerge more clearly when the music is played for identity purposes, but are present in the ‘necessary’ music as well. Intuitively, when music is a ‘necessity’, it would seem that the stability of the norm should be better maintained, as the function of the music is to fulfil a given ritual. Music must be stable and not change in order to serve that

136 Giovanni Giuriati particular ritual purpose. In the identity music the stability could be reduced, the function being less cogent: it would be sufficient were the listener to recognize it as Khmer music as such. However, it should be noted that the reverse is also true, leading to a different musical process, namely, a standardization of music that fits perfectly into the imaginary model idealized by refugees as ‘their traditional music’. From a musical standpoint, some of the differences mentioned above can be noticed when listening to two different performances of the same music for the dance of Apsara, one of the main dances of Khmer classical ballet. The first of the two recordings considered here is performed by the group of musicians active at the National Theatre in Phnom Penh, accompanying the Royal Ballet of Cambodia.8 The second recording of the same musical piece is played by the musicians of the Khmer Classical Dance Troupe, active in the Washington, DC, area.9 While the music – that is the basic melody and the rhythmic pattern – is the same in both recordings, one can immediately notice several differences in the performing practices: •

• •

•

The first apparent difference is in the number of performers, much larger and more varied in the case of the Royal Ballet. While refugees must cope with a shortage of skilled performers, this problem is not so relevant to musicians living in Cambodia. The second difference is the modern timbre quality found in the performance of the Washington, DC, ensemble, which uses a transverse flute instead of the more traditional sralai (double-reed instrument). The vocal quality also differs in the two performances. While the Royal Ballet musicians use a much more nasal and harsh voice, following the traditional performance practice, the singers in Washington, DC, employ a vocal style that resembles more Western (or popular) music. The performance by the Royal Ballet is slower in metronomic tempo compared to the recording of Musiques de l’Exil which is shorter by a whole minute.

It would be possible to go on noting slight differences between the two recordings that are, in fact, indicative of different attitudes towards musical performance and contextual conditions. The different attitudes, in turn, reflect two different social milieus in which these performances are produced and consumed. Both stress continuity of the tradition. However, the refugee setting is more affected by patterns of change that have to do with the American cultural context in which the music is performed. By the term ‘traditional’, I do not mean to refer to an indefinite remote past, lost in the ancient realms of oral tradition. What people consider to be traditional is strictly linked to the idea (imagination) of its past that each social group carries within itself. Tradition can be also invented or reinvented (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983), even drawn from a very recent

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past, especially if it characterizes a historical period radically different from the contemporary condition in which people are living. For example, for many Vietnamese refugees, Reyes argues (1999: 97–8), ‘traditional music’ is made of the pop songs proscribed during the communist period. These remarks also have a bearing on the music I referred to earlier as an example. Apsara dance is believed, by Khmer and non-Khmer, to be the most traditional dance of Cambodia that can be traced back to the Angkorean time (ninth to twelfth century AD) of the ancient Khmer Empire. However, it was actually created in its present form in the 1960s during the Renaissance of the Khmer Royal Ballet, under the direction of Queen Kossamak, mother of the present king, Norodom Sihanouk. In the above remarks, I have already referred not only to the processes of social and musical changes in diaspora, but also to the ideas and imaginations that the actors in these processes have in their minds, and therefore, to the meanings that they attribute to music. In order to gain a better understanding of such patterns of change as well as the complex layers of meaning that the refugees confer on their music production and fruition, it is essential to consider how such processes develop diachronically over a relatively long span of time.

A diachronic survey The second part of my chapter involves a diachronic survey of what has happened to the music of Khmer refugees in the last decade and how the refugees have reacted to the changes in their social situation. In fact, at the beginning of the 1990s, when the peace talks gained momentum, and especially after 1993 when, following the peace process and the elections, Cambodia was reopened to the Western world, refugees began to receive more detailed and accurate information concerning the cultural life in their motherland. As mentioned earlier in this chapter, during the 1980s there was a wealth of musical events that involved Khmer refugees in France as well as in the US. Troupes, such as the Khmer Classical Dance Troupe in the US and the troupe sponsored by the Cedoreck (Centre de Documentation et de Recherche sur la Civilisation Khmère) in France, just to mention the most prominent, were formed for two main reasons. First of all, it was a move to help the communities to adapt and integrate in the new society. Moreover, there was a driving force behind the activity of these troupes: it was believed that in Cambodia, then virtually closed off to both foreigners and refugees, nothing of traditional culture and performing arts was left. There was this strong belief behind performances that the music of the refugees was all that was left of Khmer traditional music.10 For them, traditional culture had disappeared in the motherland and was surviving only abroad. Gradually, especially after 1993, the refugees realized that it was not so: in Cambodia life had started again, and performing arts had

138 Giovanni Giuriati continued to develop throughout the period of isolation. They became aware, for example, that the Royal Ballet (then National Ballet) had already been recreated in 1980 and had grown increasingly active in nearly 13 years. And traditional life in the rural areas was still strong, with a wealth of performing arts used in their ritual contexts. I argue that this awareness both on the part of the refugees and their host countries, plus an increasing integration into the new society, caused a gradual but steady reduction of performances of traditional music by refugee groups in the ensuing decade. Especially in France, where I was best able to follow the processes of change, in order to fulfil the identity function, still crucial to refugee communities, it was possible to bring prestigious troupes from Cambodia itself. Since 1994 almost every year a troupe from Cambodia has made a tour in France and the West. Especially meaningful in this respect, either because they were the first or because of the prestige of the performers, have been the tours of the Cambodian National Theatre in the US, England and Italy (1990) and of the Royal Ballet in France (1994, 1997, 1999). In the meantime, those amateur troupes of refugees that still continue their activities are confined to local events or to performances organized within the refugee communities, leaving the major events to the troupes invited from Cambodia. This different role assigned to local performers has also caused a decrease in the number of their performances, perhaps because of diminished motivation on their part. This pattern of change, however, does not imply that those refugees who were active in promoting traditional culture abandoned their activities altogether. On the contrary, among the refugees different kinds of significant individual reactions to these changes and this shift in their perception of reality can be observed. The trend which has struck me is that there is a different kind of refugee involvement with Khmer culture that takes the different situation into account. In fact, four kinds of reaction to these changes among those Cambodians who are involved in various ways in keeping their traditional culture and performing arts alive while in exile as organizers or performers might be identified: • •

•

The first kind of reaction, among those who were more motivated and also better off economically, is to return to the motherland. The second reaction is to turn to the ‘cultural roots’ to develop a metissage and creative innovation in the performing arts while remaining in the new country. The third reaction is to give up performing once the urgent need to keep ‘endangered’ Khmer performing arts alive is no longer perceived as a priority, and do something else less public and visible, in relation to Khmer culture, such as research or study.

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•

The fourth kind of reaction is to continue their activity among the refugees at a slower and less visible pace.

I believe that the first reaction is especially significant and meaningful in a sense that these refugees return to the home country to continue the task of promoting and rebuilding Khmer culture. In this, perhaps, the most representative example is that of Mr Nouth Narang, the former director of the Cedoreck, in France. In the early 1990s Mr Narang decided to return to Cambodia and transferred the Cedoreck to Phnom Penh. He later became the Minister of Culture and Fine Arts in the Cambodian government. Although in a less permanent way, Dr Sam-Ang Sam, Khmer musician and Ph.D. in ethnomusicology in the US, has also decided to spend long periods of time in Cambodia. He is involved in several projects concerning the development of Khmer culture, one of the most relevant of which is to establish a Programme of Higher Education in Dance and Music at the Royal University of Fine Arts in Phnom Penh. It is significant that some of the most prominent and leading musical figures among Khmer expatriates have decided to return to their country. This has somehow contributed to ‘weakening’ the performing arts activities among refugees, but it can also be seen as a sign of the shift of focus of Khmer culture back to Cambodia once the borders were reopened, and the war nearly ended. The second reaction is also significant in my view, even though it has had less impact on the refugee communities. Some diaspora performers return to Cambodia for limited periods of time to work with artists in their homeland to produce performances that combine traditional Khmer styles with those they have learned in the West. It is the case, for example, with some dancers and choreographers. Among them, the French-based Leng Santha worked with the artists of the National Theatre in workshops and staged new productions in which traditional elements were blended with some new movements and choreography of contemporary Western dance. Another example is the US-based Sophiline Cheam Shapiro who recently staged a version of Shakespeare’s Othello for the Troupe of Masked Theatre (Lakhon Khol ) at the Royal University of Fine Arts in Phnom Penh. The performing arts of Cambodia have clearly benefited by the return of these diaspora artists. Their presence and their work have certainly made a significant contribution in establishing a bridge between Khmer artists living in Cambodia, who had little exchange with the rest of the world for a number of years and were, therefore, relatively unaware of the new trends and developments in contemporary performing arts. At the same time, I believe that it has been very important for artists from the diaspora to find out that Khmer traditional performing arts were performed and could develop, even through hard times and in relative isolation. The individual changes mentioned above were prompted by the discovery that the idea that those individuals had of the cultural life in

140 Giovanni Giuriati the motherland was, to a certain extent, different from the actual cultural processes that were taking place in Cambodia itself. It was this awareness that determined modification and readjustment in attitude and in the life choices of those who were highly dedicated to the preservation and promotion of Khmer traditional culture. It was the discrepancy between what was imagined and what was actually rediscovered that had a strong bearing on individual and collective choices of the refugees. An original contribution by the Khmer diaspora to the contemporary scene of Cambodian performing arts can be seen in the attempt to innovate, introducing elements of foreign culture in an attempt to achieve syncretistic forms, or simply to adapt globalized genres to Khmer culture and audiences. An initial example can be the performance of Othello at the Royal University of Fine Arts mentioned above. The play Samritechack based on Shakespeare’s Othello is an attempt by the choreographer Sophiline Cheam Shapiro to ‘use this tale as an artistic bridge between Cambodia and the West. Through the filter of a familiar story, Westerners can gain access to traditional Cambodian aesthetics. Through a familiar form of storytelling, Cambodians can gain access to Western literature.’11 A totally different example is the relative diffusion in Cambodia (at least among some of the selected urban younger generation) of ‘hip-hop’ music created by Khmer refugees using both English and Khmer language, and telling, through this musical genre, the stories of the Khmer Rouge period. The most prominent case is that of Prach Ly, whose CD ‘The End is Just the Beginning’ was also mentioned by Newsweek Magazine ( June 2001). Prach Ly lives in Long Beach, California, where the largest community of Khmer refugees in the US has settled. Through Napster, the software for sharing music on the Internet, his songs were heard in Cambodia, and compiled on a CD. It is a very new instance in which a diaspora has made a ‘virtual’ impact on the country of origin through the World Wide Web. The remaining two reactions I have mentioned, that is to redirect the interest in Khmer culture from performance to research, or to continue the activity in the performing arts at a slower and less visible pace, belong to those who have decided to remain in the new country. The role of these artists, who have found a more settled life in their new country, remains crucial to the refugee communities because their engagement in cultural activities maintains the twofold role that I have presented above: • •

to keep a visible cultural identity; to help the refugee to cope and adapt to the new society.

Conclusions Whether used as a necessity by which to carry out traditional rituals or for the purpose of assessing Khmer identity, music has played an important role in the Cambodian diaspora since its beginnings in the early 1980s.

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As time went by, a gradual and steady increase in the number of occasions in which music is played to assert Khmer identity within the new multicultural host community could be observed. Now, in a reverse process, the occasions on which music is a necessity to carry on with the traditional life are decreasing as the Cambodians become more integrated into the new society. However, in considering the musical life of the Cambodian refugee communities, one must also take into account the relationship that those communities (in the US and in France) establish with the country of origin. Also, in this relationship, one may notice a gradual shift from an imagined and idealized cultural life in Cambodia, to an awareness of the real cultural processes taking place in the country. This took place once the exchange of information was possible again, after the peace agreements of 1993. Refugees could return, permanently or just for a visit, and Cambodian artists could go abroad to perform. It became apparent to the refugees that the cultural life in Cambodia was continuing, and being reconstructed, even in the political isolation of the country. Those who were expecting to find a desert land or just ruins, found out that it was not so. On the contrary, they found an active cultural life, to which they could contribute thanks to their experience abroad. There is one new role that can be envisaged for music in the light of recent developments: to serve as a ‘bridge’ to fill the dramatic gap that the war and the ensuing isolation of the country have created between those Khmer who were forced to leave their country and those who have remained. I do not know what will happen in the future among the second or third generation of Khmer refugees abroad. The Khmer diaspora is a quite recent phenomenon, rather peculiar to our times, because it involved a forced and massive relocation of a large number of people within a very short period of time. Ties with the motherland were almost entirely cut for a period, and yet they remain very strong; so strong that some prominent refugee artists choose to return to Cambodia and to be involved in the cultural rebuilding of the country. From a methodological standpoint, an examination of the different individual reactions to the changing perception of their homeland elicits some valuable insights into the diaspora imagination in this case of radical displacement. It indubitably provides a perspective on the dynamics of new artistic creativity stimulated by the interactions between the Khmer diaspora and the homeland. Given the fact that music plays a significant role as a hallmark of cultural identity among Khmer refugees, it must be noted how ‘fantasy’ or imagined reality with respect to Khmer music has gradually been substituted by a different representation of reality as the ties with the motherland were re-established. In response to this shift, different reactions and personal choices were made by different individuals whose artistic interactions hopefully can create a bridge between the Khmer diaspora and

142 Giovanni Giuriati Cambodians at home. This process is still ongoing, and it remains to be seen which directions it will take.

Notes 1 In this chapter I will use the terms ‘Khmer’ and ‘Cambodian’ as synonyms. In fact, Khmer people are the ethnic group that inhabit Cambodia, constituting the vast majority (more than 80 per cent) of its population. A number of ethnic minorities live mostly in the mountainous areas of the country. 2 I am also pleased to recall that my first ‘real’ fieldwork experience with Cambodian refugees was shared by me with the editor of this volume, Haekyung Um. In fact, as classmates in the Field and Lab. Research Methods course, we went together to New York to record the performance of the Khmer Classical Dance Troupe at the Carnegie Hall. Documentation was a failure, by the way, because we were not allowed to tape or film by Carnegie Hall staff, but it was an excellent start for my fieldwork to come, and I am glad to have shared that beginning with her. 3 My remarks are indirectly confirmed by Sam-Ang Sam in his essay on Khmer music for the Garland Encyclopedia of World Music. On Cambodian music among refugee communities in the US, Sam writes: There may be no other country in the world whose people have more strongly attached their lives to the arts as symbols of their soul and identity. Among the refugee communities in the United States, the Hmong are known for their needle-work and the Vietnamese for their popular music, but the Khmer are known for their commitment and dedication to the classical performing arts. (Sam 1998: 210)

4 5

6 7

8 9

For the music of Southeast Asian refugees in the US, see Jairazbhoy and De Vale (1985). Men and women were placed in two parallel rows and married two by two purely arbitrarily. An account of such ‘ceremonies’ can be found in Lafreniere (2000: 82–3). Another example that demonstrates the same attitude of Khmer people towards music, from a positive, rather than negative standpoint, is the story told in the book Music through the Dark (Lafreniere 2000). Daran Kravanh, a Khmer musician who survived the Khmer Rouge and is now a refugee in the US (Washington State), tells that during that period: ‘Yes, music, the power within my accordion’s voice, saved my life and, in turn, the life of others’ (Lafreniere 2000: 3). I am indebted for this term to Sabine Trebenjacq who suggested it to me after my presentation at the Journées de la Société Française d’Ethnomusicologie (Royaumont, March 2000). In a discussion at a seminar held in Venice, J.M. Beaudet proposed another couple of terms, internal-external, that is within the migrant/refugee community vs. the larger American community. However, I believe that there still is a difference in a sense that music could also have an identity function of strengthening their social cohesion within the community. In other words, the use of music with an identity function does not necessarily imply the fact that it is aimed at ‘external’ listeners, even though it is the most frequent case. From the CD Cambodge. Musique classique khmère, théâtre d’ombres et chants de mariage, Inedit. Maison des Cultures du Monde, Auvidis W 260002, 1995. From the CD Cambodge. Musiques de l’exil, AIMP XXIV, Archives internationales de musique populaire. Musée d’ethnographie, Geneve VDE CD-698, 1992.

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10 The most prominent specialist of Khmer music in the 1960s, Jacques Brunet, also expressed the same view the first time I met him in Paris in 1988. 11 From the programme leaflet of the performance given at the Faculty of Choreographic Arts of the Royal University of Fine Arts on Saturday 1 April 2000.

References Giuriati, Giovanni (1988) Khmer Traditional Music in Washington, D.C., unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Maryland Baltimore County. –––– (1993) Musica Tradizionale Khmer, Modena: Mucchi. –––– (1996) ‘La musique comme nécessité, la musique comme identité culturelle. Les réfugiés khmers à Washington, D.C.’, Cahiers de Musiques Traditionnelles, 9: 241–58. Hobsbawm, Eric and Ranger, Terence (eds) (1983) The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jairazbhoy, Nazir A. and De Vale, Sue Carole (eds) (1985) Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology. Volume VI. Asian Music in North America, Programme in Ethnomusicology, Department of Music, Los Angeles: University of California at Los Angeles. Lafreniere, Bree (2000) Music through the Dark, A Tale of Survival in Cambodia, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Reyes, Adelaida (1999) Songs of the Caged, Songs of the Free, Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Sam, Sam-Ang (1998) ‘The Khmer People. Khmer Living in Cambodia’, in Terry E. Miller and Sean Williams (eds) The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, Vol. 4. Southeast Asia, New York and London: Garland Publishing, Inc.

9

Nagi music and community Belonging and displacement in Larantuka, eastern Indonesia Paula R. Bos

Omba pute-pute Datang dari jao Kipa lensu pute Nagi so jao

White waves rolling in from far away brandish your white handkerchief Nagi is already far away

The topic of this chapter1 is the identity and music of the Nagi people on the island of Flores in the eastern part of Indonesia. The historical background of the Nagi as a hybrid community sheds light on these people’s complex ethnic and cultural relationships with their neighbours, the Lamaholot people. Although partly of indigenous Florenese origins, the Nagi have considered themselves to be a ‘displaced’ population, which came from abroad and are therefore different from the autochthonous Lamaholot population. The markers the Nagi people often use to draw the distinctions between themselves and the Lamaholot people include their culture, language and religion. By categorizing the Lamaholot as the ‘Other’, the Nagi transcend their hybridity and create their own unifying Nagi identity. Through an analysis of the traditional and pop music of the Nagi people, this chapter will explore how their music-making as a communal activity can construct and represent the Nagi’s self-identity in relation to the neighbouring Lamaholot and a wider context of the complex ethnoscape of Indonesia.

Nagi community From the early centuries of the second millennium, Javanese, Malay, Indian, Arab and Chinese merchants were involved in slave, spice and sandalwood trades in the archipelago of what is, today, Malaysia and Indonesia. From the sixteenth century, European colonial powers, such as the Portuguese and Dutch, joined the scene. Located in the eastern part of Indonesia, the island of Flores2 formed a strategic site for these traders. Settlements were established on the small island of Solor (east of Flores) in the second half of the sixteenth century and on the east coast of Flores at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Fierce struggles between all

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competitors, especially those operating under the Portuguese and Dutch flags, continued for decades. From 1613 a settlement in East Flores, called Larantuka, began to develop into the centre of Portuguese influence in eastern Indonesia. The settlers married the women of the indigenous population, the Lamaholot,3 who inhabited the eastern part of Flores, including the small islands to the east of Flores such as Solor and Adonara. In the next decades a hybrid population was formed in Larantuka and its members were called the Black Portuguese. They are also known as Larantuquieros, Topasses, Eurasians or Mestizos depending on the period and viewpoint of historical sources. Portuguese influence in Larantuka was reinforced by the arrival of refugees from Malacca (on the west coast of the Malay Peninsula) and from Makassar (in the island of Celebes/Sulawesi, north of Flores). These refugees, who were the Portuguese elite of mixed origins, were forced to leave their cities of origin when the Dutch defeated them in Malacca in 1641 and in Makassar in 1660 (Boxer 1947; Abdurachman 1983).

Nagi language, religion and culture Although their origins are very mixed, the people of Larantuka stress their unity by calling themselves the Nagi people. The term Nagi is a derivation from negeri, which means a ‘place of birth’ in the Malay language and, for this community, it relates to the concept of a newly found homeland. Nagi refers not only to the people of Larantuka, but also to their language and place of residence, Larantuka (Kumanireng 1992: 7). The neighbouring Lamaholot people consider this Nagi community to be ‘Malay people’ and the home of the Nagi (the village of Larantuka) to be ‘Malay village’ (kampung Melayu) (Pinto da França 1985: 15). The Lamaholot notion of ‘Malay’ relates to the Nagi language, which is a variant of the Malay lingua franca. Therefore, Malay, from the Lamaholot point of view, does not refer to the ethnic Malay people in the western part of Indonesia and the Malay Peninsula, but to anyone who is not indigenous Lamaholot. In fact, the name ‘Larantuka’ was derived from the Lamaholot word lantukang, which means a ‘halting place’ or ‘halfway through’ (Dinas Pariwisata . . . 1997: 5; Suban Tukan 2001: 13). The derivation of this name may refer to the fact that Larantuka was a meeting place for various ethnic groups which were on their way to another destination. The Nagi language (bahasa Nagi ), which is also called Larantuka Malay (Melayu Larantuka),4 is a local variant of Malay, the lingua franca used in the region. The Malay language, which originated in the regions on both sides of the Straits of Malacca, has been spoken in many coastal areas throughout Indonesia for centuries as the vehicle for interethnic communication. The Lamaholot people have their own Lamaholot language. Although there are many variations of the Lamaholot language in the various regions of mainland East Flores and neighbouring islands, they all

146 Paula R. Bos are linguistically related and mutually understandable. Until the independence of Indonesia in 1945 Larantuka Malay was the language of high status in East Flores as people who spoke Malay were regarded as urban and educated. Many Lamaholot people also learned to speak Malay as they needed to communicate not only with the Nagi but also with the other ethnic groups in East Indonesia (Kumanireng 1992). After independence both Indonesia and Malaysia developed their own national language, which are still very closely related to each other. They were both developed from the earlier mentioned lingua franca, the Malay language. As Indonesian citizens, Nagi and Lamaholot people speak this national Indonesian language but Larantuka Malay is still spoken by the Nagi and the Lamaholot people. The national language, Indonesian, is spoken in local government, schools, churches and the mass media. This official language has now replaced the Larantuka Malay, which used to be the language of prestige. Larantuka Malay and Indonesian are very similar to each other, as they share the same historical origins. It is notable that today most Nagi people do not consider Larantuka Malay to be an independent language, but a variant of the national Indonesian language, which is history turned upside down. The Lamaholot language is still spoken by the Lamaholot people, although most Nagi know no more than some words. The Nagi stress their differences from the Lamaholot by emphasizing their European background, namely their ‘Portugueseness’ and their adherence to the Roman Catholic religion. Historically, although the Nagi were often called ‘Black Portuguese’ they usually acted independently of the Portuguese crown. The ethnonym ‘Portuguese’, in fact, was used to underline their role as ruling elite.5 Although many Nagi people have Portuguese names, only a minority can claim to be the direct descendants of the Portuguese and the majority acquired their Portuguese names upon baptism (Abdurachman 1983: 86; Pinto da França 1985: 72). ‘Being Portuguese’, in this context, often meant merely ‘being Catholic’. Portuguese Dominicans and, later, Jesuits played a prominent role in the history of the Nagi community. Larantuka subsequently became the starting point of Roman Catholic missionary activities for the eastern Indonesian region. After Flores came under Dutch colonial rule in the nineteenth century, German and Dutch missionaries of the SVD (Societas Verbi Divini ) replaced the Jesuits in the early twentieth century. From the beginning, the Nagi community has always practised and advocated Roman Catholicism through the performance of the Nagi brotherhood of laymen (konfreria) which supported many religious activities such as the Easter procession on Good Friday (Pinto da França 1985). The Lamaholot people, on the other hand, practised their own traditional religion in which the ancestors played a mediatory role in relation to the terrestrial and cosmological divinity called tena ekan rera wulan (land, environment, sun,

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moon) (Graham 1996). Roman Catholic missionaries at that time did not regard this Lamaholot religion as ‘religious’ at all. Roman Catholicism is stronger than ever in Flores with Larantuka at its centre – the Easter procession on Good Friday attracts many Roman Catholics and tourists to the town. At present more than 85 per cent of Florenese are Roman Catholic and they form a Catholic minority in Indonesia where more than 85 per cent of the total population is Muslim. Today, the Indonesian government officially recognizes only five religions: Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism and Buddhism. Traditional religions are treated as belief systems (alias kepercayaan) or simply regarded as customs (adat). Although many Lamaholot people are Roman Catholic nowadays, traditional Lamaholot religious elements have not been totally lost. A growing tendency towards syncretism is also found in the Roman Catholic churches in this region and an increasing number of Florenese are ordained as priests (Prior 1993). In East Flores, for example, the Lamaholot language and the indigenous religious concepts and rituals have been incorporated in the local Roman Catholicism. The Nagi evolved into a dominant minority group drawing its power from colonial political and economic hegemony in the region. ‘Pull factors’ such as ‘gold, glory and gospel’ (Abdurachman 1983: 85) attracted numerous missionaries and traders from various Asian and European backgrounds to Larantuka. ‘Push factors’ such as the wars in Malacca and Makassar drove hybrid Asian-Portuguese urban elites into exile in Larantuka. Whether voluntary or non-voluntary, displacement of these people led to the establishment of the Nagi community in Larantuka, which became their new home and the real ‘place of birth’ for coming generations. Today, Larantuka with some 25,000 people counts as a small town in Indonesia. It acts as the capital of the regency of Flores Timur (lit. East Flores) which includes the eastern part of the island of Flores and the small islands of Solor and Adonara. The regency Flores Timur forms part of the province Nusa Tenggara Timur, which is politically and economically one of the weakest of Indonesia’s provinces. Both geographically and culturally the Nagi community still occupies the very heart of the town, while Lamaholot people and recent migrants from various ethnic groups in other parts of Indonesia reside in the outskirts of Larantuka. According to the recent promotional brochures and official statistics published by the local government of the regency Flores Timur,6 Nagi people do not form a separate category. Instead, these publications emphasize the unity of the population in the regency of Flores Timur with its capital Larantuka. Often all inhabitants of the regency are regarded as Lamaholot people who share the same Lamaholot culture and language. Foreign cultural influences, such as Malay, Javanese, Portuguese and Dutch, are acknowledged only in the context of religion, architecture and

148 Paula R. Bos archaeological remains. However, recently the relationship of this region with Portugal was put to the fore, when the local Flores government invited a group of Portuguese officials, scientists, journalists and artists to their Easter celebrations in 2001. In contrast, the differences between Nagi and Lamaholot are still important in everyday life. In the spring of 2001 a book entitled Nagi People in Larantuka, Flores Timur: A Dialogue on Culture Today (Orang Nagi – Larantuka, Flores Timur: Sebuah Dialog Budaya Hari Ini) was published by a Larantuka resident, Johan Suban Tukan. In this interesting book, both Lamaholot and Nagi people in Flores Timur were invited to write on the topic of the Nagi people: who they are and what their virtues and shortcomings may be. Through this joint discourse about Nagi identity, many interesting aspects and criteria of ‘Naginess’ emerged. All agree upon the core definitions of Nagi people as follows. Nagi are those descended from the first families in Larantuka, whether currently living inside or outside the area; those who speak Larantuka Malay and use Portuguese in certain contexts; those who are Roman Catholics; those who have Portuguese family names; and finally, those who follow Nagi culture and traditions. There are, however, some debates about the border areas of Nagi identity. For example, disagreements appear when one or more of the above-mentioned aspects is absent. Other related questions also include: whether Nagi people are those who at present live in the old centre of the town only, or in the current centre of the town; whether everyone living in Larantuka including recent immigrants of other ethnic groups and non-Catholics should be called Nagi. Regardless of these complex and heterogeneous definitions and debate, both the Nagi and Lamaholot contributors to this book acknowledge the social position of the Nagi as an urban elite and also complain about the arrogance of many Nagi people. Finally, what this book implicitly confirms is the fact that, during the course of the centuries, the Nagi people have ‘become indigenous’ to Flores Timur and behave, in many ways, like any other ethnic groups of Flores. Now the scene has been set, the next section will examine Nagi music and look at its function in the community.

Nagi music This section will analyse how the Nagi identity is constructed and articulated through their traditional and pop music. The Nagi make the distinction between ‘traditional’ and ‘pop’ themselves. Traditional music is considered to be authentic Nagi music. Pop is modern music, which follows international and national Indonesian trends. Nagi pop employs electric musical instruments and is mostly mediated by audio cassettes, although occasionally performed live. Both are called Nagi as they use Larantuka Malay for their song lyrics.

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Traditional music Lui-e, played at weddings, and Dolo-dolo, a round dance performed at festive occasions, are perhaps the two best known traditional genres.7 Both Luie and Dolo-dolo performances include songs, instrumental accompaniments and dance. Their song lyrics are normally divided into a chorus interspersed by several verses. While the style and form of chorus is specific to each genre (see below), the verses of Lui-e and Dolo-dolo are both written in the form of Nagi panto. The panto (or pantun as widely known in Indonesia and Malaysia) is a form of poetry in the Malay language. It is usually made of one strophe with four lines with an alternating ABAB end rhyme.8 The first two lines of the pantun contain an image of nature, which symbolizes the actual, moralistic message pertained in the third and fourth lines (Teeuw 1952: 9–13; Yousof 1994: 205). The Nagi panto repertoire includes both old pieces transmitted through several generations and newly composed works by individual Nagi singers. The following are two wellknown Nagi panto:

Dudo jao-jao Janga taro ati

Turnips are underdone Turnips are not thoroughly cooked by fire Staying far away Do not long for them

Ujan rinte-rinte Kajang di perau Nona bise-bise No tida tau

The rain drizzles down Protective mats are in the canoe The young woman whispers The young man does not know

Ubi kao-kao Ubi banto api

The genre of Lui-e is characterized by the chorus used as below (Lui is the name of a man and Benedita that of a woman): Lui e Lui e Benedita so pi lenga tanga Oa oa e le le Mari mari beta anjol

Lui e Lui e Benedita is already leaving, swaying her arms [dancing] Young woman e le le Come, come, I will anticipate [you]

While the chorus is sung by all participants, the panto is sung alternately by individual men and women. Lui-e takes the form of a pantun-duel in which the singers comment on each other. Lui-e is performed at Nagi weddings, especially when their families accompany the bride and groom from the church to the bride’s house in procession. It is also performed on the day before the wedding when offerings, sirih-pinang, are brought from the groom’s house to that of the bride. The dance accompanying the Lui-e music is called Murong Ae, which literally means the foam of the

150 Paula R. Bos waves of the sea and probably refers to the movements of the dancers. The families of both bride and groom have specific roles to play at this dancing. The text of the chorus of Lui-e above recounts this Murong Ae dance. An amateur or semi-professional ensemble of violin, guitar, banjo, ukulele and drum accompanies the singing and dancing of the Lui-e. Employing a full musical ensemble is a costly affair. Undeterred, prominent Nagi families always do their utmost to provide an ensemble, as it would enhance their social status and reconfirm their Naginess. If the family is not wealthy enough, dancers may perform to the Lui-e music on audio cassettes. The Nagi musicians themselves always stress the Portuguese origin of the ensemble (indeed, only the drum might be called indigenous Florenese). Although there is no conclusive historical evidence to trace the origins of this genre to Malacca, the members of one of the best-known groups are said to descend from immigrants from the same city. At the Lamaholot weddings, a very different kind of musical ensemble accompanies the bridal couple, although their wedding ritual itself is quite similar to that of the Nagi (Dietrich 1998). The Lamaholot musical ensemble consists of gongs and drums, which are indigenous Florenese instruments, and no vocals are used. Although the Lamaholot melodies and dances performed at their weddings are different to those of the Nagi, the rhythms and choreography share some similar characteristics with the Nagi. It is notable that the Portuguese influences on Lui-e music and Murong Ae dance are always stressed, but their Malay characteristics are passed over in virtual silence. For example, although Lui-e song verses use the typical Malay pantun form and are performed in the Malay language, Lui-e is never called a Malay genre. It is interesting that such parallels are also found in other musical genres of Indonesia and Malaysia that are referred to either as ‘Portuguese’ or ‘Malay’. As a rule, Malay genres are performed by Muslim communities (the dominant definition of Malay identity in contemporary Southeast Asia reads: being a Muslim, speaking the Malay language and following Malay culture) while Portuguese music is played by Roman Catholic communities. Nevertheless, well-known Malay or Portuguese genres are usually found to be ‘hybrid’ forms that combine both Portuguese and Malay musical elements. These Malay or Portuguese genres are also often claimed to be different from other local, historically more indigenous musical genres.9 Communities of mixed origins use these ‘distinctive’ and ‘separate’ musical genres as a means to distinguish themselves from other, indigenous populations. Perhaps some of these hybrid musical genres came to be known as ‘Portuguese’ because their performers and audiences consider themselves to be members of Roman Catholic elite groups. Or they came to be called ‘Malay’ genres because the communities of these musical genres were associated with Muslim culture. In this context, as zealous Catholics,

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Nagi people would never consider themselves to be ‘Malay’ people or their music to be ‘Malay’. Needless to say, the neighbouring Lamaholot definition of the Nagi as ‘Malay’ complicates the very nature of cultural and ethnic identity of this people. The genre Dolo-dolo round dance10 obscures the distinction between Nagi and Lamaholot music. Like Lui-e, the song lyrics used in Dolo-dolo employ the form of pantun. They may even be the same verses as those of Lui-e. In the Dolo-dolo genre, however, a variety of old and new songs (both texts and melodies) may be used for the chorus while Lui-e has only one chorus (as shown above). Although the Dolo-dolo songs in Larantuka Malay are considered to be typically Nagi, there are also Dolo-dolo songs in the Lamaholot and Indonesian languages. The origin of this Dolo-dolo genre, which was developed in the 1950s, is a matter of ethnic dispute. While the Nagi claim its origin in Larantuka, Lamaholot people consider its birthplace to be the Lamaholot-speaking regions. Dolo-dolo performances, which are always held in the evening and at night, are often spontaneous and mixed social gatherings. It is an occasion on which the young people may flirt and find their future spouse. In fact, the choruses of Dolo-dolo frequently refer to flirting and courting as illustrated in the examples below. As Lamaholot and Nagi people often live in the same region, Dolo-dolo may be performed in the Larantuka Malay, Lamaholot and Indonesian languages at the same round dance. However, there is a difference in terms of the form of pantun employed: verses in the Lamaholot language do not always correspond to the general pantun form. The following are examples of Dolo-dolo chorus in the Nagi, Lamaholot and Indonesian languages respectively: Chorus in Nagi Tega cinta nona yang manis Lari lompa-lompa paga bula Taku bapa lari-la iko Lari tole tole lari tole hei dolo balilila

[Summary] A young man is in love with a beautiful girl and is running away being afraid of her father

Chorus in Lamaholot Dolo mura le Lipa sina gelu bala-hala Tekun lau senada herin bala Edon dai seligu talin geto Ake sampe maan goe jadi susa

[Summary] Let us dance Dolo together it is so difficult to find a spouse because of the bride price/dowry

Chorus in Indonesian Siti Manuara adinda siti manuara Yang memakai topi itam manis Terbayang bayang

[Summary] Remembering the girl, Siti Manuara, wearing a nice black hat/cap

152 Paula R. Bos Pop music The majority of Nagi and Lamaholot pop songs employ both national and international pop idioms such as dangdut, gambus, rock, reggae, house and so forth. In addition to newly composed pop songs, many traditional Nagi and Lamaholot songs are also restyled in the pop idiom. Lui-e and Dolo-dolo songs, with varying degrees of transformations, are often found on the pop music cassettes. Most pop songs are now accompanied by a synthesizer. As a consequence, however, the original rhythms of Lui-e and Dolo-dolo are completely lost because the drumming programme of the synthesizer used does not reproduce their asymmetrical metre. Traditional songs on cassettes are normally labelled NN, anonymous or folk song (lagu rakyat). Audio cassettes are the most important media through which Nagi pop music is circulated. Although occasional live performances take place within the regional context and the local mass media of radio and television do pay attention to Nagi pop music, they still play a minor role when compared to the cassette industry. In 2001, the Internet was not yet available on Flores and the production of video compact discs with Florenese pop music had just started. In this technological aspect Flores is very late compared to other regions in Indonesia. Cassettes are distributed within Flores, through shops and by the performers themselves, and consumed by a regional audience. However, the cassette industry is located in other Indonesian islands such as Timor, Sulawesi and Java. No Florenese musician has become famous nation-wide. Most performers and composers are amateurs or semi-professionals in the sense that they do earn money through sales of their audio cassettes, but always need other sources of income as well. The covers of cassettes with Florenese pop music are always labelled as ‘regional’ (daerah), which refers to the regional languages used in the song texts. The regions from which the songs originated, for example, the regency of East Flores, the island of Flores or the province of Nusa Tenggara Timur, are mentioned as well. This regional character is sometimes further elaborated on in the pictures on the covers of the cassettes, for example, the singers in the local costumes, landscapes or a map of the region. In the cassette title, there is no distinction made between Nagi and Lamaholot. The further distinction within the province is usually made at the level of individual songs on the cassette. Most cassettes contain songs from the various regions of the province. The vocalists on the single cassette often perform in several different languages, although they do not necessarily understand all of them. This is because it is not profitable enough for the producer to make cassettes in one language only as the potential consumers for such production would be so few. On many cassettes these various regions are indicated for each song, for example Nagi, Lamaholot, Adonara or Solor.

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The main difference between Nagi and Lamaholot pop songs is the language used. The Nagi pop texts tend to be straightforward. The Lamaholot pop songs, on the other hand, often use symbolic expressions and archaic words and, consequently, are not always understood by the younger generation.11 Both Lamaholot and Nagi texts are occasionally interspersed with words in the Indonesian national language. In some cases the Lamaholot and Larantuka Malay languages are combined in one song. Another important difference between Nagi and Lamaholot pop songs is the themes used for the lyrics. Although themes such as love, family, homeland and local culture are employed in both Nagi and Lamaholot pop songs, their elaboration can be very different. Most Nagi pop songs are associated with love; for example, a Nagi young man thinking of a beautiful Nagi maiden (kebara Nagi ), as illustrated in the excerpt in my translation below. The lyric of the song ‘Kebara Nagi’ (Nagi Girls) by Simon S. Tokan was written in the Indonesian language with some Nagi words: ‘Kebara Nagi’ (Nagi Girls) Nagi girls, sweet Nagi girls There are those with a fair complexion There are those with a darker hue There are those with curly hair There are those with straight hair Depending which ones we like to choose Those with a fair complexion are pretty, but get quickly irascible Those with a darker hue are sweet, but like to grumble Those with curly hair are pretty, but like to have prestige Those with straight hair are pretty, but like to be whimsical Oh, oh, Nagi girls, they make us confused (Simon S. Tokan, year unknown) The Nagi texts depict several different physical types among Nagi females, which, in turn, reflect the hybrid racial component of the community. When compared to the Lamaholot pop songs, the Nagi pop songs more often dwell on love with various contents. Whereas the Nagi songs are mainly about beautiful Nagi girls who are beyond reach, the Lamaholot singers frequently complain about the bride price, which they cannot afford to pay to the girl’s family. References to weddings and associated social gatherings where young people flirt with each other are often made in both Nagi and Lamaholot pop songs. Singing about a place of birth and family is important in Nagi pop.12 In pop texts the term Nagi, which literally means a ‘place of birth’, almost always refers to the city of Larantuka and the Nagi culture. The expressions such as mother and father (ema mo bapa) and brothers and sisters

154 Paula R. Bos (kaka mo ade) also frequently appear in the Nagi pop songs. Other important expressions include: ‘serewi Nagi’ (devoted to Nagi); ‘serwisu Nagi’ (longing for Nagi); ‘bale Nagi’ (returning to Nagi); ‘ke stilu Nagi tanah’ (the Nagi way of life) and ‘sama-sama susah sena di Nagi’ (to share happiness and sorrow in Nagi). As illustrated below in my translation, the song lyrics of ‘Serewi Nagi’ (Devoted to Nagi) describe the Nagi nostalgia for home and family. It is also notable that Nagi sensibility in this pop text is expressed by mentioning the traditional Lui-e and Dolo-dolo songs: ‘Serewi Nagi’ (Devoted to Nagi) We are Nagi people who migrated to foreign shores Searching for a good life Remembering the words of mother, remembering the words of father I migrated oh it is difficult to return When will be the time that we can go home? See my brothers and sisters in Nagi Oh, mother and father, we as well are longing Let us be together again Chorus All together we will show our devotion It is time that we will go home to Nagi While singing the song Lui-e Under the party tent for the groom All together we will show our devotion Also we swiftly go home to Nagi While singing Dolo-dolo pantun Under the party tent for the bride, the young woman devoted to Nagi (Bernard L. Tokan, year unknown) Both Nagi and Lamaholot people have a long tradition of labour migration – both temporary and permanent – to other regions. Many Nagi pop songs tell us about the wish to return home to Nagi, to those family and loved ones who were left behind. Life is always better in Nagi and being far away from home can turn out to be very bad, as depicted in the following translated excerpt from ‘Ingin Bale Pi Nagi’ (Longing to Return to Nagi) by E. Kumanireng: ‘Ingin Bale Pi Nagi’ (Longing to Return to Nagi) They said life would be better over there We would always feel happy It turned out to be different indeed The days were full of misery

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Living in the spaces under the bridge Eating waste and rubbish (Emman Kumanireng, year unknown) The Roman Catholic faith is another important theme in Nagi pop songs. For example, the city of Larantuka is occasionally referred to as the city of the Queen (kota Renya) or the Virgin Mary. Larantuka’s two oldest chapels, Tuan Ana ( Jesus) and Tuan Ma (Virgin Mary), are frequently mentioned and the blessing of Tuan Deo (God) is repeatedly besought in the songs. In contrast, Roman Catholicism is never a topic in Lamaholot songs. Instead, indirect references to the traditional Lamaholot religion, myths, historical figures and events are sometimes made: you have to be proud of your adat, your culture, your customs. In a nutshell, Nagi and Lamaholot pop songs are similar to each other in many respects. At the same time, the cultural and social differences between the traditional rural Lamaholot community and the Roman Catholic, urban Nagi community is marked and elaborated on through the different themes and musical idioms employed. In this sense, pop music is not always a globalizing and generalizing of cultural expression, it can be understood as a localizing identity marker.

Conclusion By comparing traditional and pop music of the Nagi and Lamaholot peoples, an attempt was made to illustrate how music can construct and represent both the identity and hybridity of the two communities. The notion of identity, using Hall’s term, is ‘a strategic and positional one’ (Hall 1998: 3), and is constantly constructed during the course of the history of the given community. The cultural and ethnic identities of the Nagi people, the Catholic–Malay-speaking hybrid ethnic group, are complex historical constructs that have been produced, consumed and regulated in the local East Flores and Indonesian national contexts. The Nagi consider themselves to be the urban elite (economically, politically and morally because of their Catholicism) of Larantuka and attempt to defend their ‘high’ status by claiming to be different from the indigenous Lamaholot people. At the same time, this ‘strategic and positional’ self-identity on their regional context is to be denied at the national level where their Nagi identity is merged into the administrative category of the Lamaholot population of the Flores Timur. Perhaps everyday life is not always very different for the Nagi and Lamaholot individuals, and marriages between Nagi and Lamaholot are also common. Nevertheless, the cultural and ethnic differences, as perceived by the Nagi themselves, are important and expressed through their music. In traditional music this is achieved by emphasizing the Portuguese

156 Paula R. Bos influences on the Lui-e genre and the use of the Malay pantun. In pop music it is pursued by the frequent references made to the Roman Catholic themes and their role as missionaries of Roman Catholicism. Nevertheless, the Nagi and Lamaholot people often act together as performers and audiences in their music-making. They know each other’s music and dance to a certain degree. In fact, Dolo-dolo music belongs to both communities and as a unifying force this genre brings them together. Today, the Nagi belong to the island of Flores as they have become indigenous to the land since the beginning of their community in the middle of the seventeenth century. Their traditional music creates the milieu in which the Nagi identity is constructed and performed. Although their pop music draws the Nagi sensibility and sense of belonging from the traditional musical genres, the feeling of displacement is an important and recurrent theme in the Nagi pop music. The Nagi people have been and may always be a travelling people, although they have found their new homeland to which they can return: Larantuka, the Nagi town.

Notes 1 This chapter is based on my fieldwork in Larantuka, Indonesia, from November 2000 to May 2001, in addition to the previous short visits in September 1999 and March 2000. Gratitude is expressed to the sponsors of this research, the Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, Jakarta, and the Universitas Nusa Cendana, Kupang. 2 The name Flores is an abbreviation of the Portuguese name Cabo de Flores (literally Cape of Flowers) which, in turn, is a translation of the Malay name for the cape in East Flores, Tanjung Bunga. The Malay word tanjung means a ‘cape’; bunga is related to a nautical term bunga angin. Tanjung Bunga refers to a landmark for arriving ships. Nevertheless, Flores is often mistakenly called the ‘Island of Flowers’ (Abdurachman 1983: 89–90). 3 They are also known as Solorese and Atakiwan in historical or anthropological studies. 4 Larantuka Malay has been highly influenced by both the Lamaholot and Portuguese languages. 5 Their ethnic grouping was not univocal, as Sutherland (1995: 135) noted, to the frustration of the Dutch East India Company in the seventeenth-century Makassar: ‘Makassarese-speaking Muslims of Chinese descent would announce they were Malay, Malays became Makassarese, and even the Europeans were a motley lot of shifting allegiances. Ethnic identity was multiple, flexible, situational and often opportunistic.’ And this was the case in many Asian ports. 6 See Beding and Beding (1998) and Dinas Pariwisata . . . (1997). 7 Roman Catholic music cannot be overestimated in the creation of the Nagi identity. Catholic prayers in the corrupted Portuguese language are still held and Gregorian chants, which were introduced by the Portuguese, are also performed during the Easter procession. Additionally, new forms of church music, in which the traditional Nagi and Lamaholot music is incorporated, play a significant role in this community. This topic of the Nagi Roman Catholic church music will be discussed elsewhere.

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8 Each line of the pantun usually consists of four words (smaller words such as prepositions often do not count). The Nagi panto follows the general pantun form, although the lines sometimes may contain only three words. In addition to the ABAB rhyme pattern, the AAAA end rhyme often occurs in the Nagi panto (Teeuw 1952; Monteiro et al. 1997). 9 I will discuss this topic of the Malay and Portugese identification of musical genres more thoroughly elsewhere. 10 The Dolo-dolo round dance is accompanied by a drum, which plays a rhythmic pattern very similar to that of Lui-e. Both rhythms lie somewhere between 2/4 and 7/8 in Western notation. This type of asymmetrical metre is also found in another Lamaholot genre, suggesting that it is indigenous to Flores. 11 This is most probably inherent in the Lamaholot language. 12 In the Lamaholot pop texts, a place of birth (lewo) and family are equally important.

References Abdurachman, Paramita R. (1983) ‘Atakiwan, Casados and Tupassi: Portuguese Settlements and Christian Communities in Solor and Flores (1536–1630)’, Masyarakat Indonesia, 10/1: 83–117. Beding, Michael B. and Beding, S. Indah Lestari (1998) Lensa Flores Timur (The Lens of East Flores), Flores Timur, NTT: Pemerintah Daerah Tingkat II. Boxer, C.R. (1947) The Topasses of Timor, Mededelingen no. LXXIII, Afdeling Volkenkunde no. 24, Amsterdam: Koninklijke Vereeniging Indisch Instituut. Dietrich, Stefan (1998) ‘ “We Don’t Sell Our Daughters”: A Report on Money and Marriage Exchange in the Town of Larantuka (Flores, E. Indonesia)’, in Thomas Schweizer and Douglas R. White (eds) Kinship, Network, and Exchange, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 234–44. Dinas Pariwisata Daerah Tingkat II Flores Timur (1997) Indonesia, Nusa Tenggara Timur, Flores Timur: Buku Pedoman Menuju Flores Timur. Graham, Penelope (1996) ‘Enacting Sovereignty: Sacrifice and the Power of Outsiders in Lewolema, Flores’, in Signe Howell (ed.) For the Sake of Our Future: Sacrificing in Eastern Indonesia, Leiden: Research School CNWS, pp. 148–75. Hall, Stuart (1998) ‘Introduction: Who Needs “Identity”?’, in Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay (eds) Questions of Cultural Identity, first printed in 1996, London: Sage, pp. 1–17. Kumanireng, Emman (year unknown) ‘Ingin Bale Pi Nagi’, Lagu-Lagu Pop Daerah Flores Timur: Dai bera dai, Margoni (vocal group), Komodo/Naviri (audio cassette). Kumanireng, Theresia Yosephine (1992) ‘Struktur Kata dan Struktur Frasa Bahasa Melayu Larantuka’, unpublished dissertation, Universitas Indonesia, Jakarta. Monteiro, Frans X., Kumanireng, Theresia Yosephine, Robot, M. and Nai, F.A. (1997) Laporan Penelitian Sastra Lisan Melayu Larantuka (Transkripsi, Terjemahan, dan Deskripsi Kedudukan serta Fungsi Sastra Lisan Melayu Larantuka), Kupang: Proyek Penelitian Bahasa dan Sastra Indonesia dan Daerah Provinsi Nusa Tenggara Timur, Pusat Pembinaan dan Pengembangan Bahasa, Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. Pinto da França, Antonio (1985) Portuguese Influence in Indonesia, first printed in 1970, Lisbon: Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation.

158 Paula R. Bos Prior SVD, John M. (1993) Bejana Tanah nan Indah: Refleksi sosio-budaya atas jemaatjemaat basis Nusa Tenggara sebagai wujud evangelisasi baru, Ende: Nusa Indah. Suban Tukan, Johan (2001) Orang Nagi – Larantuka, Flores Timur: Sebuah dialog budaya hari ini, Jakarta: Yayasan Putra-Putri Mari/Tetrasa-Geosinindo. Sutherland, Heather (1995) ‘Believing Is Seeing: Perspectives on Political Power and Economic Activity in the Malay World 1700–1940’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 26/1 (March): 133–46. Teeuw, A. (1952) Taal en Versbouw, Amsterdam: Djambatan. Tokan, Bernard L. (year unknown) ‘Serewi Nagi’, Lagu Pop Daerah Flores Timur, vol. 2: Bala loni kae Maumere, Bernard L. Tokan and Fana Loreta (vocalists), Pars Central Music/Gemini (audio cassette). Tokan, Simon S. (year unknown) ‘Kebara Nagi ’, Pop Kupang – NTT: Keriting jadi rebutan/kebara Nagi, Simon S. Tokan, Yanto Tokan and Reth F. Reme (vocalists), Kupang: Idola (audio cassette). Yousof, Ghulam Sarwar (1994) Dictionary of Traditional South-East Asian Theatre, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press.

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Part 2

Intercultural performances and transnational audiences

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10 Jingju (Beijing/Peking ‘opera’) as international art and as transnational root of cultural identification Processes of creation and reception in Shanghai, Nanjing and Honolulu Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak

In one sense at least, there are two ‘diaspora’ involved in this exploration – that of the Chinese people, and that of jingju (Beijing/Peking ‘opera’) itself.1 As jingju spread out from Beijing to become a ‘national theatre’ in China, an inherent tension developed between tradition and innovation. The art as performed in Beijing was considered the ‘pure’ form, referred to as ‘jingpai’ ([Bei]jing style). But somewhat paradoxically, innovation was only regarded as truly successful if it was recognized in Beijing. For instance, liupai, the schools or styles of acting representative of the creative work of individual actors, could only be established through the validation of Beijing audiences and critics. Prior to 1949, jingju was actor-centred not only in performance but also during the creative process – this meant that all major creative work was carried out or overseen by actors. But this creative work had to be taken to Beijing for approval. An actor’s original composition, scripting, staging and performance achieved the power of long-term influence and continuity only when Beijing conferred liupai status. In the developing jingju diaspora, the second most important centre was Shanghai. Then as now, Shanghai culture was substantially different from that of Beijing – while Beijing was the centre of the government and the official culture of China, Shanghai was one of the major cosmopolitan centres of the world, and its citizens had an apparently insatiable appetite for ‘the new’. As jingju quickly adapted to this ‘host culture’, it came to be known as ‘haipai’ ([Shang]hai style). Haipai performance was characterized by broad and daring innovation, involving considerable hybridity. For instance, haipai jingju embraced elaborate sets and production technology as well as playwriting and acting techniques from Japan and the West, plays and performance techniques from numerous other forms of xiqu (Chinese ‘opera’), and influences from international popular culture that then and now are considered by some to be flashy, shallow and/or pornographic. Continuity of style was less a concern than box-office value.2

162 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak This seeming polarity between Beijing and Shanghai is still a major factor in the jingju diaspora today. The centrality of Beijing as the arbiter of purity in jingju certainly continues, and Shanghai is without question a, if not the, centre of jingju innovation. As a sometime national capital itself, Nanjing is, perhaps, culturally closer to Beijing than to Shanghai, and jingju in Nanjing developed with considerable emphasis placed on the purity of tradition. However, the close physical proximity of Shanghai has also encouraged innovation. This ‘in-between’ status is evident even in the way jingju actors in Nanjing speak of these influences today. When traditional purity is being considered a positive concept, it is most often referred to by the long-standing term ‘jingpai’. Since ‘jing’ means ‘capital’ and also occurs in the name of Nanjing, this term functions inclusively, making the actors in Nanjing a part of the traditional purity of ‘jingpai ’. However, when tradition is being referred to as something less-than-positive, jingju actors in Nanjing instead use the term ‘beipai’ (northern style), clearly excluding the jingju of the Jiangsu province area in east-central China, where Nanjing and Shanghai are located. Throughout the jingju diaspora in China, the second half of the twentieth century saw the conscious introduction of Western theatre personnel, primarily for socio-political reasons. As David Holm explains, according to . . . certain strands of argument in the tradition of Marxist-Leninist esthetics . . . old forms [such as jingju] were products of feudal or semifeudal society, while the new forms of art imported from the West were the reflection of a society at the higher, capitalist stage in human history. Old forms were therefore inferior to new forms, which were more ‘scientific’ and ‘advanced’ in every respect. (Holm 1984: 11) With the aim of elevating the art of jingju and making it more ‘scientific’ according to Marxist-Leninist aesthetics, new artistic personnel were added to jingju companies after the People’s Republic of China was established in 1949. These included directors, designers and playwrights trained in Western-style theatre, and composers trained in European concert music and other primarily European and American musical styles. These additional artists have introduced a remarkable hybridity into the creative process of jingju.

Jingju in Shanghai and Nanjing today At both the Shanghai Jingju Company and the Jiangsu Province Jingju Company in Nanjing, the creation of new plays is now essentially a ‘committee process’ involving a number of individuals including leading actors and musicians (who were the primary creators traditionally), ‘creators’ (the ‘high-level intellectual’ personnel added after 1949 – directors, playwrights,

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composers and designers) and ‘experts’ (comprised primarily of older, more experienced artists; theatre critics; and cultural officials). In Shanghai, these individuals work together essentially as equals. And, in many respects, the present Shanghai Jingju Company is like the innovative haipai jingju of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries – great emphasis is placed upon meeting audience demand for ‘the new’. Through a study of potential audiences (guanzhong xue), the Shanghai Company has targeted several new ones – including school age, urban popular and urban intellectual audiences – and is creating new plays especially for each. The regular and frequent creation of new plays for several new and different audiences requires creative flexibility and a constant rebalancing of aesthetic values, tasks that lend themselves to a collaborative creative process.3 In Nanjing, although the committee process is also followed, cultural officials and some ‘creators’ – primarily directors and playwrights – in essence have had more votes within that process than have actors and musicians. The Jiangsu Jingju Company seems to have retained a stronger influence from the pre-1949 jingpai jingju of Beijing, in which greater emphasis was placed upon traditional purity in performance. In Nanjing, for the last two decades a higher priority has been given to perpetuating traditional schools and styles of performance than to innovation. And, probably as a corollary, when new plays have been undertaken, creative authority has generally been restricted to fewer, higher-ranking personnel who have served as arbiters of tradition in these new contexts. The high priority given to innovation in Shanghai, however, does not mean that tradition is not valued. Instead, hybridity occurs in the artistic product as well as the creative process of the Shanghai Jingju Company, and at a very fundamental level. Examples abound of tradition and innovation occurring together and separately in almost every aspect of the production – scenic and costume design, staging, physical performance and music. It is music that is generally considered the core or heart of jingju performance – music is also the aspect of jingju that most clearly distinguishes it from the more than 300 other forms of xiqu (Chinese ‘opera’), and is therefore the most sensitive when it comes to innovation. As a result, creative changes to traditional vocal music vocabulary tend to be made rather sparingly, primarily for special character interpretation. Yet their impact is substantial. The music of the original play Cao Cao and Yang Xiu (Cao Cao yu Yang Xiu) is a prime example. Many of Shanghai’s original works have won national prizes, but this play has received extraordinary national acclaim in China: in 1988 it was named an Outstanding New Jingju Play at the Ministry of Culture’s (national) Festival of New Jingju Plays; in 1989 it received the National Xiqu Institute Award; and in 1995, Cao Cao and Yang Xiu was awarded the grand prize at the National Festival of Jingju Art, in essence recognizing it as the finest jingju created since the Cultural Revolution. Created for the ‘urban intellectual’ audience, the play concerns the relationship between the (in)famous

164 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak third-century AD ruler Cao Cao and his brilliant minister Yang Xiu, a relationship that clearly parallels the one between Mao Zedong and Peng Dehuai in the 1950s – and although the play was written before the events occurred, it now also suggests the one between Deng Xiaoping and Zhao Ziyang just prior to 4 June 1989. The play ends with the two men having a real and moving ‘heart-to-heart talk’ – just before Cao has Yang beheaded. While the entire traditional jingju orchestra is employed throughout Cao Cao and Yang Xiu, instruments from the Western-style symphonic orchestra are also added, and the featured instruments in the atmospheric music are the ancient guzheng (13-stringed zither) and guqin (seven-stringed zither), not normally used in jingju – they create a haunting classical flavour and provide a unique setting for the vocal music itself. Both the atmospheric and the vocal music share an innovative quality that I have come to call ‘contemporary Chinese emotionalism’, and reveal creative musical approaches developed during and after the Cultural Revolution. The vocal music as a whole is tighter and faster than in traditional plays. Compositional hybridity is most evident in arias sung by some of the supporting characters. For instance, in the first aria sung by Cao Cao’s favourite concubine, Qian Niang, a qupai (pre-existing melody) called ‘hujia shiba pai ’ (lit. hujia [a reed instrument] 18th beat), taken from kunqu (an older, classical form of xiqu),4 is used as the basis for composition rather than one of the banshi (metrical types) native to jingju.5 In addition, a phrase from Shanghai popular music of the 1930s and 1940s is used for one of the eight lines. Because this kunqu qupai is very close to the thematic source material for the atmospheric music of the play as a whole, this composition firmly establishes Qian Niang’s connection with the main plot line and themes of the play while indicating that she is attractive and warmhearted (Gao 1995). Similarly, three comic merchants bemoaning the low prices that Yang Xiu is offering for their goods express their frustrations in short songs, each based in a different musical source from outside jingju to indicate that the characters come from the three major enemy areas: the music of Sichuan (termed chuandiao by composer Gao Yiming), the music of the Pinghua and Tanci ballad forms (quyi ) of Jiangsu (termed pingtandiao by Gao), and the music of Mongolia (termed both xibeidiao and mengguger by Gao). And while the vocal music for major characters is firmly grounded in traditional modes and metrical types, some of them are used unconventionally, and hybridity is still evident. For instance, in the large central aria in which Cao Cao persuades both himself and his favourite concubine that she must die to preserve his relationship with Yang Xiu, both Cao and his concubine sing entirely in erhuang mode, which is experienced as heavier, darker, more lyric and more profound than xipi, the other principal mode in jingju.6 In traditional plays about Cao Cao, that character rarely if ever sings in erhuang. As Shang Changrong – the actor who created the character for Cao Cao and Yang Xiu – explains, having him

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do so here creates a substantially deeper and more thoughtful character (Shang 1996). The shared grief experienced by Cao Cao and his concubine is then manifested through the sparing but highly effective use of harmony,7 which is completely absent in traditional jingju.8 To the ears of Shanghai intellectuals, perhaps not yet fluent in the musical language of jingju but very much accustomed to the ‘language’ of music in film, this harmony provides a clear and understandable emotional statement – an aesthetically daring ‘translation’ or ‘paraphrase’ of the jingju musical language in which it is placed. The Jiangsu Province Jingju Company has also created original plays that have won national awards, one of the most recent being an adaptation of Lao She’s famous novel Rickshaw Boy (Luotuo Xiangzi; lit. Camel Lucky). Along with Chancellor Liu the Hunchback (Zaixiang Liu Luoguo) by the Beijing Jingju Company and A Great Occasion in the Zhen Guan Years (Zhen Guan Sheng Shi )9 by the Shanghai Jingju Company, Rickshaw Boy was one of three jingju plays to receive top honours at the Sixth National Arts Festival, held in Nanjing in September and October 2000. Set in prerevolutionary Beijing, Rickshaw Boy tells the story of Lucky, an honest and initially happy-go-lucky rickshaw puller who loses his rickshaw, his money, the girl he truly loves and the wife he does marry as well as their child to the corruption and social inequity of the old society. The most innovative aspect of Rickshaw Boy is its physical performance, and it is in this area that the clearest examples of hybridity can be found, as well. For instance, when Lucky’s well-to-do wife-to-be Hu Niu gets him drunk and seduces him in order to claim that she is pregnant and force a marriage, the seduction scene is very effectively staged with considerable eroticism and the clear influence of huaju (lit. spoken drama; the Western-inspired, realism-based form of Chinese theatre) acting techniques. Even more striking is a remarkable rickshaw-pulling sequence performed by Chen Lincang, the actor who created the role of Lucky. Drawing on traditional jingju movement originally created for other purposes, pantomime, and both traditional Chinese and modern dance, the sequence vividly conveys the young Lucky’s exuberant enjoyment of his physical prowess, and truly brings the rickshaw itself to life. In the crucial and sensitive area of music, however, Rickshaw Boy stays much closer to traditional models. The orchestra is not substantially enlarged. The ‘language’ of jingju vocal music is applied fairly traditionally, using very little source material from outside jingju. And the vocal music is sung at much more traditional, slower tempos. As Chen Lincang explained with some pride, the subject matter – old Beijing – and the music are sufficiently rich in jingju tradition to have led at least one critic in Beijing to say that ‘it is as if the play has been in the traditional jingju repertory all along’ (Chen 2000). Critical responses both inside and outside China reflect the different priorities of the Shanghai and Jiangsu companies. Shanghai has invested considerable time and resources in the creation of new plays and has won

166 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak more national awards for new work. Conversely, Jiangsu has concentrated more on nurturing performers with strong traditional skills and techniques, and its artists have won more individual awards for the performance of traditional plays within the liupai (schools or styles of performance) established by leading performers prior to 1949. Internationally, many publications speak very highly of the creative work of the Shanghai Company, work ranging from the revolutionary contemporary jingju Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy (Zhi Qu Wei Hu Shan), On the Docks (Hai Gang), Song of the Dragon River (Long Jiang Song) and White Haired Girl (Bai Mao Nü), through the more recent, entertainment-oriented Cave of the Coiled Webs (Pan Si Dong, a Sun Wukong/Monkey King play), Emperor Qianlong in Jiangnan (Qianlong Xia Jiangnan) and The Leopard Cat–Crown Prince Exchange (Li Mao Huan Taizi ), to the challenging Dream of the King of Qi (Qi Wang Meng, based on Shakespeare’s King Lear), Cao Cao and Yang Xiu (Cao Cao yu Yang Xiu) and A Great Occasion in the Zhen Guan Years (Zhen Guan Sheng Shi). However, other international publications, including some of those serving the Chinese diaspora, frequently speak critically of at least some aspects of these works. For instance, musical innovations, clearly popular with audiences in Shanghai, have been referred to in a derogatory fashion as sounding like the ‘Shanghai philharmonic’ (Shanghai jiaoxiang yuetuan).10 Inside and outside China, jingju is viewed by many government officials and members of the Chinese diaspora as a root or touchstone of Chinese cultural identity – and changes/innovations that take it too far from the purity of tradition may jeopardize that cultural identity. But at the same time, one of the primary concerns of many jingju artists and administrators in China is the belief that jingju should be regarded and accepted inside and outside China not simply as an ‘ethnic’ art, but as an international art on a par with ballet, European opera, and the theatres of London, Tokyo, New York and other major cosmopolitan centres worldwide. Both of these evaluations of jingju can be seen in the context of jingju performance at the University of Hawai’i.

Jingju at the University of Hawai’i Chinese artisans and technicians, merchants and businessmen began immigrating to Hawai’i by 1789, just a decade after Captain James Cook ‘discovered’ the islands for the Earl of Sandwich and other Europeans. By the middle of the nineteenth century, the Chinese had established the sugar industry in Hawai’i, and initiated the first of the many waves of contract labourer immigration, also from south China. Families descended from these earliest Chinese immigrants are among the oldest and most established non-Hawai’ian families in the state, and because of this early Chinese immigration, Hawai’i has been a multi-ethnic community for more than 200 years.11 According to a recent census, the population of the state includes: 32 per cent mixed ethnicity (including many part-Chinese), 22 per cent

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Japanese, 22 per cent European, 12 per cent Filipino and 5 per cent Chinese, with the remaining 7 per cent including Koreans, Samoans, Tongans, Puerto Ricans, African Americans, and less than 1 per cent full-blooded Hawai’ians (Bendure and Friary 1997: 41). Clearly influenced by the fact that a majority of the population is of Asian or part Asian ancestry, the University of Hawai’i has been presenting performances of Asian plays and theatre forms since the 1920s. Since the early 1980s, an exchange agreement has existed between the Jiangsu Jingju Company and the University of Hawai’i. As a part of the Asian Theatre Program at the University, every three or four years the Jiangsu Company sends several artists for approximately six months to provide intensive training in the performance of a particular jingju play. For all but one of these resident training programmes Madam Shen Xiaomei, the youngest disciple of the legendary Mei Lanfang, has served as overall artistic director. Either she herself or one of her students has taught the performance of female roles, and two other colleagues have taught male roles and orchestral performance, respectively.12 The Jiangsu Company has seriously invested in this exchange. The artists who come to Hawai’i are featured members of the company and their absence from performance and other responsibilities represents a considerable handicap for the company. Besides this inconvenience, whenever possible the company lends costumes to the university for all but the leading roles, and provides the latter tailor-made for the University of Hawai’i cast, at cost. The Jiangsu Company and the government body under which it falls, the Department of Culture, have stated explicitly and frequently that the primary aim of their investment in English-language jingju in Hawai’i is the promotion of jingju among non-Chinese people, in order to contribute to its recognition as an art form of international stature. Madam Shen describes jingju as being both an exemplary national art and an outstanding world art, and says that her aims as principal teacher for the Hawai’i training programmes and productions are first to introduce jingju to audiences outside China and, second and more importantly, to contribute to the artistic development of University of Hawai’i students – she sees the experience of learning and performing jingju as being something from which they can draw ‘help and inspiration’ (bangzhu he linggan) throughout their artistic lives (Shen, Xiaomei 2001). When asked about her criteria for judging the performances in Hawai’i, Madam Shen stresses that they are, indeed, student performances, and that the main concern is for students to embody the characters they are playing, in addition to working hard and co-operating well with their partners – students are double cast, with each pair playing one major and one or more minor roles alternately. When pressed about vocal work, she admits that the singing is the most difficult aspect to teach, especially the patterns of vocal stylization that characterize each role type. Here, her aim is to help the students achieve fluent melody and phrasing, and as much

168 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak ‘flavour’ (weir) of jingju as possible, while attaining a clear expression of character and of the character’s thoughts and feelings (Shen, Xiaomei 2001). Mr Shen Fuqing, who has taught the performance of orchestral music for all but one of the University of Hawai’i productions, says that his expectations of student musicians are equivalent to Madam Shen’s (Shen, Fuqing 2001). The primary purpose of the University of Hawai’i’s Asian Theatre Program is also educational, and quite similar to that of Madam Shen. It aims to provide student actors and musicians with the experience of intensive training in stylized, total theatre forms including Chinese jingju and Japanese kabuki on a yearly basis, so as to prepare them for careers in multicultural theatre, including the growing ‘local’ theatre in which original plays often feature the ‘home’ cultures of the various population groups of Hawai’i.13 Additionally, the Asian Theatre Program provides university and community audiences with the opportunity to share in the fruits of the training experience through culminating performances. To date, five different jingju plays have been staged in Hawai’i a total of eight times (three were remounted at Chinese invitation for tours of several major cities in China), and planning for a sixth is under way.14 The creative process followed in Hawai’i is very different from those in Shanghai and Nanjing. Clearly, university students receiving only a few months of jingju training, no matter how intensive, cannot possibly participate in the creation of a jingju production – scripting, composing, blocking and, in a sense, ‘choreographing’ – as would jingju actors in China, either on an equal basis with other personnel as in Shanghai, or as part of a committee effort headed by playwrights, directors and cultural officials as in Nanjing. Instead, primary creative authority for University of Hawai’i jingju productions is in the hands of the artist-teachers from the Jiangsu Company, who choose the play to be taught from their own alreadyexisting repertory, select the scenes to be included, write the specific script to be used, and compose the music to be sung, completing the bulk of this work prior to their arrival in Hawai’i. Madam Shen has been my own jingju performance teacher since I first studied with her in Nanjing from 1979 to 1981, so my role in the training programmes and productions is therefore primarily that of facilitator. In the semester before Madam Shen and her colleagues arrive, I teach basic jingju performance skills and provide students with some initial training in learning primarily through imitation, and in using the correct forms of address and politeness involved in the jingju student–teacher relationship. I also translate the play to be performed. During the resident training programme I work with bilingual students to provide translation for all classes and outside activities involving the resident teachers, and assist in ‘cultural translation’ whenever I perceive the need or it is requested. Such assistance ranges from explaining historical and cultural circumstances

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relevant to script and character interpretation, to untangling misunderstandings involving cultural differences in body language. Additionally, I serve as a ‘bridge’ between Madam Shen and her colleagues and the University of Hawai’i faculty and staff who support their creative work by designing and building sets and co-ordinating costumes, headdresses and props according to their directions. For the final four to six weeks prior to performance, I also serve as director of the production, with the goal of assisting Madam Shen and her colleagues to realize their vision for the performance by helping the students to attain their full potential as performers. This can take many forms, such as working with a student whose approach is indelibly based in method acting to construct a psychological ‘through line’ that fills the physical characterization with the desired energy, and helping an actor cast in a chou (comic) role to find an accent that will be appropriate in the context of the play and ‘sound like Shandong speech’ to the teacher of male roles. Innovations occur at every stage of each training programme and production. Madam Shen believes that the scripts themselves are major innovations. She and her colleagues develop them specifically for the Hawai’i productions and, in her opinion, they are generally more complete and yet tighter than the versions which they perform themselves (Shen, Xiaomei 2001). She also finds the original, carefully designed sets to be quite innovative – traditional plays rarely receive individual design attention in China. But the majority of innovations occur during the training process, when many changes are made in script and musical composition because Madam Shen and her colleagues tailor the roles to maximize the strengths and minimize the weaknesses of their individual students. In doing so, they interpretively alter traditional acting styles, probably considerably more than would be possible in Nanjing. Madam Shen sees her work with students on character development as a source of inspiration for her own creative work, and very much enjoys the fact that ‘as students come to understand the characters, they invariably arrive at creative new ideas’ (Shen, Xiaomei 2001). For instance, in working with the two students playing the role of a murderous adulteress in Yu Tangchun, the Jade Hall of Spring, two distinctly different versions of the character were created. With one student, Madam Shen developed a soft, sweet, erotic character who was completely devoid of conscience; with the other, the character became a wronged and vengeful woman who was fierce in her own defence. For Madam Shen, however, the most fulfilling aspect of the training programmes and productions comes from watching the dedication and hard work of the students – and seeing the number who go on to study Chinese language, and to pursue long-term jingju training in China. For her, this empirically proves that jingju can be genuinely and deeply appreciated by non-Chinese living in cultures outside of China (Shen, Xiaomei 2001).

170 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak Although there are other instances of performing xiqu in non-Chinese languages, including professional Thai-language performances in Thailand,15 performing in English is one of the single most substantial innovations in the Hawai’i performances. But English is not used with the aim of being innovative. While it has varied somewhat between training programmes, the ethnic background of students in University of Hawai’i English-language jingju productions has generally reflected that of the state as a whole. Although no study has been undertaken, I would estimate that the percentage of students of Chinese ancestry participating in jingju training programmes and productions probably at least doubles, to 10 per cent of the total, and perhaps even increases by a bit more than that. The same basic distribution applies to audiences for our productions and, according to our Theatre Manager: ‘When we present a Chinese or Japanese theatre piece, we do see an increase in the numbers of people attending who have the same ethnic background, probably by about 10 per cent of the total audience’ (Myers 2000). But Chinese ancestry does not necessarily imply Chinese language ability. Many, if not most, descendants of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century immigrants from south China do not themselves read or speak any form of Chinese – and the Chinese of their ancestors was Cantonese or another southern language, rather than the Mandarin used in jingju. Much more recent groups have come to Hawai’i from Hong Kong, and from Taiwan and mainland China – the first being a Cantonese-speaking area, and the latter two areas including Mandarin as well as regional languages. And, of course, some audience members and student performers, of Chinese as well as other ancestries, are second-language speakers of Mandarin. But I would estimate that at most 10 per cent of our audience speaks Mandarin Chinese, and although the percentage of student actors who do so is perhaps a bit higher, it remains quite small. Since the effective performance of languagebased theatre is extremely difficult if not impossible without some competence in that language, our performances are in English for very practical reasons. Our aim, however, is to actually perform jingju in English. The English translation therefore attempts to preserve the textual and musical form, so that jingju vocal practice may be applied. For song, this means rhymed English couplets that have the same number of syllables, in the same number of phrases, as the Chinese original – and for melismatic song, the same or a related vowel sound if at all possible. Madam Shen and her colleagues then innovatively apply traditional techniques to the English circumstance. For instance, in melismatic jingju singing, the prolonged central vowel is held until the end of the melodic phrase, when it is ‘closed’ (shou) by a gentle sounding of the final vowel or ‘n’ or ‘ng’ sound – no other consonants occur at the end of Mandarin words/syllables. When this technique is applied to the English singing of a melismatic passage, the resultant ‘softening’ of English final consonants is noticeable.

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For instance, the couplet ‘I saw the trap and so could not comply; I will go to Father and tell him why’ sounds more like the following when this technique is applied: ‘I saw the tra pan so cou naw com ply; I wi go to fa the an te lim why’. As a result, the sung English is approximately as difficult for an English speaker to understand as is the sung Mandarin for a Mandarin speaker, and we follow the contemporary Chinese performance practice of mounting subtitles above or beside the stage. The Hawai’i work of the Jiangsu artists and their students and Hawai’i colleagues has been acclaimed nationally in China, through extensive media coverage as well as the invited, funded tours. However, that work has been acclaimed primarily as evidence that young American intellectuals appreciate and value jingju. Its perceived importance lies in providing a sort of international validation and, thereby, hopefully contributing to the cause of cultural preservation, rather than in the innovations of its primary creative authorities. And, in fact, there was concern in some government circles during the 1986 and 1991 tours that too many of the student cast members were of Asian rather than European ancestry and, therefore, lacked the blue eyes and blond hair that would immediately telegraph the international nature of the student companies to Chinese audiences; for the 2002 tour, this concern was less widely expressed. In Hawai’i, the Chinese portion of the audience for English-language jingju can most broadly be broken into two groups, one comprised of Mandarin speakers, primarily Chinese nationals and first-generation Chinese-Americans, and the other comprised primarily of the non-Chinesespeaking descendants of immigrants from south China where, as mentioned above, Mandarin Chinese was not spoken to begin with. Members of the second group seem more consistently prone to view jingju as an international art – many reviewers and letter-writers have expressed gratitude for the English presentations, saying that having thoroughly understood a jingju performance for the first time, they are now ready to appreciate the artistry of professional performers in Chinese. The reactions of Mandarin-speaking Chinese audience members are more varied. A number of these are piaoyou, members of amateur groups that meet to sing and sometimes to more fully stage jingju. Many piaoyou are extremely supportive, donating money to help bring the artist-instructors from Nanjing and, in some cases, registering as university students and participating in the training and culminating performances. As one such student put it: ‘The opportunity to study so extensively with Madam Shen Xiaomei is extraordinary’ (Liu 1998). Piaoyou groups also invite some student cast members to sing with them, and then turn out to cheer for those students, calling out ‘hao’ (‘good’ or ‘bravo’) at every appropriate opportunity and sending bouquets of flowers to the stage; whether coincidentally or not, students singled out in this fashion have, so far, been of Chinese ancestry themselves. However, some piaoyou have made it clear that they believe jingju should be sung only in Chinese.

172 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak As Madam Shen’s comment above indicates, reactions of University of Hawai’i student participants to the training programmes and productions have been overwhelmingly and almost entirely positive, including those of students of Chinese ancestry. As one such student said: ‘In China it would be impossible to receive so much personalized attention from a master of Shen Xiaomei’s stature, especially over such an extended period of time’ (Wei 1998). But in the 1997–8 programme, there was one major exception – a second-generation Chinese-American student from the US mainland who played one of the major supporting roles believed very strongly that jingju should only be performed in the Chinese language, and only by Chinese, and was deeply offended by the entire programme.16 On the other hand, many Mandarin-speaking students and scholars from mainland China who do not themselves perform or even usually attend jingju performances have declared themselves remarkably gratified to find the University’s English-language jingju on the same season’s bill with Shakespeare and the contemporary international avant-garde. To the question, ‘is it really jingju?’, I do not have a direct answer. English-language jingju certainly involves change. However through an educational programme that puts the primary emphasis on traditional training and aesthetics and yet mandates an innovative approach to tradition, jingju residencies at the University of Hawai’i do provide audiences and especially participants with a much-expanded worldview. In fact, change in jingju is almost certainly inevitable. Even those who strive to preserve jingju with as little change as possible are, in fact, making a big change by doing so – as can be seen, for instance, in the case of liupai, which traditionally were measures of successful innovation and creation, but are now often enforced as correct standards that must be followed. In terms of creation, tradition is actually followed in none of the contexts discussed here. In Shanghai, actors and their musicians – traditionally the primary creative authorities – work essentially as equals with ‘creators’ (the recently introduced directors, playwrights, composers and designers) and ‘experts’ (older artists, theatre critics and cultural officials). In Nanjing, cultural officials and some ‘creators’ tend to have more creative authority within the group creative process than do actors, whose traditional status is thereby further reduced. And in Honolulu, although artists from Nanjing are, indeed, the primary creative authorities, as in traditional circumstances, they do not actually perform at all in their own creations. Similar, apparently contradictory, phenomena are present in the areas of performance and reception. Throughout the jingju diaspora, in some contexts ‘tradition’ is seen as a positive virtue, and in others as a negative impediment – and the same is true of innovation. The desire to perpetuate jingju as a transnational root of cultural identification tends to be a conservative force, but the goal of promoting jingju as an international art implies both preservation of the traditional and creation of the new, calling as it does for a wealth of classic pieces and continued, exciting growth.

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In Shanghai, Nanjing and even Honolulu, issues of identity and innovation struggle with those of tradition and aesthetic value in the creation, performance and reception of jingju. It is my hope that the very vibrancy of that struggle is helping to propel jingju forward as both a living and evolving art form and a transnational root of cultural identity.

Notes 1 For over two decades, much of my research has concerned tradition and innovation in jingju, especially the dynamics of creative authority. A majority of the research has been carried out at the Shanghai Jingju Company in Shanghai, and the Jiangsu Province Jingju Company in Nanjing. During the same period of time, I have also translated several jingju plays into English, and worked with performers from China to train students at the University of Hawai’i to perform those plays in jingju style. Hae-kyung Um, the editor of this volume, has asked that I explore some of the relationships between tradition and innovation in these three contexts. Although I feel somewhat uncomfortable including the Hawai’i circumstances because of the different nature of my own involvement there, I will do my best to provide the ‘starting point for discussion’ that she has requested. 2 For more information on haipai and its relationship to contemporary performance practice, see Wichmann-Walczak (2000). 3 For additional discussion of the creative process at the Shanghai Jingju Company, see Wichmann-Walczak (2000). 4 Kunqu, a classical form of xiqu (Chinese ‘opera’) that developed in the sixteenth century, follows ‘joined song system’ (lianquti) musical structure, in which playwrights compose lyrics to fit selected, pre-existing melodies or qupai, each of which is named. While qupai are sometimes used in traditional jingju as accompanying music for movement and speech, they are not the usual basis for sung arias. 5 Jingju, almost three centuries younger than kunqu and originally a popular rather than classical form of xiqu, follows ‘beat tune system’ (banqiangti) musical structure, in which actors traditionally composed their own melodies for lyrics, applying a musical ‘language’ of modes (diaoshi) and metrical types (banshi). 6 The other principal mode in jingju, xipi, is experienced as bright, energetic, vehement and purposeful. 7 The shared harmony is employed in a brief passage of kutou (lit. crying head). 8 The full aria builds in traditional fashion, from mid-range metrical types which are slower and more controlled, to increasingly faster metrical types, and ultimately to the fastest, with breaks in the building tempo-and-metre articulated through metrical types such as yaoban (shaking metre) and kuanban (broad metre), indicating exterior calm and interior tension, and through the free-metered ‘stopping of the heart’ of sanban (dispersed metre), expressive of overwhelming emotion. But some of the metrical types used in this progression are far from standard. For instance, Cao Cao’s favourite concubine sings initially in zhongban, an innovative metrical type ‘in between yuanban (primary meter) and yaoban (shaking meter)’ (Shang 1999; Gao 1995). Cao Cao initially expresses his realization of Yang’s intent, and his grief at what he believes this must mean for his beloved concubine, in a passage of handiao. This last metrical type was originally sung only by performers of dan (female) roles. It was later adapted for the hualian (painted face) role for Qiu Shenrong’s work in the classic Orphan of the House of Zhao (Zhao Shi Gu Er). It facilitates exceptionally lyrical emotional

174 Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak

9 10

11 12

13 14

15

16

expression, especially for the hualian performer (Gao 1995). For more on the musical language of jingju, see Wichmann (1991). It refers to the reign of Li Shimin during the Tang dynasty in the seventh century. I actually first encountered this phrase in conversation with my colleague David Rolston, a professor of Chinese literature and a specialist in jingju, at the 1998 Association for Asian Performance convention; since then I have seen it used in publications such as the Shijie Ribao (World Daily), a newspaper based in Taiwan that serves Chinese-speakers in North America, primarily those on the east and west coasts. On the other hand, the same publications have carried very positive reviews, and the Shanghai Company has been invited to perform numerous times in Taiwan, Hong Kong and other countries including Japan, Great Britain, France, Spain and Germany (Lin 2000). For further information on the Chinese in Hawai’i, see Lum (1988). For the first training programme and production in 1984–5, Madam Shen was unable to come and training was provided instead by Madam Yang Qiuling, also a student of Master Mei Lanfang, along with Mr Li Jialin who taught male roles, and Mr Wan Ruixing who taught orchestral performance; all three are from the China Jingju Company in Beijing. Madam Shen herself has been accompanied on every occasion by Mr Shen Fuqing, an award-winning composer and jingju musician, who has trained University of Hawai’i students to perform as a jingju orchestra. Other artists who have accompanied her include Mr Zhu Hongfa, who taught male roles for the 1989–90 programme, and Mr Lu Genzhang, who taught male roles in 1993–4, 1997–8 and 2001–2. Ms Li Zhenghua, a senior student of Madam Shen, taught female roles for her in 2001–2. For more on original theatre in Hawai’i, see Carroll (2000). The first production, The Phoenix Returns to Its Nest (Feng Huan Chao), was presented in Hawai’i in 1985, and in Beijing, Xian and Shanghai in 1986. Yu Tangchun, the Jade Hall of Spring was presented in Hawai’i in 1990, and in Shanghai, Wuxi and Nanjing in 1991. Shajiabang, Spark Amid the Reeds was presented in Hawai’i in 1994, and Silang Tan Mu, Love and Loyalty in 1998. Judge Bao and the Case of Qin Xianglian (Qin Xianglian/Zha Mei An) was presented in Hawai’i and Nanjing in 2002. Currently about 20 xiqu troupes in Thailand exist year-round, supporting themselves by performing at Chinese temples. The Thai language is used for performance by these troupes because most audience members, although of Chinese ancestry, do not speak Chinese. The head of one of the troupes, Meng Paw Pla, believes that in fact xiqu in Thailand is no longer limited to being a heritage of the Chinese, but is now a Thai cultural asset (Virulrak 2004). For an in-depth discussion of the question of ‘colour blind casting’ with specific reference to Chinese circumstances, see Sun (2000).

References Bendure, Glenda and Friary, Ned (1997) Hawaii, Hawthorne, Australia: Lonely Planet. Carroll, Dennis (2000) ‘Hawai’i’s “Local” Theatre’, The Drama Review, 44/2 (T166, Summer): 123–52. Chen, Lincang (2000) Hualian (painted face) actor with the Jiangsu Province Jingju Company, in informal interview, Nanjing (9 October 2000). Gao, Yiming (1995) Composer of vocal music with the Shanghai Jingju Company, in interview, Beijing (3 December 1995).

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Holm, David (1984) ‘Folk Art as Propaganda: The Yangge Movement in Yan’an’, in Bonnie S. McDougall (ed.) Popular Chinese Literature and Performing Arts in the People’s Republic of China, 1949–1979, Berkeley: University of California Press. Lin, Hongming (2000) Executive Director, Shanghai Jingju Company, in interview, Nanjing (6 October 2000). Liu, Judy (1998) Member of the Hawai’i Chinese Opera Association, in an undated note. Lum, Arlene (ed.) (1988) Sailing for the Sun: The Chinese in Hawaii 1789–1989, Honolulu: East West Center and Three Heroes Publishers. Myers, Marty (2000) Theatre Manager, University of Hawai’i Kennedy Theatre, in informal interview, Honolulu (17 August 2000). Shang, Changrong (1996) Hualian (painted face) actor with the Shanghai Jingju Company, in informal interview, Shanghai (2 May 1996). –––– (1999) In telephone interview, Honolulu and Shanghai (2 June 1999). Shen, Fuqing (2001) Composer and jinghu (lead two-string spike fiddle) player with the Jiangsu Province Jingju Company, in informal interview, Nanjing (16 June 2001). Shen, Xiaomei (2001) Dan (female role) actor with the Jiangsu Province Jingju Company, in informal interview, Nanjing (16 June 2001). Sun, William H. (2000) ‘Power and Problems of Performance across Ethnic Lines: An Alternative Approach to Nontraditional Casting’, The Drama Review, 44/4 (T168, Winter): 86–95. Virulrak, Surapone (trans.) (2004) Information from the Mati-chon News, p. 17, provided via email from Chulalongkorn University (20 January). Wei, Ru-hua (1998) University of Hawai’i doctoral candidate in Music, in informal interview, Honolulu (14 February 1998). Wichmann, Elizabeth (1991) Listening to Theatre, The Aural Dimension of Beijing Opera, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Wichmann-Walczak, Elizabeth (2000) ‘ “Reform” at the Shanghai Jingju Company and Its Impact on Creative Authority and Repertory’, The Drama Review, 44/4 (T168, Winter): 96–119.

11 ‘Mirrors’ of West and ‘mirrors’ of East Elements of gagaku in post-war art music Yayoi Uno Everett

Fragments of imperialist (exploring Western musical values through conservatory education) and colonialist (importing non-Western musical materials for use in Western art-music settings) ideologies are both found here, but the music of the Asian neo-Orientalists, at its best and most provocative, manages to subtly subvert them both. (Corbett 2000: 180)

In invoking the Orientalist discourse, John Corbett situates the post-war Asian composers such as Tan Dun and To¯ru Takemitsu in a paradoxical role of simultaneously embracing and subverting an ideology that perpetuates the asymmetrical power relations between the ‘East’ and ‘West’.1 But his statement raises the fundamental question: why should we continue to problematize cultural fusion in art music through the ‘gaze’ of Orientalist rhetoric? In labelling Asian composers neo-Orientalists, Corbett inscribes and essentializes their role as the dominated group that adopts the voice of the dominant group in order to seek legitimacy. Tan Dun and other Asian composers are seen as having adopted new forms of ‘Orientalism’ (in the experimental tradition of John Cage) by legitimizing the prevalent ‘East meets West’ mentality. While alluring in its intellectual claim, Corbett’s position needs to be framed within a broader examination of cultural agencies that have shaped the developments and reception of contemporary music across these geographic boundaries. The Orientalist paradigm has, indeed, persistently mystified the Westerner’s concept of the ‘East’ through its fictional constructions and interpretations of non-Western cultures since the late nineteenth century (Said 1979: 203).2 Even well over a hundred years later, the critical reception of Asian composers’ music in Western nations is marked by modes of representation that inscribe a dichotomy based on binary opposition (e.g. ‘East meets West’).3 In turn, I argue that the poetics (aesthetic ideologies) of interculturalism advanced by post-war Asian and Western composers demonstrate marked attempts at reconciling differences between or seeking a confluence across cultural traditions and norms. Western composers,

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notably John Cage, Lou Harrison, Olivier Messiaen, Karlheinz Stockhausen and others, have sought to integrate specific aesthetics, principles and/or sound systems derived from Asian traditions. In tandem with their Western counterparts, Asian composers such as Toshiro¯ Mayuzumi, To¯ru Takemitsu, Jo¯ji Yuasa, Chou Wen-Chung and Isang Yun have experimented with infusing Asian elements into their compositions. Their efforts, a reaction to those who have mechanically incorporated Asian materials from the pre-war era, signify a new aesthetic consciousness. In spite of the differences in intent and motivation, both groups of composers have striven to interpenetrate East Asian and Western musical resources according to their own sensibilities, aesthetic goals and ideological stances. As one case study, I examine the sociological, aesthetic and musictheoretical dimensions that have led to the importation of gagaku – the traditional court music of Japan – into the arena of Western art music4 in the course of twentieth-century Japan. In East Asia, Japan holds the longest history in its government-sanctioned adaptation of yo¯ gaku (Western art music) during the modern era, dating back to the beginning of the Meiji Restoration (1868–1912). From this point at which Western art music became institutionalized, the evolution of Japanese art music has witnessed distinct stages by which composers have re-evaluated and negotiated their aesthetic positions in relation to issues of modernization and national identity (Herd 1987; Galliano 2002). Western and Western-trained Japanese composers have turned to gagaku as an emblem of ancient Japanese culture and, at the same time, as a vehicle for creative exploration. This chapter proceeds with a brief historical overview of gagaku, its relationship to musical development in post-Meiji era Japan, and a discussion of interpretive criteria and analyses of selected post-war art music compositions that have reinterpreted gagaku in their various hybridized forms. In discussing the specific compositional strategies and techniques, I refer to the classification schemes for hybridized art forms established by musicologist Kiyoko Motegi and composer Makoto Shinohara. In concluding, I explore the effects of globalization and transculturalism upon the production and reception of art music in Japan and abroad, commenting on the diverging ideological perspectives towards cultural hybridization and the ‘situated differences’ (Appadurai 1996: 14–15) in the aesthetic positions undertaken by composers.

Historical development of gagaku Gagaku, itself, presents a hybridized art form that has gone through an evolution over the course of 14 centuries.5 Its origin is generally attributed to Mimashi, a Koreanized Chinese who introduced gigaku6 in AD 612 (Garfias 1975: 8). The greatest flow of materials came during the height of the Tang dynasty in the eighth century: this included enkyo¯ gaku from the Tang dynasty court entertainment music (yen-yueh), as well as sho¯ myo¯

178 Yayoi Uno Everett or Buddhist chant, rinyu¯-gaku of Vietnamese origin, and bokkai-gaku which the Indian priests brought back from Central Asia (Garfias 1975: 11–12).7 The profusion of musical types called for an extensive reform by the Emperor Saga and the Emperor Nimmyo¯: the expanding repertoire was systematized by greatly reducing the number of instruments and simplifying the available modes. The classification into to¯ gaku (gagaku of Chinese and Indian origins) and komagaku (gagaku of Korean origin) was also established in AD 833. By the ninth century, the gagaku tradition became isolated from its continental roots, as Japan stopped sending official envoys to China. The major documents that codified the various practices and repertories of gagaku include Kyo¯ kunsho¯ (1233), Taigensho¯ (1512), and Gakkaroku (1690) (Togi 1971: 6).8 Gagaku was given renewed prestige when the emperor was restored as the head of state at the beginning of the Meiji Restoration in 1868 (Garfias 1975: 77).9 In 1871, through the hybridization of four schools (Kyo¯to, Osaka, Nara, Imperial Court in Tokyo¯), the method of interpretation of the repertoire was standardized for the second time since the Heian period (794–1191).10 The modern classification of gagaku falls into three main genres: (1) kangen or instrumental music of to¯ gaku repertoires; (2) bugaku or dance music comprising of music from the left (to¯ gaku) and music from the right (komagaku); (3) vocal music (e.g. saibara, roei, imayo¯ ) that originated from the Heian period. The instruments are divided into three categories: the woodwind section consists of hichiriki (double-reed instrument), ryu¯teki (transverse flute) and sho¯ (mouth organ); the string section consists of gakuso¯ (zither) and biwa (lute); and percussion consists of various drums such as shoko, taiko, kakko (used only in kangen), san-no-tsuzumi (used only in komagaku), da-daiko and ¯o -shoko (used only in bugaku), and shakubyo¯ shi (clapper which is used only in the vocal genres) (Malm 1959). During the Meiji period, the Japanese government also conducted a nation-wide educational reform that led to the formulation of kokugaku (‘national music’) which included sanbika (hymns), sho¯ ka (choral music) and gunka (military songs); foreign tunes were often adapted or modified with Japanese lyrics (Tsukahara 2000: 28).11 Shu¯ji Izawa established the Music Study Committee (1878) and submitted a lengthy report on how composition of new pieces should blend Eastern and Western music in defining a new national identity. The gagaku musicians, directly connected with the Imperial Household, were chosen to be the first performers of Western music: they were placed in charge of creating the national anthem and sho¯ ka for the public school system and offering musical entertainment at the palace playing marches and polkas on one occasion and gagaku at another (Tsukahara 1998). While ho¯ gaku (traditional Japanese music)12 continued to prosper in the hands of practitioners of koto, shamisen, shakuhachi and the like for public entertainment and ritual performances, yo¯ gaku

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(Western art music) was adopted exclusively for educational reform in the public schools. As imperial support waned after the Second World War, the number of gagaku musicians employed at the court diminished from 200 to 26 musicians (Garfias 1975: 28).13 At present, their functions are divided into a fixed number of ceremonial and non-ceremonial performances, for example, Shinto ceremonies14 accompanied by various court festivals, public performances for broadcasting, and live performances held twice a year at the Imperial Palace; their non-ceremonial performances have included performances of newly composed works for gagaku at the National Theatre as well as tours within the US and Europe on multiple occasions since 1959.15

Evolution of Japanese art music in the twentieth century This government-sanctioned educational system of Western art music had a profound impact on the development of art music in Japan in the course of the twentieth century (Herd 1997: 1).16 Bonnie Wade describes this phenomenon in terms of an epistemological shift: ‘a Western idea of the specialist composer was embraced along with changing ideas about what constitutes musical creativity’ (Wade 2000: 4). Music conservatories were established that mandated composers to harmonize Japanese melodies using exclusively Western systems of composition (Waters 1994). As a result, the generic term for music (ongaku) came to be used almost exclusively to refer to Western classical music. Among various published studies, Luciana Galliano’s book on the history of yo¯ gaku offers by far the most comprehensive survey of the schools of composition that emerged in the course of the twentieth century (Galliano 2002). For the purpose of the present discussion, Figure 11.1 presents a simplified outline of representative yo¯ gaku composers and schools of composition that emerged; the diagram expands on Frederic Lieberman’s work, the first to compartmentalize the lineage of schools based on affiliation with a particular nationalistic trend (Lieberman 1965: 73). During the formative years of Japanese musical education, the prevailing influences were German or French. Rentaro¯ Taki, Kosaku Yamada and Saburo¯ Moroi went to study in Germany and wrote lieder, orchestral and operatic compositions in the first quarter of the twentieth century. A second lineage was established by Tomojiro¯ Ikenouchi, who had studied in France for nine years (1927–36), and became the first to translate several French music theory texts into Japanese. Ikenouchi and a group of composers who formed Promethe believed that there could be no correlation between traditional Japanese and contemporary Western music. By their critics, however, these composers were seen as escapists, in denial of their cultural

180 Yayoi Uno Everett French

German

1900

Yamada/Taki

1930

Ikenouchi

1940

Moroi, S. Irino Shibato

Promethe (Fukai, Abe, Yamada, Ogura)

Nationalist

Other

TCHEREPNIN Shinko¯ Sakkyokuka Renmei (Kiyose, Mitsukuri, Watanabe, Matsudaira)

TANSMAN

Shin Ongaku Renmei (Hayasaka, Ikufebe) Second World War Shinsei kai 1950 MESSIAEN

Mayuzumi Sannin

1960

Shinshin kai Maisumura

Yagi no kai (Hayashi, Mamiya, Toyama)

Dan

Akutagawa

no

kai Moroi, M.

Jikken Ko¯bo¯ Fukushima Yuasa Takemitsu etc.

ISCM

CAGE Ichiyanagi Takahashi Kondo¯ Jo¯ Shinohara Sato Ishii

1980

JEAN C. ELOY

K. STOCKHAUSEN

Noda Kanno Hosokawa Mamiya Nishimura

XEXAKIS

L. HARRISON CAGE

Kokusai gekijo¯ (National Theatre) commissions Direct influence Indirect influence

Figure 11.1 Representative yo¯gaku composers and schools

heritage in blindly adopting Western elements at the exclusion of indigenous practices (Heifetz 1984: 444).17 A third lineage, the nationalist18 composers, emerged in the 1930s as a reaction to Ikenouchi. Inspired by Alexander Tcherepnin, who taught in Japan around 1934, Yasuji Kiyose, Shu¯kichi Mitsukuri, Yoritsune Matsudaira and others founded Shinko¯ Sakkyokuka Renmei (1931) – the first organization to experiment vigorously with Japanese and Western fusion. Herd comments on how their efforts were not completely successful as ‘their nationalist styles were born from isolationism and a lack of knowledge of major international trends’ (Herd 1987: 70–2).19 After the war, this organization re-emerged as the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM). As Figure 11.1 clearly shows, in the pre-war years groups of foreigntrained composers actively formed schools or associations (ryu¯) to establish a lineage in the tradition of the iemoto system (a system which can be traced

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back to the Heian period, when aristocratic amateur musicians formed exclusive, guild-like groups). The ie (house) system is so ubiquitous in Japanese culture that it applies to all manner of traditional practices of the martial arts, ikebana, calligraphy and so forth: simultaneous membership in two schools or switching back and forth between schools is customarily prohibited. Conversely, influences of Western compositional methods on ho¯ gaku musicians led to the emergence of musicians like Michiyo Miyagi who abandoned the guild system to break new ground in expanding the repertoire and instrumental resources of the koto since 1920.20 In spite of governmental censorship and conformity, it is through continual contact with the West that Japanese composers learned to develop a more individualized aesthetic awareness. Paralleling the development of the autobiographical novel (shin sho¯ setsu), it signalled a move away from the aesthetics of representation to one of self-expression (Galliano 2002: 36). While new associations of this sort continued to spring up in the postwar era, the lineage system began to loosen and break down with a shift towards greater individualized orientations (this is indicated by broken vertical lines after 1950 in Figure 11.1). The Yagi no kai (Goat Group) composers, Fusao Hayashi, Michio Mamiya and Yu¯zo¯ Tomaya, continued to pursue new techniques for incorporating traditional music resources, for example, folk songs, with Western avant-garde idioms (Herd 1987: 101).21 The Sannin no kai (Three-member Group) was formed by Toshiro¯ Mayuzumi, Ikuma Dan and Yasushi Akutagawa – an association of composers that cut across all three lineages; driven by Western-style entrepreneurship, their sole objective became mutual aid in the promotion and performance of their music – an attitude that shocked the conservative guard of musicians. A new strain, called Jikken Ko¯bo¯ (the Experimental Workshop), was organized in Tokyo in 1949 by a group of composers, visual artists, performers, poets and engineers; members, who included To¯ru Takemitsu, Katsuhiro Yamaguchi, Hiroyoshi Suzuki, Kuniharu Akiyama and Joji Yuasa (from 1952), explored a variety of both Western and Japanese experimental styles, combining film, photography and poetry with taped and live music (Sumitomo 2000: 45). Most of these composers had received no systematic musical education and their independence of institutions allowed them to break from the obligation of continuing with their teachers’ styles (Herd 1987: 191).22 In this climate of rising individualism, Toshi Ichiyanagi emerged as one of the leading impresarios of contemporary music in Japan c.1960. As a pupil of Ikenouchi, he went to study at the Juilliard School with Vincent Perschetti, Lukas Foss and Aaron Copland. Influenced by John Cage, he experimented with indeterminate and graphic techniques in the 1960s, but he has also written music for traditional Japanese instruments, including works that incorporate gagaku instruments. By the 1970s and since then, the insular, lineage-based schools began to disintegrate and gave way to diverse, pluralistic compositional orientations.

182 Yayoi Uno Everett The foreign-trained composers who incorporated Western avant-garde idioms, like mathematical models of Xenakis (Yuji Takahashi), indeterminacy, minimalism ( Jo¯ Kondo¯) and electronic media (Makoto Shinohara), also began to embrace traditional Japanese musical aesthetics and to write for traditional instruments. Many Japanese composers, like Maki Ishii, Jo¯ji Yuasa and Makoto Shinohara, have resided abroad and taught at universities and other institutions on an extensive basis, carving out their transnational identities within the increasingly globalized terrain upon which contemporary music has been produced and disseminated. Another important trend was established through the commissions which have been granted by the Kokusai Gekijo¯ (National Theatre of Japan) since the 1970s. Through the efforts of its director, Toshiro¯ Kido, newly composed works were commissioned for ho¯ gaku, gagaku and reigaku 23 for traditional Japanese ensembles and Western instruments. Between 1970 and 1999, a total of 37 composers received such commissions. The commissions were granted not only to Japanese yo¯ gaku and ho¯ gaku composers, but Western composers such as Karlheinz Stockhausen, Jean Claude Eloy and Lou Harrison. According to Kido’s account, Stockhausen’s LICHTHikari-LIGHT for gagaku ensemble (1977) created such a sensation that it set a new trend towards commissions of newly composed works for traditional ensembles; a gagaku ensemble that specializes mainly in the performances of newly composed works, Tokyo¯ Gakuso¯ , was established as a result. Since its inception, more than 90 works have been composed for the performances at the National Theatre of Japan.

Re-contextualized gagaku: interpretive criteria and analysis of hybridized art forms The burgeoning repertoire of art music that hybridizes Japanese and Western musical idioms has led scholars and composers to explore various criteria for classification in recent years. Robin Heifetz, for instance, provides a criterion for classification based on synthesis of various genres (Heifetz 1984: 444). Heifetz’s classification shows the preponderance of compositions in the third category of synthesis that involves the simultaneous use of Western and Japanese instruments after 1960, yet without offering any specific insights into the various compositional strategies employed.24 A more genre-specific classification scheme is offered by Kiyoko Motegi, a musicologist who served as Kido’s assistant in organizing the commissions for the National Theatre. She chronicles the development of newly composed works for traditional Japanese instruments into four stages as shown below: 1

works written by ho¯ gaku musicians based on traditional ho¯ gaku techniques;

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2 3 4

works freely conceived by ho¯ gaku musicians on traditional instruments; works created by yo¯ gaku composers who employ Western techniques onto traditional ensembles; works by yo¯ gaku composers who utilize techniques of traditional instruments in experimenting with their own ideas about Japanese cultural identity. (Motegi 1999: 28)

She attributes Stages 1 and 2 to Miyagi Michio, who headed the Shin Nihon Ongaku (‘New Japanese Music’) movement25 in adapting Western methods of composition for ho¯ gaku instruments in the 1920s. Stage 3 emerged in the 1930s and is characterized by transference of Western instrumental techniques onto Japanese instruments; works in this category were numerous until the 1970s and typically employed rhythmic and melodic styles not to be found in traditional music. Last, Stage 4 emerged only after 1980 and the works belonging to this category have expanded the boundaries of conventional techniques in demonstrating an awareness of the cultural identity of Japanese music in its relation to other Asian musical practices (Motegi 1999: 28). Motegi also comments on the Kokusai Gekijo¯ commissions for: (1) reviving the use of musical instruments that have been extinct for centuries; (2) redefining the function of genres previously associated with religious rituals as autonomous musical art forms; and (3) redirecting yo¯ gaku composers’ interest in writing for traditional instruments, a new trend that was established by their commissions. Makoto Shinohara, a Japanese composer who divides his place of residence between Japan and the Netherlands, offers a third system of classification. In an article where he theorizes on the issues of cultural fusion (Shinohara 1995), he offers the following classification scheme: 1 2 3 4 5

Western system of composition that is adopted by traditional Japanese composers writing for Japanese instruments (e.g. Michio Miyagi); Western-trained composers who adopt traditional Japanese musical forms and genres for Western instruments (e.g. Yoritsune Matsudaira); Japanese composers trained in traditional music who adopt Japanese musical forms and systems for Western instruments; Western or Western-trained composers using Western compositional techniques in writing for Japanese instruments; composing for mixed ensembles of Japanese and Western instruments.

Shinohara acknowledges, as Motegi does, the newly invented ho¯ gaku repertoire written by ho¯ gaku musicians/composers as signalling the earliest adaptation of a Western method of composition to traditional genres and discusses how this trend has continued to prosper into the present. The second category is limited to a few composers like Matsudaira who is Western-trained, but has applied extensive knowledge of traditional

184 Yayoi Uno Everett Japanese musical genres in writing for Western instruments. Interestingly enough, the third category, composers trained exclusively in ho¯ gaku orienting towards writing for Western instruments, is no longer in practice – although this is exactly what gagaku musicians did during the Meiji era. In contrast, he comments on how the fourth category of ‘Westernizing’ repertoire and performance techniques for traditional ho¯ gaku instruments (ko¯ to, shamisen, biwa and so forth) has become enormously popular in the post-war era (e.g. adaptation of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons for ko¯ to ensemble). The fifth category presents by far the greatest challenge: combining instruments of both Western and Japanese ensembles in mixed settings in such a way that the compatible elements of cultural resources are explored and brought to the foreground. In the rest of the essay, Shinohara further explores the issues of compatibility and fusion of cultural resources by comparing the traditional Japanese and contemporary Western musical approaches toward the organization of tempo, rhythm, timbre, melody and harmony. The discussion will now turn to several post-war compositions that have re-contextualized the musical structures and idioms of gagaku in different manners. Here, I invoke the term, re-contextualization, as a generalized technique for transferring and/or transforming the resources of gagaku into a hybridized musical form based on Western notation.26 First, Example 11.1a shows my transcription of a popular piece from the kangen repertoire called Etenraku performed by the Imperial Court Gagaku Ensemble.27 While the piece is most commonly performed in hyo¯ jo¯ (one of the six modes with a pitch centre on E), this particular performance is based on banshiki-cho¯ , with the pitch centre on B. The scale for this mode and its cosmological symbols are illustrated above the transcription. The main piece is always preceded by a prelude (netori ) – quasi-improvisatory music in free rhythm that establishes the mode. The piece typically begins with a ryu¯teki solo accompanied by percussion. It proceeds in a fast four-beat structure and consists roughly of four textural strata. The sho¯ (mouth organ) typically sustains a chord as an upper ostinato (layer #1), while the hichiriki and ryu¯teki unfold the principle melodic line (layer #2). The three drums articulate a rhythmic pattern that recurs every four measures (layer #3), while the so¯ and biwa enter with a rhythmic and melodic pattern that stresses the structural notes of the mode. A technique called embai (micro-tonal bending of pitches) is typically applied to the hichiriki and ryu¯teki, creating a clash of pitches around the embellished G and the stable tone, G
, found in the so¯ , for instance, at bar 13. In transcribing the music to Western notation, the music fits conveniently to 4/4 metric structure, although a slight temporal lag accompanies the notes falling on the downbeat of each measure due to the individual variations in breath-rhythm used to co-ordinate entries. An early work by Yoritsune Matsudaira re-contextualizes the melody of Etenraku for two pianos in his Theme and Variations on Etenraku (1951). In composing out the theme, the melody of the piano version literally follows

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the ryu¯teki line (layer #2) from the transcription shown in Example 11.1a, yet stripped of the embai technique that creates the characteristic microtonal bending of pitches around G. The rhythmic pattern in the left hand parallels the so¯ part, with harmonization that derives from the stable tones (F
, C
, B) of the banshiki-cho¯ . In writing Variation III, he derives a 12tone row out of the first four notes of the ryu¯teki melody. In analysing the interval contour of the first tetrachord as , one can trace how the subsequent tetrachords are derived from the first by retrograde and inversion as shown in Example 11.1b. In Variation III, the right and left hands present the row against its inversion in steady eight-note rhythm, interlocked at an interval of a semitone (the upper row begins on G and the lower row begins on G
). The accompanying chords are derived from the tetrachords that make up the twelve-tone row. The result is a fast, etude-like procession of notes in perpetuum mobile in which context the reference to the Etenraku melody is completely obliterated. Subsequent to this early ‘structuralist’ experiment, Matsudaira has evolved a sophisticated system of integrating gagaku idioms with Western dodecaphonic techniques (Klein 1998). His highly individualized aesthetic stance is made evident by his poetics for merging gagaku and serialism: If I use gagaku and serialism, it is only to foster my own ‘individual’ style. What is ‘Japanese’ in my music has not been intended as such, it is only a byproduct of my search for individuality. . . . Gagaku also has very rich historical connotations, of course. It has been the music of the Imperial court. Its social overtones are again very strong. But, for me at least, these overtones are emotion free. Gagaku is, so to speak, a very sophisticated ‘ornament’ of courtly like, and has therefore an abstract nature. . . . As a consequence, gagaku has become for us abstract sounds very elaborately structured. (Benitez and Kondo¯ 1998: 95) Matsudaira had also befriended Olivier Messiaen who has visited Japan on several occasions (Benitez and Kondo¯ 1998: 15).28 Example 11.2 shows the opening of the fourth movement from Messiaen’s Sept Haïkaï (1962), called Gagaku, inspired by his exposure to traditional Japanese music during these visits. Wind, brass and string instruments demarcate textural blocks that simulate the layering of instruments found in typical kangen repertoire: strings sustain blocks of chords in the upper register to simulate the sound and texture of sho¯ , whereas trumpets and other woodwinds imitate the sounds of hichiriki and ryu¯teki, and percussion fulfil the roles of taiko and kakko. Even the form of the entire movement simulates the formal sectional symmetry found in kangen pieces like Etenraku. The independence of layers combined with the slow and serene tempo evokes the atmosphere of kangen repertoire without literal forms of borrowing. Nonetheless, the pitch and rhythmic structures are regulated by Messiaen’s

186 Yayoi Uno Everett Mode:

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w = main tones œ = variable tones

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‘Mirrors’ of West and ‘mirrors’ of East 187 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 4 45111

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188 Yayoi Uno Everett Serialization of the Etenraku melody

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serial techniques, characteristic of his orchestral works since Turangalîla Symphonie (1949). The titles of the other movements reveal that the work was conceived as a series of musical vignettes based on his impression of Japanese landscape and bird songs. In exploring his aesthetic stance towards merging stylistic idoms of Japanese and Western music, To¯ru Takemitsu introduces the concept of ‘mirror’ as a central metaphor: he discusses how he began composing by projecting his musical voice upon the giant Western ‘mirror’, then in discovering other cultural ‘mirrors’, allowed the various reflections of such mirrors to come together.29 He has also repeatedly spoken against the superficial merging of Western and non-Western musical practices. Example 11.3 shows an excerpt from To¯ru Takemitsu’s Shu¯teiga: In an Autumn Garden (1973–6) for gagaku ensemble.30 In contrast to Matsudaira, a consummate modernist who saw gagaku as an abstract structure, Takemitsu saw gagaku as a self-contained, complete musical system of expression whose essence should not be altered. Of course, gagaku is a solid musical form and I do not believe that there are things which need to be added to its original expressive qualities as merely an attempt or tool for one composer’s inquiry, besides which the difficulties in such activity are beyond imagination. But even though it was too great for my own abilities, I was unable to discard the idea of using such fascinating material as a mirror into which I could reflect myself. (Takemitsu 1980) As a result, Takemitsu’s Shu¯teiga represents a composition that extends the symbolic and musical aspects of gagaku in its evocation of nature and sounds in nature. First, he distributed four different gagaku ensembles in semicircular space to allow antiphonal response and dialogue between groups of ensembles to take place. Shu¯teiga, the fourth movement, involves a

‘Mirrors’ of West and ‘mirrors’ of East 189 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 4 45111

dialogue between the main ensemble A (centre stage) and group A′ (tree spirits 1) placed at the back of the stage. At the beginning of the movement, ryu¯teki from Group A′ enters alone with sho¯ accompaniment in hyo¯ jo mode – one that carries the cosmological symbol of Autumn.31 The writing for the ryu¯teki preserves the traditional technique of embai (ornamentation) and heterophonic interaction with komabue which follows. The middle section features aleatoric interaction between both groups, where blocks of instruments engage in rhythmically free repetition of given motives, creating a cacophonic web of intersecting layers. The final section (reh. P), as shown in Example 11.3, brings the two ensembles, A and A′, in synchrony and re-institutes the constancy of beats in the percussion parts. Notice how the principal melody carried by komabue and ryu¯teki in Group A is echoed canonically by the paired ryu¯teki parts in Group A′ that enter two beats later. The movement ends with a coda of gradual decay in sonorous forces (typical closing gesture in kangen repertoire). Between 1973 and 1979, Takemitsu expanded the piece into a six-movement suite entitled Shu¯teiga Ichigu (complete version).32 Last, Example 11.4 shows a more contemporary example of syncretization technique. Makoto Shinohara’s Yumeji (1992) represents an adaptation of collage techniques and block juxtaposition, whose textures recall the sound mass compositions of Karlheinz Stockhausen, Witold Lutoslawski and other avant-garde European styles. Western and Japanese instruments delineate distinct blocks of texture of which gestures intertwine in interesting ways: the slow ascending glissandi in the strings (reh. 1) lead to the entrance of gagaku instruments: komabue enters, accompanied by hichiricki and sho¯ at reh. 2. Explicit allusion to traditional gagaku gestures (e.g. the melodic pattern in the ryu¯teki, percussion roll, formulaic pattern in the biwa and so forth) gives way to subtle and gradual disintegration of gagaku gestures through infusion of added dissonances. Beginning reh. 3, the gagaku melody is muddled through the entrance of clarinet, trumpet and tuba. The chorus then enters for two measures, reciting a folk-like melody on the words, ‘beautiful’ and ‘noble’. The brief choral entry is followed by the tutti entrance of instrumental ensembles that sustains a chordal derived from a standard sho¯ harmony. Shinohara’s work not only subtly integrates the resources of gagaku with contemporary Western idioms, he strategically blurs the sonic boundaries between the Japanese and Western ensembles at points of transition where the timbral and gestural characteristics of instruments overlap. The work proceeds in a series of allusion followed by disintegration, melding sonic images one after another in a stream of dream-like consciousness.

Further considerations: erosion of cultural boundaries The present study offers only a glimpse into the complex range of styles, strategies and aesthetic intentions that accompanies post-war art composition

190 Yayoi Uno Everett Lento e = 50

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‘Mirrors’ of West and ‘mirrors’ of East 191 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 4 45111

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192 Yayoi Uno Everett ..

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Example 11.3 To¯ru Takemitsu, In an Autumn Garden (1973) Source: To¯ru Takemitsu’s In an Autumn Garden © 1992 Schott Japan Company Ltd. Reproduced by kind permission.

‘Mirrors’ of West and ‘mirrors’ of East 193 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 4 45111

in merging the musical resources of gagaku with contemporary Western music. The newly invented traditions of Korean Ch’angjak Kugak or Samulnori inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour through repetition (Hobsbawm 1983). In a similar sense, newly commissioned works by the National Theatre of Japan for gagaku, reigaku and sho¯ myo ushered in new standards of performance practice, formation of ensemble and expansion of repertoire.33 Whether composed for Western or Japanese instruments, these compositions follow the time-honoured Western tradition of composers having their music published and disseminated in written form, performed in concert halls, and evaluated by music critics and academicians (Nettl 1985: 5).34 As the boundaries between yangak (Western musicoriented) and kugak (traditional Korean music-oriented) composers in Korea since the 1970s (Chae 1998: 302), the emergence of increasingly sophisticated use of technology has led to new forms of experimentation in blurring the line between ho¯ gaku and yo¯ gaku since the 1980s. Take, for instance, Toshio Hosokawa’s Tokyo 1985 in which gagaku instruments are accompanied by electronic music in a continually evolving collage; the second part features an arrangement and variations of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ for gagaku ensemble, interrupted by sounds of television broadcast and radio. From a broader sociological perspective, hybridized art forms, as such, mirror the globalized cultural conditions that have brought non-native and indigenous elements into disparate juxtaposition in Asian countries. It also means that, from the other side of the coin, the dichotomies based on self and Other, fin-de-siècle codes of musical exoticism do not provide a suitable model that ‘mirrors’ the attitudes of Asians towards cross-cultural fusion. In the case of Japan, where Western music has been absorbed and domesticated for over a century, native composers tend to perceive traditional music as a resource like any other cultural resources; thus it would not do justice to claim (as Corbett does) that Western-trained Asian composers inversely ‘exoticize’ traditional Asian elements as the Other. Motegi’s description that the trend since the 1980s embraces ‘an awareness of the cultural identity of Japanese music in terms of its relationships with Asia and neighbouring countries’ speaks to an attitude of Utopian (pan-Asianistic) syncretism rather than ‘neo-Orientalism’ (Motegi 1999: 28). Most significantly, post-war composers’ individualized approaches to merging cultural resources should be distinguished from those of their ‘exotic’ prototypes. Works from the early twentieth century tend to appropriate exotic elements from non-Western culture, for example, Ravel’s Shéhérazade (1913) in which the borrowed elements are subsumed within a predominant musical language. In contrast, post-war Asian composers’ poetics reflects a desire to interpenetrate musical idioms and styles that are equal in weight and force. Their efforts typify the ‘intentional’ kind of hybridity that Bakhtin describes as follows:

194 Yayoi Uno Everett 1

3

q = 51 Fue 1

&

Hi 1

&

Sho- 1

&

2

&

Ryu-

3

q

q rit.

9 10

11 12

Va 1 2

3 4

5 6

Vc 1 2

¤

¤

¤



¤

¤

¤

¤

<Eo>

¤

¤

¤

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<Eo>

¤

¤

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&

& B Ó B

# œ œr   ⁄cresc. ¤ Ó

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5

r  r       5

5

3

3

5

3

3

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5

rr œ   nœ

5

3

3

3

3

  œ œ

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

œ œœ J ∆R

F

3

3

œ >œ . œ œ Œ J 3

¤ ˘ ˘ Ω ˘ Ó ˘ Ó

˘ P ˘ ˘ p ˘ ˘

w

w p w

P dim. w P dim. cresc. œ w #œ   œ .   . #œ J P dim. p cresc. # œ . #œ   n œ œ   œ . w P dim.

p w p w

bœ Œ R

5

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5

#œ

Œ

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3

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j j j œ œ   bœ   œ   œ #œ   b œ œ bœ 3

˘

3

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bœ #œ œ bœ

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5

p   œR Œ R

8>

#œ #œ. 5

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? bœ #œ . œ # œ œ œ   œ œ ⁄cresc. r ?     # œRŒ œ #œ   R ⁄cresc. j j ? j jj j j #œ œ n œ   bœ #œ œ # œ b œ   nœ œ   œ ⁄cresc. 5

5

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q = 51

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Vn 7-12, Va, Db: with mute, sul tasta, legato, continuous gliss., with constant speed Vn 7 8

2 4

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j œ   j   nœ

3

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Komabue/hichiriki/sho entries

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Fue 1

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2 <Eo>

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7-8 Vn 9-10 11-12 1-2 Va 3-4 5-6 Vc1-2 3-4 Dbs 1-2

&

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w B ww ? # # ww #w

Example 11.4 Makoto Shinohara, Yumeji for Japanese and Western instruments and mixed chorus (1992)

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3

Fue 1

2

Shaku 1

Hi 1

Sho- 1 (Eo)

2

Cl 1

Bn 1

Trp 1

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Tub.

4

4

5

2

5

2

2

7

3

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q = 47

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j œ ‡ Ó. F

Jushichi

Vc 1-2 3-4 Dbs 1-2

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rit-poco.

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?

3

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Cho

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Œ

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∫(dampen)

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legato

Women 1-8

legato Men 1-8

œœ œ & J ‡ Ó. ⁄ œ B œœ ‡ Ó . J ⁄ j ? # œœ ‡ Ó . #œ ⁄ Koto entry

pj bœ 8

ke -

da - ka - ku

j œ bœ œ.bœ œ.b œ œ P œ œœ n œ œ œ œJ œ œJ œJ n œ . u - tsu ku-shi ku P

Va 1, 2: without mute

Vc 1, 2: without mute

chorus entry

Source: Makoto Shinohara’s Yumeji © 1993 by Zen-On Music Company Ltd, Tokyo, Japan, is reprinted with permission by Zen-On Music Company Ltd.

196 Yayoi Uno Everett The artistic image of a language must by its very nature be a linguistic hybrid (an intentional hybrid): it is obligatory for two linguistic consciousnesses to be present, the one being represented and the other doing the representing, with each belonging to a different system of language. Indeed, if there is not a second representing consciousness . . . then what results is not an image [obraz] of language but merely a sample [obrazec] of some other person’s language, whether authentic or fabricated. (Bakhtin 1981: 359) In their re-contextualized form, elements of gagaku serve as iconic or symbolic manifestation of the metaphysical speculation that underlies the composer’s individualized aesthetic aim, be this ‘structural’ abstraction in the case of Matsudaira, ‘nature symbolism’ in the case of Takemitsu, or ‘nostalgia’ in the case of Shinohara. Moreover, as composers seek a transcultural identity, their styles and orientation can no longer be stereotyped on the basis of their ethnicity alone. In the cases examined, Messiaen and Matsudaira both see gagaku as a neutral, abstract musical entity that can be freely merged with the Western dodecaphonic idiom, casting their sonic imprints upon the ‘mirror’ of Western modernism. For Takemitsu, Shinohara and others, their creative energies have been unleashed through their search for points of compatibility between Japanese and Western musics – the intricate reflections and resonance within the cultural ‘mirrors’ to which they have cast their sonic imprints. As Chou Wen-Chung speaks of ‘re-merger’ of musical traditions, their poetics rest on the notion that musical idioms of the East and the contemporary West can be merged into a hybrid entity based on points of affinity as well as on their differences. Nonetheless, the critical reception of hybridized art forms – what the music represents to the audience and the values they project upon it – remains specific to localized cultural contexts and the authorial voice of its cultural representative. It cannot be denied that Corbett’s neoOrientalist claim holds validity in Europe and North America as the reception of Asian composers’ music continues to be evaluated on the basis of exotic signifiers familiar to a Western audience (Griffiths 2000).35 An extreme point of view is presented by Pierre Boulez who, in ‘Traditional Music – A Lost Paradise?’, suggests that the music of Asia has reached a state of perfection and, therefore, it is dead (Boulez 1967). In either case, such responses are couched within Eurocentric aesthetic positions that perpetuate a ‘frozen’ view of Asian music. It is also important to note that the politics of reception becomes more polarized when gagaku (which represents ‘high’ art) crosses over to vernacular musical genres, like pop music, for commercial commodification. The New York Times has recently featured an article describing a former imperial court musician, Hideki Togi (a descendant of Imperial gagaku court

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musicians who date back to the eighth century), who has achieved great commercial acclaim in his fusion of gagaku with New Age music: his activities, nonetheless, have been publicly criticized by the Imperial Household and remain highly controversial (Sims 1999). To a conservative guard of musicians and audience, the transference of art music from ‘highbrow’ to ‘lowbrow’ genres has elicited a great deal of friction, while the practice of re-contextualizing gagaku elements onto Western art music is a convention that echoes the principle dating back to the Meiji Restoration. The different social codes that surround the musical practices of culture contribute to what Arjun Appadurai calls ‘situated differences’ that shape the reception of hybridized art music: the composer’s aesthetic ideology for ‘crossing’ cultures may occupy a distinct position from the mediascape (production and dissemination of information), ethnoscape (ethnicity of people who constitute the shifting musical world), and ideoscape (social codes and values associated with music) that shape the reception of such works (Appadurai 1996: 33). The localized, embodied meaning and references one attributes to a musical product, indeed, depend on the situated differences in the cultural attitude of the observer.36 The re-examination of Orientalist rhetoric in the context of this study reinforces the presuppositions that: (1) inscribe the object of the study within the insider/outsider dichotomy; (2) inhere asymmetrical power relation between cultures in contact; and (3) perpetuate the anachronistic, ‘frozen’ view of the state of Asian music. As such stereotypical representations are questioned and confronted, it is hoped that a more comprehensive account of the social forces and human agencies that contribute to the disjuncture and erosion of cultural boundaries in postwar musical trends can be addressed.

Glossary of terms

198 Yayoi Uno Everett

Notes 1

For Said, Orientalism was the academic study of ‘the East’; it was also, more broadly, the attempt by various writers (including Aeschylus, Dante, Hugo, and Marx) to engage with and understand ‘Eastern’ cultures. Above all it was a discourse, in the Foucauldian sense, which, through the complicity of knowledge systems, politics, and government, not only constructed but was instrumental in administering and subjugating ‘the Orient’. (Born and Hesmondhalgh 2000: 4)

2 Independent of any particularities of geography or language or culture, the Orient stood as a collection of knowledges of the East, which, especially in the nineteenth century, came to be regarded as authoritative and ‘natural’. Orientalism is a school of interpretation of which the material happens to be the Orient, its civilizations, peoples and localities. 3 For instance, see Paul Griffiths (2000); Bernard Holland (2001). 4 Western art music generally refers to composed music (classical and contemporary) performed within concert halls affiliated with universities, colleges and metropolitan centres of European, American and, more recently, East Asian countries. 5 The Chinese characters for the word gagaku are pronounced ‘a-ak’ in Korean and ‘ya-yueh’ in Chinese. 6 Gigaku consists of several masked dances and mimed sequences using Buddhist elements which were long maintained at the Korean court. Controversy over the origin of gigaku is discussed by Ortolani (1995: 35). 7 Ch’ang-an, the capital during the Sui (589–618) and Tang dynasties (618–907) had a cosmopolitan air. During this period, there were three main types of foreign music: ‘Western music’ included Indian music and music of Samarkand, of Bokhara, of Kashgar and of Turkestan, the last three being ancient nations

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8 9 10 11

12

13 14

15 16

17 18 19 20

located in Central Asia; ‘Southern music’ included Burmese music, Cambodian music and the music of Funan (an ancient pre-Khmer kingdom in Southeast Asia); and ‘Eastern music’ included music from the three ancient states of Korea (Paekche, Koguryô and Silla), and from Japan. Bokkai-gaku was music from a country (P’o-hai) situated in the region of northern Korea and Manchuria (Garfias 1975: 11–12). For more detailed research on the development of to¯gaku between the Heian and Kamakura periods, see Terauchi (1996). The early Meiji period, with its renewed prestige of the Imperial line, virile nationalism, and re-evaluation of Shintoism as an aspect of national thought . . . gave gagaku a brief age of brilliance (Garfias 1975: 77). Also, a new sho¯ga system (mnemonic system, phonetic system to be vocalized) was devised that would clearly indicate which interpretation is required. Kohei Kanda, who theorized on composing kokugaku (‘national music’) in 1974, suggested the adoption of Western staff notation and the recomposition of Chinese and Western tunes with Japanese lyrics. For instance, the melodic material for the Scottish folk tune, Auld Lang Syne, was recomposed into the school song, Hotaru no Hikari, which is typically sung at graduation ceremonies. The term ho¯gaku has various denotations, one of which is the traditional music genres that include the music of the no¯ theatre, biwa music, nagauta shamisen narrative singing, koto, shakuhachi and so forth. However, the abrogation of state support for the traditional musicians’ guild took place in 1871. Many musicians left the imperial palace to seek employment elsewhere as players of Western music. Shinto¯ literally means ‘the way of the gods’: it is an indigenous religion in Japan, characterized by the veneration of nature spirits and ancestors. The Shinto¯ ceremonial performances are divided into Taisai, Chu¯sai and Sho¯sai. Taisai includes the observance of the anniversary of the death of Emperor Taisho¯, the anniversary of the founding of the Japanese nation in mythological times, the celebration of new harvest, and honouring of other deceased emperors at their collective shrine at the Imperial Palace (Garfias 1975: 29–30). According to the Imperial Household Agency, the gagaku ensemble has performed 33 times in seven cities within the US since 1959, and staged more than 20 performances all over Europe during the 1970s. Judith Herd (1997) depicts the transformation of contemporary Japanese art music tradition as divided into three stages: (1) the borrowing stage (wholesale adoption of Western musical styles with little variation to the original); (2) re-evaluation stage (reaction to the indiscriminate borrowing and copying of Western music from the 1930s onward); and (3) re-invention (re-inventing Japanese music through deeper absorption of both Western and Japanese musical practices in the post-war era). It is also notable that ‘Ikenouchi insisted that the traditional Japanese musical genres had attained the highest degree of excellence over several hundred years of evolution . . . and could not possibly be improved’ (Heifetz 1984: 444). The reference to ‘nationalist’ here is indicative of the composers’ aesthetic ideology and commitment to preserving their cultural heritage (minzoku-shugi) rather than political affiliation or ideology (kokumin-shugi ). This movement only lasted until the outbreak of the Pacific War in 1942, as the members were threatened by ultranationalist reactionaries who would censor any music that did not fit their narrowly defined role of music. Miyagi led the New Japanese Music (Shin Nihon Ongakui) movement and experimented with expanding the instrumental resources of the koto, for instance, by building a 17-string koto that extends the bass register.

200 Yayoi Uno Everett 21 Yagi no Kai members believed that: it was a natural development in the quest for national identity to adapt Japanese folksongs and the structure and elements found in traditional music to their art music . . . They did not stop at simply adapting folksongs or other traditional musical motives for their compositions, but also used the resources of literature, politics, folklore and daily life to create a new music parallel to contemporary Eastern European composers. (Herd 1987: 101) 22 ‘Composers who affiliated with the group, for the most part, received no systematic musical education, but many like Takemitsu studied privately with pre-war musicians Kiyose Yasuji, Hayasaka Fumio and Matsudaira Yoritsune’ (ibid.). 23 Reigaku is a new term assigned to newly composed works that were composed for the purpose of reviving musical practices of historically extinct instruments from the Sho¯soin. Lou Harrison, for instance, wrote a work for haisho¯ (panpipes) and percussion in 1993. 24 Heifetz’s classification is as follows: (1) synthesis with Western instrumental and vocal media (Matsudaira, Mamiya, Mayuzumi, Fukushima, Takemitsu); (2) synthesis with Japanese instrumental and vocal media (M. Moroi); (3) synthesis involving simultaneous use of Western and Japanese instruments (Takemitsu); (4) synthesis involving mixed-media (Masamoto, M. Moroi, Shibata) (Heifetz 1984). 25 Shin Nihon Ongaku is ‘a movement which, mainly in the 1920s and 1930s, attempted to modernize traditional Japanese music by Westernization. New pieces for educational purposes were made; new orchestrational techniques and Western harmony were introduced. Innovations on the traditional musical instruments were also made to comply with these purposes’ (Motegi 1999: 101). 26 Traditional notation for gagaku is based on part books for individual instruments. Here, I provide a descriptive transcription using Western notation following Shiba (1971). 27 Also see Traditional Sound of Japan: ‘Etenraku’ in Three Different Modes, performed by the Imperial Court Gagaku Ensemble and published by Columbia in 1991. 28 Messiaen’s birthday greeting (1992) to Matsudaira reads as follows: I have known you for over forty years. Its refined harmonies and rhythms, together with its colorful poetry have made you one of the most important figures in music this century. Neither can I forget your admirable transcriptions of all the heritage of Japanese music from centuries past. I am moved when I remember the time that we were together, thanks to you, at the Emperor’s Palace, to listen to these unforgettable musics. (Benitez and Kondo¯ 1998: 15) 29 In a collection of essays called Ki no kagami, Sogen no kagami (Mirror of Trees, Mirror of Grass), Western music symbolizes the ‘mirror’ of trees (for its emphasis on individuality) and Eastern music, the ‘mirror’ of grass (for its emphasis on collectivity). 30 Shu¯teiga is the fourth movement within a palindromic formal arrangement of movements that proceed from: (1) Strophe; (2) Echo I; (3) Melisama; (4) In an Autumn Garden; (5) Echo II; (6) Antistrophe. This arrangement and the use of terminology (e.g. Strophe) are, somewhat ironically, related to Messiaen’s Sept Haïkaï. 31 Hyo¯jo mode, centred on the pitch E, carries the following cosmological symbols: west (direction); autumn (season); white (colour); gold (element); and lungs (bodily function). 32 For the complete explanation of the six-movement suite, refer to Akiyama’s essay on Takemitsu in Kido (1990: 93–104).

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33 ‘Invented tradition’, according to Hobsbawm: is taken to mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past. In fact, where possible, they normally attempt to establish continuity with a suitable historic past. A striking example is the deliberate choice of a Gothic style for the nineteenth century rebuilding of the British parliament. . . . (1983: 1–2) 34 The basic traits of Western art music are defined by Bruno Nettl (1985: 5) as follows: (1) music is carefully composed and meticulously rehearsed; (2) radical innovation in musical content or style in composition is allowed; and (3) conception of music is autonomous of other domains of culture bound by social and ritualistic constraints. 35 For instance, in his review of a Carnegie Hall concert ‘Pacifika’, in the New York Times, Paul Griffiths (2000) commented somewhat bluntly that ‘Lou Harrison’s Concerto was the most Asian-sounding piece on the entire program’, disregarding the subtle techniques by which Asian resources were transformed in the works by Chinary Ung, P.Q. Phan and others. 36 For a more comprehensive account of the reception of East Asian composers’ music, see Everett and Lau (2004).

References Appadurai, Arjun (1996) Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization, Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Bakhtin, Mikhail Mikhailovich (1981) The Dialogic Imagination, edited by Michael Holquist, Austin: University of Texas Press. Benitez, Joachim M. and Kondo¯, Jo¯ (1998) ‘Gagaku and Serialism: A Portrait of Matsudaira Yoritsune’, Contemporary Music Review, 17/4: 87–96. Born, Georgina and Hesmondhalgh, David (eds) (2000) Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music, Berkeley: University of California Press. Boulez, Pierre (1967) ‘Traditional Music – A Lost Paradise?’ The World of Music, IX/2: 3–10. Chae, Hyun-kyung (1998) ‘Ch’angjak Kugak: Making Korean Music Korean’, Tongyang Umak, Seoul: Seoul National University, pp. 289–310. Corbett, John (2000) ‘Experimental Oriental: New Music and Other Others’, in Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh (eds) Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music, Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 163–86. Everett, Yayoi Uno and Lau, Frederick (eds) (2004) Locating East Asia in Western Music, Middlebury, CN: Wesleyan University Press. Galliano, Luciana (2002) Yo¯gagku: Japanese Music in the Twentieth Century, translated by Martin Mayes, Lanham: The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Garfias, Robert (1975) Music of a Thousand Autumns: The To¯gaku Style of Japanese Court Music, Berkeley: The University of California Press. Griffiths, Paul (2000) ‘Pacifica: The Pulse, Dreams and Reserve of the East’, New York Times, 17 October 2000. Available from http://www.nytimes.com/2000/10/ 17/arts/17CARN.html

202 Yayoi Uno Everett Heifetz, Robin J. (1984) ‘East–West Synthesis in Japanese Composition: 1950–1970’, Journal of Musicology: 443–55. Herd, Judith Ann (1987) ‘Change and Continuity in Contemporary Japanese Music: A Search for a National Identity’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Brown University. –––– (1997) ‘Transnationalism and the Case of Western Music in Japan’, a paper delivered at the International Musicological Society, London, 1–4 August. Hobsbawm, Eric (1983) ‘Introduction: Inventing Traditions’, in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds) The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–14. Holland, Bernard (2001) ‘In the Fusion of Eastern and Western Music, A Lot Can Be Lost in Translation’, New York Times, 5 June. Kido, Toshiro¯ (1990) Reigaku, Tokyo: Ongaku-no-tomo. Klein, Rolf (1998) ‘Aspects of Some Recent Works by Matsudaira Yoritsune’, Contemporary Music Review, 17/4: 33–84. Lieberman, Frederic (1965) ‘Contemporary Japanese Composition: Its Relationship to Concepts of Traditional Oriental Musics’, unpublished M.A. dissertation, University of Hawai’i. Malm, William P. (1959) Japanese Music & Musical Instruments, Vermont and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle Company. Motegi, Kiyoko (1999) ‘The Creation of Tradition at the National Theatre of Japan: A Descriptive Documentation’, in Contemporary Japanese Music, vol. 1, Tokyo: Shunju¯nsha Edition. Nettl, Bruno (1985) The Western Impact on World Music: Change, Adaptation, and Survival, New York: Schirmer Books. Ortolani, Benito (1995) The Japanese Theatre: From Shamanistic Ritual to Contemporary Pluralism, revised edition, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Said, Edward (1979) Orientalism, New York: Vintage Books. Shiba, Sukehiro (1971) Gosenfu ni yoru Gagakuso¯fu, vol. 3, Tokyo: Kawaigakufu. Shinohara, Makoto (1995) ‘Wayo¯ no yu¯go ni yoru atarachii ongaku no so¯zo ni tsuite’, Seitoku University Research Publications. Also, ‘Zusammenarbeit: Eine neue integrative Musik aus japanischen und europäischen Ursprüngen’, German translation by Ilse Reuter, MusikTexte: Zeitschrift für Neue Musik, 59/June: 21–9. Sims, Calvin (1999) ‘Arts Abroad: Ex-Court Musician Now Courts the Japanese Public’, New York Times, 16 September. Sumitomo, Fumihiko (2000) ‘Jikken ko¯bo¯ to tekunoloji’, Ex Musica, 9/2: 45–52. Takemitsu, Toru (1980) ‘Thoughts about “In an Autumn Garden” ’, in compact disc liner notes to In an Autumn Garden, translated by Richard Emmert, Varèse Sarabande: VCD 47213. Terauchi, Naoko (1996) Gagaku no Rhythmko¯zo¯ (Rhythmic Structure of To¯gaku during the Heian-era), Tokyo: Daiichishobo¯. Togi, Hideki (2000) Gagaku, Tokyo: Shu¯ei-sha. Togi, Masataro (1971) Gagaku: Court Music and Dance, translated by Don Kenny, New York and Tokyo: Walker and Weatherhill. Tokumaru, Yoshiko (1994) ‘An Interview with Yokoyama Katsuya’, Contemporary Music Review, 8/2: 45–74. Traditional Sound of Japan: ‘Etenraku’ in Three Different Modes (1991) Performance by the Imperial Court Gagaku Ensemble, Columbia, COCG-7653. Tsukahara, Yasuko (1998) ‘Meiji no kyu¯chu¯ ko¯jisaihen to gagaku-ka (reijin) no seiyo¯ ongaku’, in Cultural Encounters in the Development of Modern East Asia, Tokyo: Taiku¯-sha.

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–––– (2000) ‘Meijizenki no atarashii ongaku hyo¯gen’ (New modes of musical expression in the Meiji era), Sho¯wa Ongakudaigaku Kenkyu¯kiyo¯, 19/3: 27–43. Wade, Bonnie C. (2000) ‘Negotiating the Future: Japanese Music as a Case in Point’, Tongyang Umak, 22: 1–18. Waters, Robert F. (1994) ‘Emulation and Influence: Japonisme and Western Music in fin de siècle Paris’, Music Review, 55/3: 214–26.

12 Theatrical collaboration in the age of globalization The Gekidan Kaitaisha–NYID intercultural collaboration project Peter Eckersall

Introduction One of the important tasks for theatre researchers at this time is to mark paths by which cultural interactions manifest power and to deconstruct or critique while also highlighting new possibilities for creative praxis as political work. As Uchino Tadashi says: ‘we need to generate a discursive space which can untangle what we see and experience in performance from discourses which would reduce it all to essentialisms’ (1999: 35). This chapter will investigate the possible significance of localized crosscultural relationships in the live performing arts in the Asian region in the context of an emergent and essentialist culture of globalization. Globalization will be viewed primarily in terms of a dichotomy that has given rise to new forms of national cultural isolation on the one hand and the totalizing forces of economic and cultural power on the other. To briefly explain further, globalization is a cultural force, not simply an economic one. For business elites there is the contested certitude of the up–down flow of benefits from rich to poor. But as critics who look outside the narrow view of economy and consider the wider consequences of globalization have persuasively and repeatedly argued, the power of globalization lies in the cultural economy and not solely in the economic sphere. Fredric Jameson identifies a cornerstone of this argument when he writes that the global economy evidences: ‘the gradual transformation of commodities into libidinal images of themselves, this is to say into well-nigh cultural products . . . today no enclaves – aesthetic or other – are left in which the commodity form does not reign supreme’ ( Jameson 1998: 70). In other words, what we observe is the becoming cultural of the economic and the becoming economic of the cultural (ibid.: 60). This observation has consequences for performing artists whose work lies within the cultural economy. For those artists working to devise collaborative arts practices, the places that lie in-between cultures – where the intercultural modality or experience might be found – are, consequently, reduced, if not completely undone. Instead, an ‘endless present’ or ‘logic’ of consumer capitalism overrides intercultural exchange and erases difference.

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Meanwhile, refugees and diaspora groups from outside this world are designated as surplus to the needs of global capital. Vast movements of exiled bodies across the globe have resulted in the closing of the privileged world to the rest. A subsequent rise in forms of national cultural essentialism has been noted in many places around the globe, not least in the Asian region, where there are deep, historical ethnic power struggles as well as contemporary intransigence to the global movement of homeless peoples. Power elites in Australia and Japan conform to this trend. While not wishing to down-play the great diversity of cultural practices in either place, their experiences of globalization have been accompanied by cultural trends that might be described as national-centric and that promise only a return to essentialist identity frames. If we consider the recent Hinomaru– Kimigayo scandal in Japan or the rise of Hanson–Howard politics of race in Australia1 we observe the closing down of the intercultural sphere. A nostalgia for whiteness in Australia ignores the realities of our indigenous foundations and the constant presence of multi-ethnicity throughout postsettlement history. Japan also seems to be on a path that memorializes imagined racial certainties from the past. This, Uchino warns, is ‘the dooming power of national poetics’ (1999: 43). This is also the context that, I propose, informs the current state of theatrical collaboration and intercultural theatre praxis in the region. Indubitably, the work of artistic collaboration across cultural space can reaffirm that value of diversity and build bridges that are being demolished by cultural separatists. At the same time, it is necessary to begin to question the conventional assumptions of intercultural theatre, as this, too, is a product of globalized cultural capital and produces its own kinds of sameness. My chapter will argue for the notion of ‘confusion’ as a basis for the productive interaction of politics and the performing arts in the intercultural/ inter-Asia sphere. This might help not only to rejuvenate contemporary theatre practices in general – which have undergone serious injury in the post-modern era – but also open-up and renegotiate new spaces for progressive interactions between cultures. By example, we might find discursive spaces in performance that can oppose cultural essentialisms and embody the reconciliation of difference. And while theatre cannot assist the plight of refugees directly, it can draw attention to their plight and ignite debate about the politics of globalization. It can also destabilize political realities and give witness to alternative cultural formations. Finally, while this chapter relates solely to an exchange between artists living in Australia and Japan and acknowledges that relations between the two are not the commonplace experience of the region, such a sense of confusion allows for both the particular experience and generalized potential to be addressed. This is not to ignore the degree to which economic, cultural and political diversity undermines the simple geo-politics of the

206 Peter Eckersall regional model, but to re-emphasize such diversity. To this end, confusion offers a common ground. The theorization of theatre culture as a practice of cultural politics is all about a foregrounding of the importance of various strands of historicity and context in creative work.

NYID and Gekidan Kaitaisha Such theoretical provocations can be seen to arise from the recent intercultural theatrical collaboration between Melbourne-based Not Yet It’s Difficult (NYID) and Tokyo’s Gekidan Kaitaisha. These two experimental theatre groups are acknowledged to be leading the field in respect of developing new forms and new politics for the theatre in their respective theatre cultures and have collaborated on a project called Journey to Con-fusion. The first stage of an open-ended project took place in Melbourne in December 1999 and the second in Tokyo in July 2000. Here, my intention is to discuss the ‘con-fusion’ project as a model that might reflect on the broader predicament of intercultural discourse. Readers will, nevertheless, find some background information to the project helpful. The project arose from a combination of fruitful associations. As a researcher of Japanese theatre, I have been interested in the work of Kaitaisha for a number of years. In my artistic practice I have been resident dramaturg for NYID since David Pledger founded the group in 1995. The project emerged from plans by both companies to develop international links and collaborative projects alongside their independent activities.2 I was also alive to the potential of mixing scholarship and creative practice in productive and innovative ways.3 The companies are well matched in terms of size, artistic temper and position in their respective theatre worlds. NYID and Gekidan Kaitaisha have roots in experimental and contemporary theatre cultures. They are ensemble groups wherein a core of artists including directors, designers, dramaturgs, producers and actors collaborate. Over time, a common set of dramaturgical and/or political propositions might be formulated and shared among the group members. Both groups attract audiences that might be younger than is the norm for theatre these days, audiences who are likely to be interested in experimental arts and culture. Both groups are also ‘outside’ and ‘inside’ the cultural systems of their nations. Each claims a marginal and ‘leading edge’ position, while at the same time they enjoy limited on-going support and have developed international reputations through touring. I will argue that the ‘con-fusion’ project gives rise to a number of questions about the contingent possibilities of interculturalism in the age of globalization. Undeniably, the project demonstrates the need for an evolution in our understanding of intercultural praxis. At the same time, it hopefully restates the value of this kind of work in bringing about aesthetic

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and cultural developments. This, in turn, ensures a progressive role for the contemporary theatre arts across the region. Such analysis of theatre from the perspective of cultural production and political agency is not a contested approach. At the same time, these methodologies have been made complex by the collapse of the real and representational post-modernism. Thus, Theodor Adorno’s famous dictum that ‘art is the negative knowledge of the actual world’ (Adorno 1980: 160) and, therefore, a critical reflection of lived experience is no longer applied either straightforwardly or simply. Shimizu Shinjin, director of Kaitaisha, is very much a globalist when it comes to such questions. As a theatre maker he is motivated by what he sees as a world that is saturated by media and various powerful forces or cultural institutions that determine our being. Accordingly, he sees little difference between theatre and life beyond or outside of theatre. He believes that events such as the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Gulf War signal a new kind of globalized power. Before, there was sense of distance, now we live in a Baudrillard-like ‘media shower’. Shimizu believes that his only option is to show such changes as ‘vectors of power’ on the body. This is why he has named his company ‘Gekidan Kaitaisha’ which translates as ‘theatre of deconstruction’. His company of dance-performers has been described as ‘filled with “political bodies” whose theoretical background we can find in Michel Foucault’s notion of archaeology’ (Uchino 1999: 49). Edward Scheer writes: ‘Gekidan Kaitaisha emphasise the disappearing boundary separating performance and public life in Japan’ (2000: 32). I would go further and say that, for Shimizu, that boundary has collapsed. In other words, there is no longer a discernible negative to the actual in Adorno’s terms. As the director says: ‘There is no outside. . . . The body is already chaotic and compromised . . . I am trying to address (this political reality) not by representing it but by trying to express bodily feelings towards it as resistance’ (Forum 1999). Kaitaisha ‘stages a “radical anti-theatricality” suffused with the semiotics of violence, aggression . . . colonisation and regulation which is not so much performed as it seeps through the moment and clings to the air’ (Eckersall cited in Scheer 2000: 32). As I shall discuss, this viewpoint raises new possibilities for theatre and its social relations, but also elicits problems with respect to the limits to which one can subscribe to such a seemingly, and perhaps dangerously, apolitical stance. Meanwhile, Shimizu’s counterpart in the exchange, and director of NYID, David Pledger, mounts what Scheer has described as a ‘defence of the theatrical’ (2000: 32). Pledger insists on the representation of life in art. ‘If one lives in the world then one needs to make use of things in the world’, Pledger argues (Forum 1999). In comparison to Kaitaisha, this is perhaps a more easily understood and historicized position for an artist

208 Peter Eckersall to take. The Marxist scholar Moyra Haslett suggests that such art: ‘is not a reproduction of the real but an aesthetic representation, or image of it. The distance between the artwork and reality then permits art to contradict and even critique the real’ (Haslett 2000: 100). The subsequent critical juncture between life and its theatrical representations seems to be something that NYID strives to uncover as political commentary and creative praxis. To this end, each NYID performance typically dissolves into a repetitious semiotic landscape that revisits past moments of the performance through gesture. This is a Brechtian device that allows for critical reflection among viewers. The atmosphere of the sports arena that is sometimes recreated in NYID performances and is inscribed on the athletic bodies of NYID actors is, for Pledger, both a reminder of the centrality of sport as a cultural moment in Australian life and a device to achieve theatre’s wider appeal to audiences. Scenes from NYID’s The Australasian Post-Cartoon Sports Edition (1997) were reworked in the Journey to Con-fusion project.4 One final factor of immediate interest in describing these theatre groups is the reversal of East–West theatrical influences on each group’s aesthetic formation. Gekidan Kaitaisha have been influenced by the ideas of Jerzy Grotowski and have also been compared to Pina Bausch.5 In marked contrast, NYID began with an interest in the Suzuki acting method and Pledger and others in the company trained at Suzuki’s base camp in Toga Village. Although neither company has adopted these influences proscriptively and both have moved beyond their conscious use in performance work, one is nevertheless left with the divergent refraction of Japan–European avant-garde traditions through the bodies and performance cultures of the other. One might subsequently draw the conclusion that each company has rejected its own performance traditions and sought a relationship with the other in order to escape some order or cultural hierarchy. But, when it occurs, problems and challenges arise. As is discussed later in this chapter, the question of what happens to cultural expression and artistic production when it is transacted in the international arena becomes important.

Rethinking interculturalism: collaboration as confusion This leads us towards a discussion of interculturalism but, at the same time, this is a theatrical model or genre that I want to problematize. Before discussing moments of The Journey to Con-fusion project in more detail, I will foreground the collaboration with some comments directed towards the need to rethink the intercultural model. Theorists and cultural critics have convincingly argued that globalization is a process of neo-colonialism. Accordingly, the continuance of economic, political and cultural domination over large sections of the world by

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First-World forces, through the power of transnational corporations, or the extended reach of mediatization into all aspects of daily life, has seen the rapid erosion of local and/or regional power and culture systems. To view intercultural theatre from this perspective is to acknowledge that intercultural theatre is a product of globalization itself. The idealistic view of intercultural theatre that is reflected in the universalist tradition advanced by Richard Schechner (1982), Peter Brook and others has been undermined by what Patrice Pavis has called the ‘disturbing imperialism of interculturalism in the contemporary theatre’ (1996: 13). Under the guise of interculturalism, Pavis asserts that: ‘European countries . . . so often restrict themselves to accumulating capital, multiplying selling points and confirming national stereotypes and the standing of actors’ (1996: 19). Rustom Bharucha (1990) is another well-known critic of interculturalism who has laid the groundwork for the exposure of its Orientalist tendencies. The critique of interculturalism is, by now, so far advanced that we might consider unhinging the use of the term in relation to progressive work altogether. What remains when the concept itself is seen as a problem rather than a solution is a ‘journey to confusion’ that emphasizes plurality rather than intercultural sameness. To this end, Fensham and I have suggested that the qualities of montage with their rough overlay, visible and frayed edges, and conscious, even self-conscious and naive presence of juxtaposition might be something to work for in developing progressive praxis between cultures. This might imbricate a healthy sensibility of discomfort and destabilization into a genre that too often privileges one aesthetic discourse over another. We write: Much intercultural theatre practice has used a surface closeness – an apparent likeness to culture – to cover-up distance, what some would argue is a failure of critical distance between cultural realities and an indifference to the complexities of specific histories or racially marked bodies. . . . Disorientation . . . suggests an artistic strategy of montage that is more helpful to artists and their critical audiences than interculturalism’s emphasis on integration. (Fensham and Eckersall 1999: 9) Accordingly, the poor result of ‘intercultural’ projects is an unsatisfying and power-ridden illusion of the smooth integration of divergent cultural flows, while the richer one suggests fragments, interruptions and interventions.

Journey to Con-fusion The title of the project ‘Journey to Con-fusion’, at least in English, conveys a productive montage-like notion of praxis, rather than an overreaching

210 Peter Eckersall concern with the smoothing-out of difference. The performance presentations that concluded each workshop phase of the project were fragmented and disrupted. When Kaitaisha and NYID first met in Melbourne in December 1999, neither company had seen the other’s work in a live environment. Negotiations between the directors established that this initial workshop would serve as an introduction to some of the core techniques and forms that were characteristic of each group. Working over seven days, exercises were exchanged as each director took turns to work with the combined company of performers. As is typical in Pledger’s work, texts were given to the actors who were then instructed in a sequence of ‘gestural choreography’ in which movements associated with speaking text gradually replace the voicing of text in performance (discussed further below). Pledger also introduced his characteristic vocal chorus style of delivering text accompanied by dynamic and often sportive physical movement tableaux. Shimizu introduced the psychophysical improvisation work typical of Kaitaisha, in which performers respond to their personal sense of a relationship to space and culture through physical expression. The workshop concluded with a public presentation of excerpts from the workshop and there was also a symposium of artists and academics. In Melbourne, Kaitaisha also did some stand-alone performances (see Scheer 2000). For Journey to Con-fusion #2 – in Tokyo, six months after the first meeting – the same basic model applied.6 The theme of media as a cultural and political agency was loosely adopted although neither group adhered to this religiously, nor was there adequate time to investigate this theme in any serious manner. Instead, the directors tended to continue in the vein of working within their respective company forms and structures, although with a level of intensity and an eye to detail that was appropriate to a second meeting. The public performance also had more structure. For example, as the audience entered the studio for the showing in Tokyo, NYID actors introduced themselves in simple Japanese. This was an often-awkward theatrical device designed to destabilize people’s expectations of a seamless and integrated performance. Many of the activities were filmed by actors holding small video cameras and projected onto two large screens, thereby extending the logic of a work in progress that was being documented. At the same time this split the focus of the audience, perhaps disorienting them, while also hopefully creating an epic visual scale and atmosphere of expectation. There were no seats in the auditorium and audience members were forced to move as the action changed in the space. There were clearly two halves to the workshop-presentation. Pledger’s sports-theatre aesthetics ( jogging, interviewing ‘players’, group chants and so forth) dominated the first half. In the second, Shimizu’s theatre of body politics was played out in several sequences.

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The presentation concluded in a remarkable moment of coincidence when two pieces of film were projected at opposite ends of the studio. Each film had been made independently by the respective companies and featured the documentation of research and development work undertaken by each company in isolated and desert-like spaces. Kaitaisha had travelled to an isolated Japanese island and NYID were filmed at Lake Eyre, a massive saltpan in the Central Australian desert. What was remarkable about these films was the interchangeability of the images. Both groups’ performers were filmed walking and jogging through powerfully atmospheric spaces, both were investigating the impact of the natural environment on the performing body. In other performative moments the project was fused literally although this was more often visible in the workshop than during the showing. The combined companies jogging through the Tokyo suburbs in Pledger’s cube formation, for example, or performing the hyper-speedy Japanese folk dance sequence that Shimizu called the ‘media shower’ that activates and saturates the body.7 However, as the workshop progressed, differences between the companies became more pronounced. Both inevitable and strategic, this confusion sneaked under the media theme and became a starting point for hybrid creative work. I shall now discuss some of these moments in greater detail with a view to expanding on the confusion intercultural model.

The confusion of forms For example, NYID and Kaitaisha share a concern with form, but their creative approaches to representing forms are markedly different. In Pledger’s opinion the groups: ‘Start from exactly the same position (i.e. the critique of how power is embedded in the body/society) (but) NYID externalises those things. . . . Whereas in Shimizu’s work there is an internalisation process (at work)’ (Forum 1999). This relates to aforementioned differences between the companies as to their respective understanding of what theatre is and does. Collaboration, however, forces compromise in which difference is a starting point for creative work. And arising from the presence of opposite practices, it is possible to imagine new kinds of performing bodies. Performance exercises developed by the directors from their respective creative methods might become the site of contested cultural terrains, language slippage and hybrid physical landscapes. The subsequent embodiment of cultural confusion can be observed and is experienced in the words and actions of the workshop-performances. Rather than being seen as a problem to be smoothed over, the promise of this work is that aesthetic– cultural differences are accepted as inevitable and turned into sources of creative discourse. In turn, this enacts and presents to the audience a moment in cultural confusion as a moment of development and progress.

212 Peter Eckersall Audiences also make their own assessments of performances and, in this sense, the confusion of forms might be seen as the fusion of ideas. To take one example from the Tokyo workshop, Pledger’s cube exercise, briefly mentioned above. In this exercise the companies move in a cube formation from stillness to high speed. Pledger’s goal is to achieve a kind of collective awareness among the group that might then be able to spin-off into surprising and divergent plays and flows (think of the formations and strategies that emerge in a game of soccer, for example, as a line of players advances towards a goal). Yet, the work is also highly proscriptive. The bodies are regimented and must conform to the mentality of sport or soldiering. Because they represent a physical mass of fearsome proportions, the bodies are inscribed with a semiotics of power. This was how the theatre critic Nishido¯ Kojin, in the Tokyo presentation, interpreted the cube for example (Forum 2000). Such a moment might reflect and comment on the ways that power can be organized to move through, or be woven into, the social–cultural fabric. The speed and finesse of the action also displays an oft-felt attraction to signs that evoke strength, speed, purity of form – the intense concentration of power in a body or social organism. In this respect it might be argued that the gap between Pledger’s notion of theatre that makes its point through representation and Shimizu’s notion of theatre as the site of systems of power is reduced, if not completely collapsed.

Reconciliation of opposite performance practices At the same time, the differing understandings of internal versus external processes in theatre have remained a strong point of contention for both companies. As a consequence, this project has had to address the reconciliation and coexistence of opposite performance practices. In this respect, the project references and highlights historical conditions in theatre. The project exposes ideological and aesthetic tensions between the representational forces of exterior form and the motivational forces of interior work. Their reconciliation is made difficult by the imprint of these historical conditions and the way that such conditions have been experienced in Australian and Japanese theatre culture. Australian contemporary theatre since the 1960s has privileged a form of psychodrama that has arisen from Australian practitioners’ exposure to the international avant-garde and artists such as Jerzy Grotowski and Peter Brook.8 The rhetoric of 1960s liberation theory became enmeshed in an experiential mode of performance that was intended to reveal psychic disturbance, cultural catharsis, if not liberation. By the 1990s, however, this kind of subjective creative model had become associated with the forces of artistic conservatism in some quarters. Pledger has been an outspoken critic of such theatre and suggests that, in the Australian context,

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the internalized search for form is flawed, outmoded, and is an ineffectual mode for progressive aesthetic–political developments in theatre. He also suggests that theatre needs to develop new forms in order to be relevant to new generations of audiences who might be less inclined to introspection and seek more visceral experiences. Meanwhile, Shimizu’s method is more internalized. Signature movements from contact dance and Grotowski-like psychophysical connections are evident in the work. In Japanese contemporary theatre, we might assume that such work is responding to the straitjacket of modernity and the dominance of Western psychological realism in the shingeki (modern theatre). In Japan, this kind of work finds a different context and different view of the political. Shimizu’s performers demand individual motivations and intense physic improvisations so that they might arrive at a sensibility and movement response. The irony is that the final result for Kaitaisha is much more externalized and coldly deconstructive (see Eckersall 2000). I am struck by the tensions that emerge from both positions when brought face-to-face in the project but also their strange sense of resolution. A good example was a difficult repetitious exercise offered by Kaitaisha in the first workshop that became a point of contention. In the exercise, actors were required to repeat flowing circular arm movements while each stood on a small and potentially unstable low metal stool. The exercise was draining and difficult and continued for a long time. The actors were not pre-warned of the duration or nature of the exercise. In the discussion following, Shimizu argued that the exercise, for him, was ‘a discussion about mind control’ and, perhaps ironically, a critical commentary on various physical regimes that are popularized in the theatre. He says: ‘Knowing about the kinds of danger (that exist for a) system or a method that is globalized is an important thing for me’ (Forum 1999). In this sense, the exercise is not a demonstration so as much as the lived reality of human experience wherein systems of power are inextricably inscribed on the body. Pledger has a different response arguing that this ‘seems to be an echo of a kind of Grotowski world. . . . These methodologies are actually used as constructions of power to oppress the younger generation’ (Forum 1999). Herein lies Pledger’s resistance to psychological realism and psychodrama as an effective mode of theatrical work. Such approaches, he argues, are compromised by the tendency of the theatre in Australia to subscribe to European traditions of psychological realism and the narrow, excessively internalized work that results is politically compromised. But, again in retrospect, perhaps these positions are not so far apart. Both identify the exercise as the embodiment of power. Both views are informed by the exceptionalism of the practice within the historical context of their respective relationships to theatre culture.

214 Peter Eckersall This, in turn, suggests a further possibility in that the collaboration fosters the use of divergent and opposite performance practices that would otherwise be absent. Whether it is the presence of such an endlessly repeating physical movement or the use of text, which was resisted by Kaitaisha early in the project, these otherwise absent moments are forced into being. The results are often surprising and satisfying. In the second instance mentioned above, Pledger requested that Kaitaisha members learn a piece of text (Shakespeare’s To be or not to be . . .) in preparation for the first workshop. As previously mentioned the performance of a sequence of gestures that gradually and accumulatively replace spoken word is an NYID theatrical trope. Pledger planned to teach this to the Kaitaisha people. Initially, Kaitaisha resisted Pledger’s request arguing that they did not use text regularly in their work and that, for them, text (especially Shakespeare) was a marginalizing factor in their identity as Japanese speakers in a globalized world dominated by English. In the outcome of negotiations the exercise proceeded. Although Kaitaisha raised some important issues by their opposition to the text, its eventual use was equally interesting. It is interesting to note that lately Kaitaisha have begun exploring fragments of text in their own performances. I wonder, too, to what extent this experience has informed the development of the ‘Funeral’ sequence from the Tokyo workshop discussed below. Pledger has also been influenced by the experience of working with Kaitaisha and, for me, recent NYID work sometimes resonates with a Kaitaisha sensibility. Thus, the foreign nature of the exercises on the body of the unfamiliar actor, the tensions embodied by the actor’s engagement with, and resistance to, new exercises uncovers new possibilities for each participant group. The viewer is also able to reflect on sometimes familiar performance tropes with a renewed sense of distance, if not an alternative viewpoint, as the exercises themselves through their re-presentation by the actors embody alternative and divergent cultural histories and experiences. In similar fashion, there are moments when the work moves between one mode of operation to the other and they embody the essence not only of transference but also of transformation. This might be observed in the moments when the Kaitaisha-like mind control impulse of capitalism inscribed on bodies, and performance-as-representation model of NYID come into contact. In a sense, the moments that lie in-between the two kinds of work, while sometimes clumsy, might also suggest the sensibility of confusion. They might be the noise and the chaos that, Shimizu observes, conditions the body. At the same time, these are also the moments of performative clarity in respect of a politically charged representational gesture that Pledger seeks in the theatre. In this way, contrasting processes and moments of confusion, when montaged, become productive sites of performance and cultural politics in their own right.

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Limits to/of representation At the same time, the collaboration gave rise to a powerful schism in respect of questions around the politics of representation. Moments of the project clearly remain irreconcilable. To discuss one example, many of the Kaitaisha Company remove most of their clothing for an exercise called ‘exile’. In this exercise actors move in a predatory fashion and suddenly connect and disconnect with others in a series of contact–release bodily encounters. ‘Exile’ is one of Kaitaisha’s most often used performative gestures and conveys the melancholy sensibility of humanity in close contact but unable to communicate. In performing the exercise, Shimizu and Kaitaisha actors suggest that the exercise develops an awareness of skin as the edge, or the surface, of the body. The lack of clothing aids in body contact that seeks to achieve an almost molecular-level imaginary integration of skin surfaces. For some NYID actors, however, the nudity was unacceptable and raised the obvious representational problems associated with gender and sexual politics. One NYID actor wondered if a ‘queer agenda’ lay behind the regular couplings of two Kaitaisha women performers, for example. If this was so, then queerness should be made explicit and the actor was concerned about the possibility of the scene being misinterpreted. Some audience members in the Japanese showing also commented on what they took to be an untheorized and unjustified eroticism of female bodies. Even given the differing sexual political realities of Australia and Japan and the obvious need to be alive to such differences, NYID and audience members perhaps uncover an apolitical stance of Kaitaisha here – or, at best, a blind spot in respect of feminist politics in performance. The scholar Katherine Mezur has been critical of Kaitaisha’s use of physical punishment enacted on bodies in performance for similar reasons.9 The extent to which such actions are apolitical can give rise to questions about the limits of a politics of representation (or supposed lack of representation). And Kaitaisha’s response, that representation is no longer possible and all one can do is perform vectors of power as a form of resistance, clearly has problems for many people. Cogently, this might be an example of what Phillip Auslander suggests is a ‘transition from transgressive to resistant political art’ in the post-modern era (1997: 58); that is to say, a transition that responds to a new understanding of the political. At the same time, further work must be done to arrive at the point of any sense of resolution in respect of this project. The temporary solution to the particular issue was for NYID to put on clothes at precisely the moment when Kaitaisha removed them. While not a completely satisfactory result, one might view this as a kind of representational comment or response to the schism. Haslett suggests that representation ‘allows culture to be identified as a field of struggle’ and perhaps this is also something to keep in mind here (2000: 143). At the

216 Peter Eckersall same time, this does not solve the problem outlined above, but only offers an alternative reading and one that, for some commentators, remains seriously lacking an ideological base.

Memory as history/history as memory At least a partial resolution to the question of representation might be suggested in Shimizu’s notion of memory as a process of ‘becoming’ in performance and a way of understanding the past/forging aspects of identity. This notion, if refracted through NYID’s incipient Brechtian style, might also offer the contextual possibilities of historicism. Therefore, an understanding of memory as history and history as memory might be something to think about arising from this project. Historification and the particularization of context are potent ways out of the apolitical endgame of post-modernism and a counter-strategy to globalization. In the sequence called ‘Funeral’, directed by Shimizu at the Tokyo showing, three NYID actors were required to recall deep-seated memories from a state of relaxation. Almost subliminal and disjointed, these thoughts were recorded in video close-up and replayed on a split screen. A fourth NYID actor performed the recall exercise live while lying on a raised box as in an open coffin. Meanwhile, the three re-presented, or responded to, their own confessional images (played on the video screen). Corralled to one side of the space, Kaitaisha performers enacted a sequence of refugee/colonized bodies. These hunched and naked bodies, like cattle with numbers marking their skin, slowly moved across the space during the funeral sequence. The contrast between the performances here is both interesting and difficult to interpret. As Nishido¯ Kojin pointed out, the refugee/colonized body speaks to the Japanese condition of being simultaneously colonizer and colonized (Forum 2000). At the same time, some Japanese social critics remain sceptical about the tendency among Japanese to perceive themselves only and always as victims. Nevertheless, the combination of the two modes of performance raises provocative questions about memory/ history as a source of identity and power. Marilyn Ivy’s work on Japanese post-modernity as ‘Discourses of the Vanishing’ comes to mind (1995). In Ivy’s work, cultural reconstructions of the past are shown to be sites of resistance to normative power in Japan, while they also constitute the cultural currency of that power. Two points stick in my mind as working against a straightforward analysis of this very beautiful sequence. The first is the continuous use of English; or more correctly, the texts become blurred so that English becomes fragmented and sometimes more of a sensibility and a tone than something that conveys spoken words. This is an effective way to both efface the dominant language and use a language that is not spoken by most of the audience as something meaningful for them. As the audience struggle with

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comprehension, processes of translation and miscommunication that lie in the background of the presentation are also referenced. The remaining problem was that the actors themselves did not have a clear idea of what was expected. Nor was the use of English addressed in a political way. From knowing Kaitaisha’s work (and as discussed earlier, their stated resistance to English), I would have assumed that in the Japanese context English might have been signalled an oppressive regime but this did not seem to be the case. Second, I wonder if there is a kind of essentialism at work here, or at least some unexamined assumptions about the Western body and Western actors as receptacles for psychological realism. While the scene is effective, I wonder to what extent this kind of reading of the bodies was intentional and what points are ultimately being made. This is especially the case given the irony that Kaitaisha work methods seem much more aligned with a psychophysical approach than are those of NYID. There is a problem, too, in distinguishing between the Japanese body as victim and the Western body as neurotic. This kind of essentialism, or at least the potential for misunderstanding, should be avoided.

Conclusion First, I noted the degree to which the forces of globalization and the endless present of consumer capitalism might reduce our experiences of culture. If, as Jameson suggests, libidinal images of consumerism have become cultural products, then possibilities for intercultural relations are reduced. This is because cultural flows that lie in-between cultures and differentiate them, are reduced if not completely undone. At the same time a hardening sense of cultural isolationism and an unwillingness to mix cultures is also evident. Second, I argued that in this situation the sensibility of montage and the aesthetic journey towards confusion could be a site of resistance and a possible way forward for productive work. Conventional interculturalism with its corrupted theme of universalism should be effaced in favour of work that is hybrid yet interrupted. Finally, I hope that through reflecting on the Kaitaisha–NYID project and the various encounters discussed herein, we might reaffirm the point that theatre is essentially a social and political art. Its interactions with audiences that are, in turn, mediated through historical and present-day cultural experiences, do have a kind of power. We might, for example, note how the Journey to Con-fusion project embodies contested identities and diverse political and cultural histories within its workshop/performance parameters. These not only lie in-between and are shared among various artists associated with the project but, perhaps, point to larger questions of confusion that lie in-between the respective cultural imagination and intermingled histories of Australia and Japan. (For example, contested memories

218 Peter Eckersall of the war, Australia’s past racial policies of Asian exclusion, debates about Australia as ‘part-Asian/other to Asian’, Japan as [denying] its power status in the region/as East–West hybrid and so forth.) In the spirit of history and memory being seen as processes of becoming, new senses of confusion emerge from the project that offer-up new creative spaces at the same time as they require innovative forms of negotiation and new ways of being in the world to be developed. To this end, the confusion of difference that the project embodies might resist the closing down of cultures under the dichotomy of globalization/national essentialism. That is to say, the project might work against the seemingly inevitable forces of capitalism which are otherwise imagined only as a certain and deeply intrusive endless present.

Notes 1

2

On 9 August 1999 former Prime Minister Obuchi’s Liberal-Democratic Party conservative coalition passed legislation that formally acknowledges the Hinomaru as Japan’s national flag and Kimigayo as the national anthem. A further edict called for the hoisting of the flag and singing of Kimigayo at graduation and admission ceremonies at public schools nationwide. For many people this is an unacceptable ruling because of the association that both have with Japan’s Imperial system. The Hinomaru and Kimigayo remain potent symbols of the system of Emperor worship that underpinned the ideological condition of Japanese society before and during the Second World War. This has been compounded by recent comments by the former Prime Minister, Yoshiro Mori, who has used the term ‘kokutai’ to refer to the peoples of Japan. Kokutai is an essentialist notion of Japan as being racially homogeneous. It was commonly used by wartime leaders and has strong imperial resonances. In Australia, similar isolationist tendencies are evident. We note, for example, the continued presence of a rightwing One Nation Party politics of racial exclusivity that informs many of the current Federal government’s attitudes to indigenous communities. We might also look at the treatment of Middle Eastern refugees and the bizarre concerns by Federal Immigration Ministers that they not be comfortable lest we send the wrong message to their country-folk. We should remember that Australia housed many so-called illegal-entry refugees in primitive army barrack accommodation in isolated regions of the country. Daily temperatures regularly exceed 40 degrees, but authorities see the consequent extremes of discomfort and the isolation as a bonus. Recently, a group of refugees risked possible hypothermia when they walked out of their accommodation and attempted to march down an isolated highway to the nearest town more than 50 kilometres away. If it were not so dangerous this might have appeared as some kind of performance art event. NYID – like other Australian contemporary performance groups – has been aware of its own sense of marginalization and geographical isolation and responded with a plan to connect with like-minded theatre communities elsewhere. It has also been motivated to respond to contemporary political and cultural trends in Australia including debates about Australia’s regional status. Japanese theatre groups are often seen collaborating with artists in the region these days. A direct result of favourable funding polices at the Japan Foundation, such collaborations are doubtless doing important work in cultural terms and

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3 4

5

6 7 8

9

addressing historical problems. Gekidan Kaitaisha had previously collaborated with Danny Yung, director of the company Zuni Icosahedron in Hong Kong (see: http://www.zuni.org.hk/e/index.html). Although work about the politics of such exchanges is just beginning, the current project is, perhaps, less complicated as Australia was not a targeted country in the Japan Foundation programme over this period. Kaitaisha received funds to travel to Australia from the Japan Foundation to perform their own works; the workshop above was then built around the fact that they were already here. Additional funds for the Melbourne meeting were received from the Myer Foundation (an Australian philanthropic organization), with in-kind support from various theatres and the University of Melbourne. Funds for the Tokyo component were received from Arts Victoria with further funds and in-kind support from the Saison Foundation and the University of Tokyo. One of the principles of the project has been to keep the exchange as cheap as possible to reduce unreasonable expectations about the fruits of exchange and to escape from the local and specific having to embody some sense of national exchange as internationalization. For example, the project brought together Australian and Japanese theatre scholars in two symposia and related publications. For further discussion of the Australasian post-cartoon sports edition in the context of an essay on Asian–Australian race relations, see Fensham (2000). NYID made a video documentary about this production called The Unmaking of (written and directed by David Pledger, Cinemedia, Victoria, 1999). Jerzy Grotowski, who died in 1999, was a theatre director and founder of the influential Polish Theatre Laboratory. Author of Towards a Poor Theatre (London: Methuen, 1968), Grotowski aimed to achieve in theatre the visceral integration of intense emotional/psychological states and physical presentation that was often heightened by audience confrontations. Pina Bausch is a choreographer and leader of the Tanztheater Wuppertal. She is a highly regarded innovator in the field of modern dance; her work has been characterized as a dance–theatre hybrid. Suzuki Tadashi is a long-time innovator in the contemporary Japanese theatre scene. He founded the Suzuki Company of Toga in 1974 (SCOT) and is at present the artistic director of the Shizuoka Performing Arts Centre. Suzuki developed an actor training system that drew on elements of traditional Japanese theatre practice alongside a syncretic East–West philosophy of theatre art. Unlike Kaitaisha in Melbourne, NYID did not perform any solo works in Tokyo. For a workshop diary and related commentary about the Tokyo project, see Eckersall et al. (2001). Many commentators have remarked on the anti-intellectual foundations of Melbourne’s influential Australian Performing Group. In a separate tradition the physical witness of the body to physical pain and endurance motivated emergent performance artists at the Performance Space in Sydney in the 1970s. For further information about Australian contemporary performance, see Allen and Pearlman (1999). Discussion with author.

References Adorno, Theodor (1980) ‘Reconciliation Under Duress’, in Ernst Bloch et al. Aesthetics and Politics, London: Verso. Allen, Richard James and Pearlman, Karen (eds) (1999) Performing the Unnameable: An Anthology of Australian Performance Texts, Sydney: Currency Press in association with Real Time.

220 Peter Eckersall Auslander, Phillip (1997) From Acting to Performance, London and New York: Routledge. Bharucha, Rustom (1990) Theatre and the World: Performance and the Politics of Culture, London and New York: Routledge. Eckersall, Peter (2000) ‘The Performing Body and Cultural Representation in the Theatre of Gekidan Kaitaisha’, in Stancia Scholz-Cionca and Samuel Leiter (eds) Japanese Theatre and the International Stage, Leiden: Brill, pp. 313–28. ––––, Fensham, Rachel, Scheer, Edward and Varney, Denise (2001) ‘Tokyo Diary’, Performance Research, 6/1: 71–86. ––––, Uchimo Tadash and Moriyama, Naoto (eds) (2004) Alternatives: Debating Theatre Culture in an Age of Con-fusion, Brussels: P.I.E. Peter Lang. Fensham, Rachel (2000) ‘Anti-Asian Rhetoric in Performance’, in Ian Ang, Sharon Chalmers, Lisa Law and Mandy Thomas (eds) Alter/Asians: Asian-Australian Identities in Art, Media and Popular Culture, Sydney: Pluto Press, pp. 169–80. –––– and Eckersall, Peter (1999) ‘Introduction’, in Rachel Fensham and Peter Eckersall (eds) Disorientations. Cultural Praxis in Theatre: Asia, Pacific, Australia, Melbourne: Monash Theatre Papers, pp. 3–13. Forum (1999) NYID–Gekidan Kaitaisha Artist forum at the University of Melbourne. –––– (2000) NYID–Gekidan Kaitaisha Artist forum at the Morishita Studio, Tokyo. Haslett, Moyra (2000) Marxist Literary and Cultural Theories, London: Macmillan. Ivy, Marilyn (1995) Discourses of the Vanishing: Modernity, Phantasm, Japan, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Jameson, Fredric (1998) ‘Notes on Globalization as a Philosophical Issue’, in Fredric Jameson and Masao Miyoshi (eds) The Cultures of Globalization, Durham and London: Duke University Press, pp. 54–77. Pavis, Patrice (1996) ‘Introduction’, in Patrice Pavis (ed.) The Intercultural Performance Reader, London and New York: Routledge. Schechner, Richard (1982) The End of Humanism, New York: PAJ Publications. Scheer, Edward (2000) ‘Australia/Japan: The Gesture of Place’, Real Time, 37: 32. Uchino, Tadashi (1999) ‘Deconstructing “Japaneseness”: Towards Articulating Locality and Hybridity in Contemporary Japanese Performance’, in Rachel Fensham and Peter Eckersall (eds) Disorientations. Cultural Praxis in Theatre: Asia, Pacific, Australia, Melbourne: Monash Theatre Papers, pp. 35–53.

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Afterword Colin Mackerras

The main conclusion to flow from the set of chapters that has made up this book is that diasporas matter. The diasporas under discussion have created an impact both on the societies that produced them in the first place and on their new homes. This raises the very large issue of national identities, how one articulates them and the extent to which past and contemporary environments influence them in particular circumstances. The ways in which diasporas have made a difference have been extremely diverse, raising questions about whole sets of dichotomies, including that between globalization and localization. The site of the issues raised is culture. It is important to note this, because the effects of diasporas are multifaceted, including not only culture, but the economy, society and demography, and sometimes even politics. We may be even more specific and suggest that it is a particular branch of culture that concerns us here, namely, the performing arts. These are, themselves, very broad-ranging in their genres, types and styles. In this book, individual chapters have considered genres including Chinese and Korean traditional theatre, South Indian dance, Japanese court music and taiko drums, Cambodian music and Brazilian samba carnivals. The focus of this book is Asian diasporas. That means primarily Chinese, Japanese, Korean and Indian diasporas, but there are other examples as well, such as Cambodian. And as for where these diasporas reside, the countries range from those of North America, Brazil and England to various parts of Asia, including Singapore, China itself and Kazakhstan. In other words, Asia is not only the source but also the residence of diasporas. Most of the chapters in this book appeal to personal experience as a major source. Some consider diaspora performances which the author has attended, such as Magdalen Gorringe. Others, such as Elizabeth WichmannWalzack, discuss performances in which they, themselves, took a very active role. Most of the authors raise examples of performances they have, themselves, attended. In my view, this adds a sense of directness to what they write.

222 Colin Mackerras

Identities Diasporas raise issues of ethnic identity, simply because they are usually living in a context different ethnically from their original homes. There are exceptions to this pattern. Singapore is predominantly Chinese ethnically, but Chinese who live in Singapore can genuinely be considered a diaspora. Yet, it remains true that we can normally expect diasporas to exemplify cultures other than those of the country where they live. One ethnicity is the Chinese, important if for no other reason than their immense population both at home and as diasporas around the world. Many scholars have raised the idea of ‘Chineseness’. It may be a construct to articulate the identity of Chinese people, including those outside China belonging to diasporas. But it is also an idea with very practical applications and meanings. Traditional regional music can show how a cultural phenomenon can show an assertion of cultural difference, or of Chineseness, and the example of Singapore amateur music clubs raised in one chapter is a specific and interesting case in point. In the past, some diasporas have tried to hide themselves for fear of discrimination or persecution. This still happens to some extent. However, it is much more common in the contemporary world that diasporas try to assert their identity. Giovanni Giuriati notes of the Khmer people in a community in the US that ‘one could notice a gradual and steady increase in the occasions in which music is played to assert Khmer identity within the new multicultural host community’. The function of the performing arts is important here, because they mean a great deal to people and hence become a mechanism for constructing ethnic identities. They may even strengthen ethnic identities, because diasporas may feel great pride in the performing arts forms that their own people have produced. In countries governed by Marxist-Leninist parties, theories of ‘nationality’ dictate that permanently settled diaspora communities are classified as ‘minority nationalities’. Several such minorities are mentioned in the book as citizens of countries like China and the former Soviet Union. The most important of them is the Koreans. It comes as no surprise that Korean culture has undergone political and other influences in China and such places as Kazakhstan. As Hae-kyung Um puts it in her chapter: they ‘have had to work and negotiate with a system of state patronage and its associated ideology’. Their Korean identity has undergone a diversity of change in various new contexts, but also maintained much of its original nature. ‘Their creativity and individual choice has also helped to redefine, or even subvert, the boundary of state ideology to create the artistic expressions that reflect their hybrid culture and multiple identities.’ The case of the Japanese participation in the samba carnivals of Brazil illustrates a very different level of identity from that of the Koreans in China. The difference is that Japanese culture is much less evident in what the Japanese do in the carnival, which ‘not only displays the strong

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populism of this miscegenated nation but also provides a valuable opportunity for different ethnic groups to demonstrate their integration into mainstream society’. Samba carnivals are far more different from any manifestation of Japanese culture than is Korean from Chinese or even Soviet. There appears to be a distinct ethnic mutual antagonism, even prejudice, between Japanese immigrants to Brazil and other Brazilians, although São Paulo has more Japanese than any other city in the world outside Japan itself. There are some Japanese identity marks left in the carnivals, but the Japanese motifs are added to, rather than blended into the parades. The participation of the Japanese immigrants in São Paulo in Brazil appears to lie at one extreme of a spectrum in which a diaspora foregoes its own culture to take part in the cultural manifestations of the host country. Close to the other end of the spectrum is the case of traditional taiko drum performances in North America. In sharp contrast to the samba, a quintessentially Brazilian form of art to which Japanese immigrant groups have adapted, taiko is definitely Japanese. It has been adapted in some ways to American patterns. For instance, there are now all-female taiko in America for what is traditionally a male sphere of activity. But this is in the realm of social context, not aesthetics. There is certainly innovation in some taiko performances. Yet, what is striking about taiko is the extent to which traditional artistic features have survived and even flourished in North American taiko performances. The issue of ethnic identity in cultural performances raises a set of profound questions: just how can one identify to which nationality or nationalities a specific item of the performing arts belongs? If a Japanese diaspora transposes Japanese art to a different national setting and there allows it to undergo influence from its new home, does it thereby cease to be Japanese? My answer to this question is no. But there could come a point at which the influence of the new culture becomes so wide-ranging and deep that there is not much left of the original Japanese, apart from the Japanese diaspora which performs and nurtures it. Is there a role for consciousness in determining to which nationality art belongs? Some theories of ethnic identity deny the role of consciousness, an example being that in the People’s Republic of China, where the state still does not allow an ethnic group, itself, to determine whether it is a separate minority or not. But nowadays, most theories of ethnic identity do, indeed, concede space to consciousness. If people consider themselves Korean that is one reason why others should regard them as Korean. Of course, there are other factors that matter, like lineage. But if a person with some Korean ancestry and even more non-Korean ancestry regards himself or herself as Korean, then that appears to me a reason why others should regard that person as Korean. It is the same with the arts. If a diaspora adopts the local form of art and goes a long way towards abandoning its own, does it thereby abandon

224 Colin Mackerras its own ethnicity? Is the samba that Japanese immigrants perform in Brazil in any way Japanese, or is it just Brazilian art performed by Japanese? Is there any role for consciousness in this issue? For instance, the Japanese immigrants might consider themselves to be both Japanese and Brazilian. By participating in samba carnivals, and adding some Japanese features, they might consider themselves the creators of a genuine form of hybrid art, which is also both Brazilian and Japanese. If they hold that view, it could be very difficult for any outsider to deny them their right to claim the status of artistic innovators. But correspondingly, if a non-Japanese Brazilian denies that samba can in any sense be considered Japanese, it might be quite difficult to contradict them. In her chapter on the jingju, Elizabeth Wichmann-Walzack raises the question whether the items performed in English by American performers are still really jingju and declines to answer definitely. She implies a positive response, but notes that there is change. This would certainly be my answer, since the music, plot and characterization of the original are still roughly the same. There is a long tradition in Europe of singing operas in a language other than the one in which they were written, but they are still the same opera. If an Australian singer can rise to prominence through singing Italian opera in English, I do not see why an American singer should not sing jingju in English. If that helps local audiences to improve their appreciation of this art, then so much the better. We can approach the problem from the other end as well. The new national surrounding that influences forms of Asian performing arts also, no doubt, has a right to claim some credit for creation. In most cases this impact is going to increase over time. This is because members of a diaspora are likely to adapt to their new surroundings. Second, third and later generations of diasporas are less impervious to change than first ones, and it is difficult for any diaspora to keep themselves apart from the community where they live. This is especially the case in the contemporary world, in which globalization affects not only the way countries affect one another, but also the way different cultures affect people within one country. Some have averred that diasporas cling to the traditions of their own people more than do those people in their original homeland. There are historically many examples where this is, indeed, the case, and a few cases persist in the contemporary world. However, it appears to me that such examples are becoming fewer and fewer. It is more difficult in the contemporary world than at any time in the past to shield oneself from alternative cultural influences. A major reason for this is the improvement in communications that characterizes the world. Television has become widespread enough that areas immune from the global culture are dwindling in number. A theme that comes through many of the chapters in this book is that change is completely normal in the performing arts. There is a dynamic interchange between diasporas and the country they live in. The

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performing arts are not static in any case, either in their country of origin or anywhere else. So Chinese art develops in China to the extent that the arts of the early twenty-first century are different in texture from those of a century before. In China, itself, the arts have sustained significant Western influence. So, if Chinese artists transpose themselves to another national context, they will also be exposed to the influences of their new home. In discussing the South Indian dance form bharata natyam, Magdalen Gorringe discusses the desire of an Indian diaspora in Britain to establish its identity ‘as an art form originating from, but not bound by a particular cultural context’. In other words, for all its inherent ethnic identity, there is no reason at all why it should not absorb non-Indian cultural influences, including those from Britain. I suggest that another issue relevant to identity among diasporas is audiences. Should we expect audiences for the performing arts of a particular nationality to belong to that nationality? The answer to this is probably yes, but may depend on the time, place and even the culture. The art of diasporas is more likely to depend for audiences more on other members of the diaspora than on the other members of the local community. It is striking that the audiences for the famous Hawai’i jingju performances are at least in part Chinese Americans and Chinese from China, even though the language used for the dialogue and singing is English. Yet, it would be a great mistake to claim that other members of communities show no interest or love for the arts of diasporas. Moreover, the appreciation of cultures other than one’s own is very much part of globalization and fashionable in the contemporary world, and I regard it as among the best features of the contemporary world. Tourism is an important part of this trend, because it allows people to visit other countries and appreciate the arts that exist there. It is also important in the modern world that performing arts companies from one country visit others. But there is still a role for diasporas in promoting the arts of their own nationalities in the countries where they have chosen to live and in winning audiences from the people there. One specific artist that seems to me to sum up several major problems of cultural ethnic identity is the rock-artist Cui Jian. He is a citizen of the People’s Republic of China, and therefore Chinese. He also belongs to the Korean minority in China and is, in that sense, Korean. His art is much more like Western pop art than any form of traditional art. Yet, he sings in Chinese about Chinese themes and predominantly for Chinese audiences. The Chinese authorities do not like him, but he resonates with many young Chinese. Is his art Chinese, Korean or American, or something else? It seems to me that, in fact, all of these can probably claim his art as in some sense theirs. I suspect that in the social sense the Chinese element is much the strongest, but in the aesthetic respect I am less sure, and might nominate a Western, especially American, element as more important. In this book dealing with diasporas, it is perhaps striking to

226 Colin Mackerras note that his Koreanness appears much weaker than his Chineseness. But there seems little doubt to me that Cui Jian’s art is both hybrid and globalized. In some sense it is both multinational and supranational.

Globalization and localization We live in a globalized world, in which commodities, services, ideas, practices, fashions and cultural patterns flow from one place to another with little respect for political borders. The arts are included as a major part of contemporary globalization. Yet, cultural diffusion and the internationalization and hybridization of the arts are nothing new. One of the case studies discussed in this book concerns gagaku, or Japanese court music. This was actually introduced into the Japanese court in 612 by a Koreanized Chinese called Mimashi and came from China. What is new to the present era is the extent of cultural diffusion through the process we call globalization. The very word global implies a far more thorough and widespread process than words like diffusion or internationalization can do. At the same time, despite this globalization, there is absolutely no sign that local cultures are going out of existence. Diasporas are contributing a great deal to preserving the cultures of their original homelands, even though mostly they willingly undergo influence from the cultures of their new homes. In some cases, such as the Koreans in China or the Soviet Union, they have produced new local cultures that reflect both their origin and the politics and culture of their current homes. Another much more specific and different kind of performing arts endeavour illustrating the persistence of localization is discussed in Peter Eckersall’s chapter on two experimental theatre groups: the intercultural theatrical collaboration between the Melbourne-based Not Yet It’s Difficult and Tokyo’s Gekidan Kaitaisha. What emerges from his chapter is some discussion of the broader predicaments involved in intercultural discourse in an age of globalization. An interesting question that arises in many contexts in the present book is that of unequal power relations in the creation of cultures, including those of diasporas. Domination is something that has greatly concerned scholars interested in ethnic questions of virtually all kinds. In the context of globalization, the obvious question to arise is ‘does globalization, in fact, tend strongly to mean Americanization?’ Is American cultural influence more dominant than any other because it is the only world superpower and enjoys immense economic, military, social and cultural influence? My own view is that the answer to these questions is yes, but only to a certain extent. The US is, indeed, dominant in the world, including in the cultural sphere. Probably there has never been a time in the history of the world when one country has dominated the globe to the extent that the US does at the beginning of the twenty-first century. And the

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11 September incidents, when terrorists hijacked aircraft and flew them into the World Trade Center buildings, totally destroying the buildings and killing some 3,000 people, seem only to have confirmed the trend. The war against terrorism that has followed the incidents seems to have strengthened American determination to increase its share of world power. Yet, despite such concessions, I would still argue that American dominance is very incomplete and does not exclude the possibility that other cultures will survive and flourish. Diaspora cultures can maintain a certain degree of independence from American and Western culture. This book has given many examples showing the persistence of local cultures among diasporas. Granted that they undergo enough other influence to become hybrid, they still evince signs of the tradition that produced them. It may be that over the coming decades globalization will further enhance the dominance of Western, and especially American, culture throughout the world. Modernization and globalization tend to whittle away traditions. But I do not foresee the time when local cultures lose all their vitality, or that diasporas will become so assimilated into their new homes that their cultures become completely indistinguishable. Diversity is likely to remain a hallmark of world culture for the indefinite future.

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Index

actors and acting 161, 162, 163, 165, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173 n. 5 Adorno, Theodor: Aesthetics and Politics 207 Akiyama, Kuniharu 181 Akhtar, Najma 123; Forbidden Kiss 110 Akutagawa 181 Alaap 114 Allen, Matthew: ‘Rewriting the Script for South Indian Dance’ 94, 96, 97 Amsterdam 26 ancestry 167, 170, 171, 172, 174 n. 15 Anderson, Benedict: Imagined Communities 5 Ang, Ien: ‘On Not Speaking Chinese’ 30; ‘Singaporean Way of Multiculturalism’ 31, 39; ‘To Be or Not to Be Chinese’ 30 Anson, Col 34 Apache Indian 105, 110 Appadurai, Arjun: ‘Disjuncture and Difference’ 3, 104; Modernity at Large 177, 197 Apsara 136, 137 arangetram 91–103, 111, 112; in the Cilappatikaram 91, 93, 95; as cultural commodity 96–8; defined 91–2; in the diaspora 95, 97, 99; as examination 94–5; and manufacturing identity 91–103; as part of a dedication ritual 93–4; as rite of passage 93, 95 artists see actors and acting; design; directors; playwrights Arundale, Rukmini Devi 93–4, 97 Asian and Asianness 2, 4–8, 117 Asian Dub Foundation 110, 120, 122 Asian Theatre Program 167, 168

Auslander, Phillip: From Acting to Performance 215 authenticity 1, 6, 9, 27, 80, 83–9 avant-garde 172, 181, 182, 189, 208, 212 awards 120, 122, 163, 165, 166, 174 n. 12 Baba Chinese 32 Baily, John: Music in Afghanistan 110; ‘Qawwali in Bradford’ 105; ‘Role of Music in Three British Muslim Communities’ 104, 105 Bakhtin, Mikhail: Dialogic Imagination 193–7; dialogism 12 n. 8 Balasaraswati 93, 98 ballad forms 164 Banerji, Sabita: ‘Bhangra 1984–88’ 105, 120; ‘Ghazals to Bhangra in Great Britain’ 105, 120 banshi 164, 173 n. 5 banqi angti 173 n. 5 Barth, Fredrik 5 Baumann, Gerd: ‘Bhangra 1984–88’ 105; ‘The Re-Invention of Bhangra’ 113, 120 Bausch, Pina 208 beat tune system see banqiangti Beethoven, Ludwig van: ‘Ode To Joy’ 193 Beijing/Peking opera 20, 23, 25, 26, 161–75 beipai 162 belonging 144–58 Bengali 105, 114, 115, 120, 121, 124, 125 Benitez, Joachim M.: ‘Gagaku and Serialism’ 185

230 Index Bhabha, Homi: ‘Culture’s In-Between’ 7 bhajan 116, 124 bhangra 105, 109, 113, 114, 116, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125 Bharadvaj, R.: ‘Bharata Natyam’ 98 bharata natyam 91–103; encapsulating ‘Indianness’ 100, 101; historical background 92–4; reinvention 97; transnational art form 100 Bharatiya Janata Party 101 Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, London 97 Bharucha, Rustom 209 Bhosle, Asha 110 Birmingham 106, 113, 114, 120, 123 Blacking, John: ‘Study of Musical Change’ 108 Bollywood 110 Boulez, Pierre: ‘Traditional Music’ 196 Brass, Paul R.: ‘Ethnic Groups and Ethnic Identity Formation’ 5 Brazil 61–74 Brazilian Colonization Corporation 66 Brecht, Bertolt 216 Britain: South Asian music in 104–28 Britishness 117, 124 Brook, Peter 209, 212; Mahabharata 7 Buarque, Chico 61 Burman, R.D. 110 Butler, Kim: ‘Defining Diaspora’ 4 Cage, John 176, 177, 181 Cahiers de Musiques Traditionelles 129 California 22, 77, 78, 80, 81, 89 n. 4 Cambodians 129–43 Cantonese 31, 33, 170 Cantonese opera 22, 23 Cao Cao and Yang Xiu 163–5, 166 Carnatic (South Indian) music 110, 111, 112, 126 carnival 61–74 Cave of the Coiled Webs 166 Central Asia 44, 46, 48, 53, 54, 55, 57 n. 23, 58 n. 34 Chakravorty, Pallabi: ‘From Interculturalism to Historicism’ 97 Chaliand, Gérard: Penguin Atlas of Diasporas 3 Chancellor Liu the Hunchback 165 Chandra, Sheila 105, 121, 123, 127 n. 10 Chandratheva, Uma: ‘Izzit. or Innit?’ 99–100 Chang Ch’on-Il 50

ch’angdam 50 ch’angga 48 Channi 113 Cheng Changgeng 25 Chen Lincang 165 Chen Zili 34–5, 36 Chiang Kaishek 45 China 43–60; Civil War 49; Cultural Revolution 21, 23, 46, 47, 50, 54, 163, 164; diasporas 17–29; Tiananmen Square 21 Chinatown 23, 38 Chineseness 27, 30–42, 222, 226 Ch’oe Kôn see Cui Jian Chou Wen-Chung 177, 196 Chow, Rey: ‘On Chineseness as a Theoretical Problem’ 30 chuandiao 164 Chum Ngek 132 Chun, Allen: ‘Fuck Chineseness’ 30 Cilappatikaram: arangetram in 91, 93, 95 citizenship 52, 53, 54 Clammer, John R.: Singapore 31, 32, 33, 36 Clifford, James: ‘Diasporas’ 3 ‘closed’ see shou Cohen, Robin: Global Diasporas 3 collaboration 163; cross-cultural 82; intercultural 11, 204–20, 226 colonial era 11, 12 commercialization 20, 21 committee process 162, 163, 168 composition, musical see music Confucianism 35, 39, 40 consumerism 20, 21, 217 Cook, James 166 Copland, Aaron 181 Corbett, John: ‘Experimental Oriental’ 176, 193, 196 Cornershop 120; ‘Brimful of Asha’ 110 cosmopolitanism 161, 166 coul rup ceremony 131, 132 creative process 55, 161, 163, 168, 173 Cui Jian 51–2, 58 n. 33, 225–6 cultural heritage 3, 199 cultural identity 6, 8, 18, 22, 49, 104, 105, 111, 116, 120, 131, 132, 133, 141, 166, 173, 183, 193, 196 cultural preservation 171 DaMatta, Roberto: Carnavais 62, 63 Dan, Ikuma 181 dan (female roles) 173

Index 231 1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 4 45111

dance drama see wuju DCS 114 Deng Xiaoping 164 design 162, 163, 169, 172 devadasi 92, 96, 97; banning of 93; dedication of 93 De Vos, George A.: ‘Ethnic Pluralism’ 52 dhol 118 dhrupad 118, 122 diaspora: definition 2–4 difference 204, 205, 207, 209, 210, 215, 218 directors 162, 163, 168, 169, 172, 206, 210, 211 displacement 1, 2, 3; British Asian 118; Cambodian 6, 141; Korean 54; Nagi 144–58; Vietnamese 130, 131 diversity 5, 7, 11, 227; Australian 205–6; British South Asian 105, 106, 114, 123; Japanese 205–6; Korean 222; Singapore 32 Dream of the King of Qi 166 Dutoit, Charles 23 Eastern Eye 121 Eloy, Jean Claude 182 emotionalism 164 Emperor Qianlong in Jiangnan 166 Endo, Kenny 80, 87, 88, 89 English language 115, 140, 216, 217, 224; Jingju 161–75 erhuang 164 Er Woo Amateur Music and Dramatic Association 34–6 ethnicity 4, 6, 31, 39, 53, 61, 64, 66, 70, 73, 75–90, 196, 197, 205, 224 ethnic minority 5, 7, 18, 45, 46, 47, 62, 111 experts 163, 17 Farrell, Gerry 98 Fei, Faye: China Dream 7 female roles see dan Fensham, R. 209 festivals 9, 20, 23, 31, 67, 75, 79, 101, 116, 133, 163, 165, 179 filmi 109–10, 113, 118, 123 Finnegan, Ruth: Hidden Musicians 106 foreign exchange 25 Foss, Lukas 181 Foucault, Michel: History of Sexuality 7 Fun-da-Mental: Erotic Terrorism 122

gagaku 176–203 Galliano, Luciana: Yogagku 179 Gao Yiming 164 Geertz, Clifford 5 geju 19 Gekidan Kaitaisha 204–18 gender 1, 6, 9, 122, 123, 215 geo-politics 9, 43, 55, 205 ghazal 116, 118, 123 girdha 122 globalization 20, 21, 23, 27, 204–20, 221, 224, 225, 226–7 Goodness Gracious Me 122 Grau, Andrée: ‘Dance and Cultural Identity’ 100 Great Occasion in the Zhen Guan Years, A 165, 166 Greenstein, M.A.: ‘Bharata Natyam’ 98 Grotowski, Jerzy 208, 212, 213 Gujarati 105, 115, 120 guoyue 37 guqin 164 guru 112 gurudwara 116 guzheng 37, 164 haipai 161, 163, 164 Hall, Stuart: ‘Cultural Identity and Diaspora’ 5; ‘Who Needs “Identity”?’ 155 handiao 35 hanju 34, 35, 36, 37, 38 harmony see music Harrison, Lou 177, 182 Hartely, John: Communication, Cultural and Media Studies 5 Haslett, Moyra: Marxist Literary and Cultural Theories 208, 215 Hawai’i 166–73 Hayashi, Fusao 181 hayashi 78, 79, 81 Heera 113, 114 Heifetz, Robin J.: ‘East–West Synthesis in Japanese Composition’ 182 Herd, Judith Ann: ‘Change and Continuity in Contemporary Japanese Music’ 180 Hindi 105, 115 Hindustani (North Indian) music 110, 111, 115 Hinomaru–Kimigayo scandal 205 hogaku 181 Holle Holle 114

232 Index Holm, David: ‘Folk Art as Propaganda’ 162 homeland: idealization of 2, 6, 10; memory of 2, 5, 6; traditions 6 Hong Kong 17, 18, 20, 25, 26, 37, 170 Honolulu 166–73 Hosokawa, Toshio: Tokyo 1985 193 huaju 19, 165 hualian (painted-face roles) 173 huaqiao 18, 21 huayue 37 Hustlers HC 122 hybridity 1, 5, 134, 155, 161, 163, 164, 165, 193 Ichiyanagi, Toshi 181 identity 17–27, 30, 32, 33, 38, 39, 40 Ikenouchi, Tomojiro¯ 179–80, 181 imagination 60, 64, 107, 130, 131, 136, 137, 141, 188, 217 immigration 166, 170, 171 Indonesia 17, 18, 144–58 innovation: tradition and 6, 7, 10, 19, 87, 88, 121, 138, 140, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 169, 171, 173 inspiration 167, 169 intellectuals 162, 163, 165, 171 interculturalism: globalization and 206, 208–9; universalism and 217 interethnicity 1 Irrigation Stewards 50 Ishii, Maki 182 Ivy, Marilyn: Discourses of the Vanishing 216 Iyer, E. Krishna 93 Izawa, Shu¯ji 178 Jameson, Fredric: ‘Notes on Globalization as a Philosophical Issue’ 204, 217 Japan 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23; Meiji Restoration 177, 178 Japanese Youth Association, São Paulo 66 Japanese-Brazilians 61–74 Jiangsu 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 171 Jikken Ko¯ bo¯ (the Experimental Workshop) 181 jingju 10, 161–75 jingpai 161, 162 joined-song system see lianquti Joy of Receiving the Land Entitlement 50

Kalakshetra 95 kayagûm 52 Kazakhs 18, 25 Kazakhstan 18, 43, 51, 54 Khan, Nusrat Fateh Ali 116, 121 Khan, Vilayat 111 Khazanchi, Deepak 113 Khmer Rouge 130, 131, 140 Khrushchev, Nikita 44 khyal 118, 122 Kido, Toshiro 182 Kim Pong-Ho 50 Kimura, William 70 kirtan 116 Kiyose, Yasuji 180 Ko, John: ‘Drumming Up a Storm’ 87 Kobayashi, Seido (Kobayashisensei) 85 Kondo¯, Jo¯ 182; ‘Gagaku and Serialism’ 185 Koreans 18, 21, 25, 27, 43–60 Korean Theatre (Chosôn Kûkchang) 48, 49, 51, 54 Kossamak, Queen 137 Kumanireng, Emman: ‘Ingin Bala Pi Nagi’ 154–5 Kurai, Michiko 77, 78 Kurai, Rev. Shuyu 77 Kurai, Shuichi Thomas (Rev. Tom) 76–8, 80, 81, 82, 84, 87, 88, 89 Lao She: Rickshaw Boy 165 Larantuka 144–58 Lee Kuan Yew 30 Leong, David: ‘Oedo Sukeroku Daiko FAQ Sheet’ 79–80, 83 Leopard Cat–Crown Prince Exchange, The 166 Lieberman, Frederic: ‘Contemporary Japanese Composition’ 179 Liu, Judy 171 liupai 161, 166, 172 Liyuan Theatre 25 lok sangit 117 London 91, 94, 95, 97, 106, 111, 113, 114, 138 Lon Nol, General 129 Lutoslawski, Witold 189 Macau 17, 18 Mamiya, Michio 181 Manchester 106, 118 Manchuria 45, 49, 53

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Mandarin 39, 170, 171, 172 Mao Zedong 19, 45, 164 Marienstras, Richard: ‘On the Notion of Diaspora’ 2, 5 Ma Shizeng 22 Matsudaira, Yoritsune 180, 183, 184, 185, 188, 196 Mayuzumi, Toshiro¯ 177, 181 Meduri, Avanthi 96 Mei Lanfang 19, 22, 25, 167 melisma see music melody see music memory 2, 3, 5, 6, 52–4, 216–17 Memory 54 Mengguger 164 Messiaen, Olivier 177, 196; Sept Haïkaï 185; Turangalîla Symphonie 188 method acting 169 metrical types see banshi migration 3, 6, 18, 22, 43–4, 44–5, 46, 53, 54, 61, 66, 68, 70, 109, 123, 131, 154, 166 Mimashi 177, 226 minyue 37 Mitsukuri, Shu¯ kichi 180 Miyagi, Michiyo 180, 181 modernity 17–27 modernization 19–20, 23, 26, 27 modes see diaoshi Moroi, Saburo¯ 179 Motegi, Kiyoko 177, 182–3; ‘Creation of Tradition’ 193 mrdangam 111 multiculturalism: Brazil 70; defined 6; diversity and 7; Singapore 31; state policy and 7 multi-ethnicity: Australia and 205; China 43; Hawai’i 166; Japan and 205; Singapore 31; Soviet Union 43 music: atmospheric 164, 165; change 129–42; and community 144–58; composition 9, 86, 117, 164, 169, 177, 178, 179, 181, 183, 184, 189, 193; function of 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 138, 148–55; harmony 165, 184, 189; melisma 170; melody 48, 50, 124, 136, 150, 151, 164, 167, 170, 179, 183, 184, 185, 189; as necessity 131, 133, 135, 140, 141; popular music 49, 51, 105, 109, 110, 113, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 152–5; rock 49, 51; world 87, 105, 110, 116, 121, 125

Nagi 144–58; community 144–5; culture 145–8; language 145–8; music 148–55; religion 145–8 Nakasone, Audrey 85 Nanjing 10, 162–6, 168, 169, 171, 172, 173 Narang, Nouth 139 nationality 53 national policy 43, 46, 47, 53 neo-colonialism 208 Neto, Manoel Mendes 68 newly written historical drama 19 Newsweek 140 New York 23, 26, 75, 166 New York Times, The 196 Nimmyo, Emperor 178 Nishido¯ Kojin 212, 216 Not Yet It’s Difficult (NYID) 204–18 Ogawa, Felicia: ‘Problemas de identidade socio-cultural no Brasil’ 69–70 Oliver, Paul: Black Music in Britain 105 On the Docks 166 orchestra 33, 37, 38, 49, 164, 165 Orientalism 176, 193 Orr, Leslie: Donors, Devotees and Daughters of God 93 painted-face roles see hualian pan-ethnicity 4 p’ansori 50, 51 Pan-South Asian 108–9, 110, 123 pantomime 165 Pavis, Patrice 209 Peking opera see Beijing/Peking opera Peng Dehuai 164 performance: defined 4–7 Perschetti, Vincent 181 Pesch, Ludwig: Illustrated Companion to South Indian Classical Music 111 piaoyou 171 Pinghua 164 pingtandiao 164 pinpeat 132 pipa 37 place 106, 108, 113, 114, 117, 122 playwrights 162, 163, 168, 172 Pledger, David 206, 207, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214 Pol Pot 130

234 Index popular culture 20, 161, 163, 164; see also music population: diaspora and 2, 5 post-colonial era 1, 2, 6, 30, 33, 34 Prach Ly: ‘The End Is Just the Beginning’ 140 propaganda 49, 50 Punjabi 105, 113, 114, 115, 121 purity 5, 26, 161, 162, 163, 166 P’yôngyang 51 qawwali 116, 122 qupai 164 quyi 164 Rageau, Jean Pierre: Penguin Atlas of Diasporas 3 Ratnam, Anita 96 Ravel, Maurice: Shéhérazade 193 regional drama 24 regional languages 152, 170 Revolutionary Contemporary Jingju 166 Reyes, Adelaida: Songs of the Caged, Songs of the Free 130–1, 133, 137 rhyme 149, 170 Rickshaw Boy (Luotuo Xiangzi) 165 rock music see music Russian Far East 44, 49, 53 Russian Federation 43 Saga, Emperor 178 Sagoo, Bally: Bollywood Flashback 110 Said, Edward: Orientalism 97 Sakhalin 44, 45, 47, 53 Sam, Dr Sam-Ang 139 samba 61–74 samul nori 51 Sandwich, Earl of 166 Sangeet, Apna 114 Sangeeta 110, 123 Sannin no kai (Three-member Group) 181 Santala, Queen 97 sanxian 37 São Paulo 61–74 sarangi 122 Sawhney, Nitin 120 Schechner, Richard 209 Scheer, Edward: ‘Australia/Japan’ 207 Seoul 51 Shakespeare, William 172; Hamlet 214; King Lear 166; Othello 139, 140; Romeo and Juliet 23

Shang Changrong 164–5 Shanghai 20, 51, 161–75 Shanghai Philharmonic 166 Shankar, Ravi 111, 121 Shapiro, Sophiline Cheam 139, 140 shastriya sangit 117 Shen, Fuqing 168 Shen, Xiaomei (Madam Shen) 167–8, 169, 170, 171, 172 Shimizu Shinjin 207, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216 Shinohara, Makoto 177, 182, 184, 196; ‘Wayo no yugo’ 183; Yumeji 189 shishya 112 shou (‘closed’) 170 Shuyu, Rev. 77 Sihanouk, Norodom 137 Simonov, Konstantin: Days and Nights 49 Singapore 17, 18, 22, 23, 30–42, 221 Singh, Malkit 114 Singh, Talvin 120 Sisowath, King 132 sitar 122, 124 Song of the Dragon River 166 source material 164, 165 Southall 105, 113, 114 South Asian music 104–28; classical 110–14, 117, 118, 119, 123; devotional 116; popular 105, 109, 110, 113, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123 south China 32, 35, 166, 171 Soviet Union 43–60; October Revolution 45, 48, 49; Soviet–German War 54 Soysal, Yasemin Nuhoglu: ‘Citizenship and Identity’ 3–4 Spirit of Changbai Mountain, The 54 spoken drama 19, 20, 21, 54, 165 sralai 136 staging 161, 163 Stalin, Joseph 44, 53 Stockhausen, Karlheinz 177, 182, 189 Stokes, Martin: Ethnicity, Identity and Music 106 Stratton, Jon: ‘Singaporean Way of Multiculturalism’ 39 Subbiah, Valli 95 Suharto 18 Sun, William: China Dream 7 Sun Yat-sen 45 Suzuki, Hiroyoshi 181

Index 235 tabla 122 taiko, Asian American 75–90 Taiwan 17, 18, 25, 37, 74, 170 Takahashi, Yuji 182 Takemitsu, To¯ru 176, 177, 181, 196; Shu teiga 188–9 Taki, Rentaro 179 Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy 166 Tale of Ch’unhyang, The 48, 51 Tamil 32, 91, 99, 105, 111, 112, 115 Tanaka, Seiichi (Tanaka-sensei) 80, 84, 85, 86 Tanci 164 Tan Dun 176; Gate 23–4 Tcherepnin, Alexander 180 Teochew 31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 39, 40 Thailand 17, 35, 76, 170 Thau Yong Amateur Musical Association 36–8 Tianjin 20 Togi, Hideki 196 Tokan, Bernard L.: ‘Serewi Nagi’ 154 Tokan, Simon S.: ‘Kebara Nagi’ 153 Tölölyan, Khachig: ‘Nation-State and Its Others’ 2; ‘Rethinking Diaspora(s)’ 2 Tom, Rev. see Kurai, Shuichi Thomas Tomaya, Yu¯zo¯ 181 tourism 23–6, 27 tradition: innovation and 6, 7, 10, 19, 87, 88, 121, 138, 140, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 169, 171, 173; preserving 22, 31, 50, 93, 98, 170, 172, 189 training 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172 translation 1, 6, 165, 168, 170 transnationalism 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 10 Tsoi, Victor 49, 52 Tu, Wei-ming: Living Tree 30 Tukan, Johan Suban: Nagi People 148 Turner, Victor: From Ritual to Theatre 7–8 Uchino, Tadashi: ‘Deconstructing “Japaneseness” ’ 204, 205, 207 United Nations Declaration of Human Rights 122 United States of America 20, 75–90

Urdu 105, 115, 116 Uzbekistan 43, 49, 52 Van Hear, N.: New Diasporas 3 Vargas, Getúlio 62 Veloso, Caetano 61 Vertovec, Steven: ‘Three Meanings of “Diaspora” ’ 3 Vietnam 22, 35, 130, 131, 133, 137 Vivaldi, Antonio: Four Seasons 184 voice, the 163, 164, 165, 167, 170 Wade, Bonnie 179 Wang, Gungwu: China and the Chinese Overseas 30; ‘External China’ 18; ‘Patterns of Chinese Migration’ 18; The Chinese Diaspora 30 wayang 33 Wei, Ru-hua 172 White Haired Girl 166 Wong, Buck 78 Wuhan 20 wuju (dance drama) 19, 50, 54 Xibeidiao 164 xinbian lishi ju see newly written historical drama Xingjiang 18 xipi 164 xiqu 24, 161, 163, 164, 170 Yagi no kai (Goat Group) 181 Yamada, Katsuhiro 179 Yamaguchi, Katsuhiro 181 Yamamoto, Traise 87–8 Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture 46, 50, 54 Yang Haoruan 36, 37 Yen, Ching-hwang: ‘Overseas Chinese Policy’ 21 Yoon, Paul: ‘Musical Spaces and Identity Politics’ 82–3 Yuasa, Joji 177, 181, 182 Yun, Isang 177 Yu Tangchun, the Jade Hall of Spring 169 Zhao Ziyang 164 Zhengyi Temple 25 zhong yue 37