From the (soon to be ex-) Editor Stephen Slawek As this is the last issue of Asian Music that will carry my name as editor, I feel I should preface the issue with a few comments about where the Journal has been, and where it is going. At the time that I assumed the editorial responsibilities of Asian Music, the Journal’s editorial team consisted of a managing editor and a production editor, along with two review editors. The managing editor coordinated the receipt, review, selection, and editing of articles. The production editor coordinated the preparation of camera-ready copy for printing and distribution of the final product in the form of an issue of Asian Music to members of the Society for Asian Music. The Journal was run on a shoestring budget, with income to the Society essentially restricted to subscriptions to the Journal. The production editor at the time, Martin Hatch, had been devoting his energies to the Journal in an editorial capacity for close to 15 years, and was in dire need of relief. I offered to take over the responsibility of getting new Journal issues into camera-ready form before sending them to him to lessen his workload a bit. I soon regretted doing so, as the process of formatting each article to the level of camera-readiness became an onerous and excessively time-consuming task, and looked for an alternative arrangement to set the Journal on a new course. I approached the Journals Division of the University of Texas (UT) Press with a proposal that it review Asian Music for possible inclusion among the journals that they publish. My proposal was reviewed by their Board of Directors and, as readers are aware, accepted. With this development, the need for a production editor disappeared, Marty Hatch received his reprieve, and the managing editor title was reduced simply to “editor.” Soon after taking over the production responsibilities of the Journal, the Journals Division manager, Sue Hausmann, proposed that the Society make Asian Music available for electronic downloads through JSTOR, ProQuest, and Project Muse. The Board of the Society for Asian Music debated this idea. Some members expressed concern that such a move might result in the loss of subscriptions to the Journal, leading to a situation where production costs would outweigh income, which would impact the Society in a most negative way. Arguments to the contrary prevailed, and the requisite legal documents allowing the UT Press and the Society for Asian Music to contract with the © 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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digital distribution agencies were signed. Over the last 3 years, these contracts have generated increasingly large amounts of revenue for the Society for Asian Music, allowing for positive initiatives such as the establishment of the Martin Hatch Award for the best student paper on a topic of Asian Music delivered at the Annual Meeting of the Society for Ethnomusicology (SEM), the establishment of a significant event in the form of an invited keynote speaker to deliver a major presentation arranged by the Society for Asian Music in conjunction with the SEM conference program, and, now, the possibility of a supplemental research grant to be awarded to a doctoral student planning dissertation research in an Asian country. All of these developments, along with the professionalization of the appearance of the Journal, would not have been possible had I not approached the UT Press with the proposal to have Asian Music reside under their copyright, and I take great pleasure in observing how successful the association of the Society for Asian Music with the University of Texas Press has been. I would like here formally to express my thanks to my contacts at the UT Press—Sue Hausmann, Karen Crowther, and her successor, Stacey Salling—for their help in making all of these positive developments possible. I also wish to thank all of my colleagues who lent their expertise to the mission of this journal by serving as reviewers of submissions. As a result of their critical and constructive reviews of submitted papers, the Journal contents over the course of the years I have served as editor have been maintained at a high standard. Of course, thanks also to the authors who trusted me with their work and helped to make Asian Music a top-tier journal in the field of ethnomusicology by submitting their articles to the Journal. In this, my final issue, I am pleased to present three articles that address various aspects of the music of China, one that locates Chinese elements in Thai music, and two pertaining to music in India. The leadoff article by Joys Cheung, a discussion of Confucian ideology in a composition by the Western-trained composer Huang Zi, is a meticulous piece of research that is both theoretically grounded with a novel approach to musical change and virtuosic in its historiography and analytical methods. Kim Chow-Morris’s article follows with an interpretive analysis, based on extensive ethnographic fieldwork, of Taoist religious ideology embodied in the Chinese folk ensemble tradition known as Jiangnan Sizhu. Hon-Lun Yang and Michael Saffle provide a detailed look at the place of the 12 Girls Band in recent Chinese music culture and society and within the global pop-music scene, reviewing and interpreting the various debates that were spawned by the international popularity of this pop girl-group following its emergence on international stages after its creation in the early 21st century. Extending China to Thailand, Terry Miller provides a detailed look at aspects of Thai music that can be seen as resulting from the absorption of elements of Chinese music culture in Thai music and musical instruments, noting the
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existence of a Chinese-Thai community as an ethnic analog of Chinese musical influences in Thai music. David Dennen provides a new look at how traditions of music in India come to be seen as classical, providing a close analysis of the cultural status of the art music of Orissa, the province of southeastern India that resides between the borders of Hindustani and Karnataka music. Lastly, I have included an essay by Kalyan Mukherjea that, with assistance from Peter Manuel, reviews the life and musical works of Radhika Mohan Maitra, an important exponent of the Indian sarod in the 20th century about whom little has been published. It is appropriate that a piece dealing with North Indian instrumental music, something with which I’ve been concerned for the last 40 years, serves to close out the article section of my last issue. I hope the readers of Asian Music share my desire to see the Journal continue well into the future with as much success as it has enjoyed over the last 4 decades. As the world becomes ever more interconnected, critiques have arisen regarding the continuation of age-old labels that serve to divide the globe geographically and culturally, but whose appropriateness in today’s conditions are reasonably questioned. There may come a time, sooner than we think, when Asian music is no longer a tenable umbrella term under which music from the Middle East to the eastern reaches of Indonesia, from Sri Lanka to northern Japan, may reside. I, for one, can’t think of a viable substitute right now. Maybe it will be something my successor, Ric Trimillos, will find necessary to contemplate. As I facilitate the transition of the editorial office from Austin to Honolulu with just a hint of loss, I will look forward to maintaining close involvement with the Society for Asian Music through my active membership on its Board for as long as they’ll have me, and through avidly reading the contents of future issues of the Society’s Journal. It has been a privilege and a learning experience to serve as editor for the past 7 years. The University of Texas at Austin
Singing Ancient Piety and Modernity in “Song of Familial Bliss” (1935): Musical Translation of Huang Zi (1904–1938) in Interwar China Joys H. Y. Cheung Do you know when I began my singing career? I think I was not even four years old. When my father directed Song of China, he invited composer Huang Zi to compose music for the theme song “Song of Familial Bliss,”. . . . This song was extremely popular in schools and among musical professionals, because it was not merely an inserted song in a film, but an amazing art song. I can’t remember how I managed to learn the song, but I would gabble the whole day singing it. Father heard it, and decided to take me to the Chinese New Year Eve party of the United Photoplay Film Company. I had my debut performance that night . . . on a dining table . . . (Fei et al. 2008, 46; translation mine) “Wrap up the moaning of pain, offer your pure heart instead. ‘Honor your own elders as befits elders, and extend this honor to all elders. Honor your own children as befits children, and extend this honor to all children.’ . . . Pursue Great Unity, extend your love to others, Together, we enjoy the heavenly familial bliss.” (From “Song of Familial Bliss”1)
A soprano is singing “Song of Familial Bliss” (“Tianlun ge”) on a modern proscenium stage. Accompanying her singing is a pianist playing at a grand piano to her side. The audience members, who are going to clap hands to applaud after the singing is over, are sitting at their designated seats quietly. Everyone is looking at the performers, listening to their performance attentively (see Figure 1). Such is how “Familial Bliss,” a well-known modern Chinese art song composed by Huang Zi (1904–1938), is typically performed and consumed in a modern concert hall setting. Figure 1 shows a picture of Barbara Fei (Fei Mingyi, b. 1931), an influential soprano and daughter of the acclaimed director Fei Mu (1906–1951), performing on a modern stage. The concert hall practice, developed through the 18th and 19th centuries in Europe and America, became part of Chinese modernity in the early 20th century. In 1935, when Huang Zi composed “Familial Bliss,” concert hall practice and Western musical technology
© 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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Figure 1. Soprano Barbara Fei singing on a modern stage in Hong Kong in 1952 (Fei et al. 2008, 71). Fei and her father, director Fei Mu, left Shanghai and moved to Hong Kong in 1949.
were still new in China. New and modern, the imported Western practice and technology contrasted with preexisting Chinese musical customs and establishments, in which comparable attentive listening in a public performance venue was rare. Despite the newness of the concert hall setting, appreciative Chinese audience members found meanings in new songs such as “Familial Bliss.” Expressing Chinese poetic texts, the modern song medium effectively blends together Western and Chinese musical stylistics. Such a song genre was an important modern musical establishment in China. Different from Chinese classical songs developed in premodern time, such as ci-poem songs and Kun Opera arias,2 these modern songs embrace a vertically oriented sound structure originated from Western functional harmony—the “tonality science” that epitomizes Western musical modernity. The accompanying piano, producing chords and multiple musical parts, smoothly embodies the scientific principles with its industrially cut steel strings, contrasting with the delicate sounds of Chinese silk strings characterized by supple melodic changes and nuanced timbres. The attentive concert practice, developed by the emergent European bourgeoisie who asserted their urbane gentility through art music engagement one or two centuries earlier, silences active social interactions at public performance venues prevalent in premodern China. This series of Western imports came in tandem
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with their underlying notion of “autonomous art,” which believes in a mythical nature of art that transcends the mundane social forces and possesses intrinsic aesthetic values based on its own genius merits (Wolff 1987, 2–5). But in Chinese modernity, the notion of music as autonomous art hardly transcends the social realm. Even though Chinese follow the attention discipline of the European bourgeoisie in the modern concert hall practice, they generally value music in terms of its beneficial connection with the human world. Such an assumption has deep roots in Chinese belief systems and response tendencies, to which Confucianism is a major shaping force. In Confucianism, music as having autonomous value detached from human society does not make sense; music is crucial in fulfilling the essential human needs of virtues, harmony, and order. In Chinese musical modernity, despite radical rejection of Confucianism by iconoclasts—among whom the May Fourth protestors of 1919 were the most extreme and well-known,3 Confucian values and ideals remained vital. As much as Confucianism as a cultural system received continued criticisms and reflections in modernity,4 many of its moral values and social ideals were fundamental to the world views of modern intellectuals, including those who promoted Western musical learning. In the modern song “Familial Bliss,” even a quote from the ancient Confucian classics The Book of Mencius (Mengzi, c. 300 BCE) is cited verbatim—“Honor your own elders as befits elders, and extend this honor to all elders. Honor your own children as befits children, and extend this honor to all children.”5 It may seem old-fashioned, if not regressive, to sing ancient piety in a modern song, for the genre is supposed to celebrate Western tonality science and musical modernity. But it is exactly amid tensions between the ancient Chinese and modern Western that Confucianism had its part in Chinese musical modernity. How did Confucianism work for promoting Western music learning? How were the Chinese promoters of Western music different from the bourgeois patrons and individualism-aspired musicians in Western musical modernity? What were the sociopolitical conditions in interwar China that imprinted the Confucian classics Mencius into the modern song “Familial Bliss”? If the quote from Mencius is didactic in nature, the musical interests generated by “Familial Bliss” imbue the didactic message with a sense of aesthetic pleasure. Skillfully composed by Huang Zi, the song’s Chinese melodic images and the musically uttered Chinese texts account for the aesthetic sense, effectively delivering emotional meanings to modern listeners. But what are the Western musical stylistic imports that Huang Zi employed in the song? How did he adapt the Western song form and functional harmony to Chinese song style and language, generating new but unmistakably Chinese sentiments? These two sets of questions, concerning musical values and stylistics, address the key aspects of Chinese musical modernity emerging in the interwar period.
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To address these questions, this paper first examines the sociopolitical forces in Chinese musical modernity that shaped the production of “Familial Bliss” with Confucianism. I will look into the prevalence of Confucian values in the music advocacy of Huang Zi and his circle, relating their agendas to musical and political institutions that reinforced—and relied upon—those Confucian values. Tracing their lineage of Confucian values sheds new light on the complex political conditions of Republican China in the 1930s that caused the production of “Familial Bliss,” which was originally composed for the politically controversial film Song of China/Tianlun. The second part of the paper addresses the issue of Chinese musical stylistics, analyzing how the engineering of the song selectively adopts and adapts Western elements to expressing sentiments of the Chinese song texts. I propose to take American parlor songs such as “Home, Sweet Home,” and German Lied such as Schumann’s “Die Lotosblume” as major Western song resources from which Huang Zi drew and adapted for “Familial Bliss.” Before coming to the Conclusion, I will briefly return to the social practices of musical production in Chinese modernity, including performance, listening, and composition practices.
Definitions: Translation, Modernity, and Chinese Music Advocates The complex practices of adopting foreign materials and adapting them to local, preexisting communication habits can be theorized as a sort of “translation.” Drawing upon Lydia Liu’s idea of “translingual practice” in her study of “translated modernity” in Chinese literary culture (Liu 1995), I present the concept of “musical translation” to analyze the negotiations that shaped and defined Chinese musical modernity. Translation practices rely on asserting hypothesized “equivalent” meanings in cross-cultural contacts, assuming that commensurable exchange values exist among different cultures (Liu 1999). Emphasizing the agency that makes the equivalence, Liu presents the framework of host/guest relationship that sees the “host” as the initiator of changes resulted from contact with the “guest” culture (Liu 1995, 26–9). In Chinese modernity, Chinese was the “host” in translation practices that identified Chinese equivalence when adopting from the West—the “guest.” Unlike studies of musical “westernization” in the non-West that inevitably locate the West as the “source” of modern musical changes,6 the framework of translation avoids unnecessary fixation that implies the West as a teleological goal.7 A rigorous analysis of translation practices, then, examines both the conditions and mediations that shape and appropriate the trope of equivalence on the host’s side. Applying the translation framework in my inquiry of Chinese musical modernity, I examine how translation practitioners selected and claimed musical resources from both the West and from China’s past to invent new musical changes. I refer to such practices as “musical
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translation,” which involves both discursive valorizations of Chinese meanings in new musical thinking, and sonic valorizations of Chinese meanings in new musical compositions and performances.8 On certain occasions, such as in song presentations, the discursive and sonic elements are mobilized simultaneously. Presenting the framework of musical translation, this study treats the continuation of Confucianism in Chinese musical modernity as a strategic validation practice. Through translation practices, the Chinese expanded the European autonomous art concept in order to realize its local equivalence. In turn, the modifying expansion reinforced the Chinese consumption of the European concept of music as art, a fundamental concept of the whole modernity project. Similarly, the creation of modern Chinese musical stylistics was also a phenomenon of musical translation. In “Familial Bliss,” Huang Zi processed Western functional harmony and Western song style, “tuning” Western song practices to deliver Chinese sounds. Thus, the Confucian piety tribute and the modern Chinese sounds in “Familial Bliss” were validations arising from translation practices. Of course, the ways that these translational validations took shape reflect the unequal power relations between China and the West, conditioned by colonialism. In 1935, 8 years after the Nationalist government reestablished its centralized administration that partially ended years of warlordism, the land concessions given to multiple Western colonial powers since around the mid19th century continued in China. The unequal power relations, resulting from military defeats and war treaties, conditioned how Chinese looked to the West as a major source of universal modernity. But our postcolonial vantage point allows us to see more complex, multiple histories of modernity as globally based phenomena, not produced from within Europe alone and then spread to the rest of the world. Recent studies have suggested, for example, that European capitalism originated from colonial mass organizations outside Europe, or that European capitalism replied upon colonial circuits in its market constitution (Mitchell 2000, 1–4). The Eurocentric metropole theory no longer holds its simplistic validity. To further nuance the complexity of modernity, Timothy Mitchell proposes that the social practice of modernity is so dependent on representation, or “staging,” of the rational order and abstract structure as distinct from reality that every actual performance of the modern is pregnant with possibilities of discrepancy. Experience of the modern is thus bound to engage with what are absent in, or different from the representation, even inside Europe but especially in the non-West. This explains why the singular, universal narrative of modernity persists with its representation power, while different histories of actuality flourish—as an inevitable part of modernity (Mitchell 2000, 16–20). The “representation” practice of Western modernity emerged from the sociopolitical economy of industrial capitalism, Enlightenment beliefs, and scientism discoveries. Musical modernity practiced in 19th-century Europe was founded
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upon the same set of capitalist, scientific, political, and social changes that had been underway for two to three centuries. Max Weber astutely links the founding rational principles in Western capitalism to those that drove the unique properties and organization of Western art music (Weber 1958). The tempered tuning on musical instruments and the structure-revealing form of musical notation worked for the systematic organization of functional harmony as a scientific system, filtering or suppressing the irrational and uncontrollable. As scientists collaborated with the manufacturing operation of musical instruments, technology made possible the expansion of acoustic range as well as the refinement of sound. The division of professionalization among the performer, composer, and conductor mirrored the division of labor in industrialization. The patrons of professional music making shifted from the aristocracy to the growing bourgeoisie. The concomitant new professional management of music gave rise to public, commercial music concerts that evolved to nurture a homogeneous form of attentive listening decorum, celebrating subjective individualism in art appreciation together with a sense of bourgeois gentility of restraint. These social and technological factors conditioned the development of the musical form and style of European art music on the one hand, and sustained the notion of autonomous art on the other. The notion of autonomy in musical art can be traced back to the Greek theorist Pythagorus, who defined music with mathematic and physical laws. Such an emphasis worked for the objectified concept of music in capitalism and the Enlightenment, when printing and staff notation technologies combined to give new meanings to the musical score. Fulfilling values that religion dominated and supplied in past centuries, the musical score as a visualized medium embodied not only scientific structures but also sacred implications. The sacred values, however, no longer came from a theistic anchor in modernity, but lay in the concept of genius developed from humanism, which saw the artist as mythically detached from society, freely expressing his or her aspirations that transcend the social. The new academic discipline of music arising in the 19th century, first institutionalized in music conservatories, inherited and reinforced such a notion of autonomous art (Chanan 1994).9 The myth of autonomous art was an essential “representation” practice—to invoke Mitchell’s idea—that defined Western musical modernity. In social reality, the representation was bound to encounter discrepancy practices. Functional harmony was not an absolutely closed system, staff notation did not contain essential performance details that gave life to people’s musical experience, and the creation processes of musical composition always engaged with ideological influences stemming from the social world. In Chinese musical modernity, different sociopolitical conditions shaped the notion of autonomous art with different interpretative orientations. Compared
10 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 to the European bourgeoisie, active promoters of Western musical science and concert decorum in modern China inherited different kinds of preexisting social, political, and economic resources. Although the Chinese bourgeoisie was rising,10 their modern musical endeavors could have sustainable impact only when they received support from the Nationalist Republican government or the local gentry and officials. While new musical forces in the West celebrated the decay of the old aristocratic regime, their counterparts in Chinese modernity relied upon civil and governmental supports. Influential music pioneers were those who successfully drew resources from such a sociopolitical network for their cause. As diverse—and even conflicting—as their modernity visions, these pioneers all promoted the essential modern concept of “music,” or “yinyue” in Chinese, as an independent and serious field of art, one that brings together cross-genre practices and products. In premodern Chinese musical culture, however, such an umbrella concept did not exist.11 The modern Chinese concept of “music” was a translation of the Western notion of music as autonomous art. An underlying goal of adopting the concept was to assert parity with the modern West, where music—specifically, art music—existed as a distinctive and respected discipline in the society. The pioneers believed in the power of (proper) music to strengthen their nation and national culture. To call attention to their reliance on the translated concept of music in their advocacy, I call these pioneers “music advocates.”12 They were the visionary counterparts of musical professionals and genius in modern Europe, taking pride in Western scientific developments of functional harmony, staff notation, musical instruments, and the sociomusical practices of composition, performance, and listening. However, different from their European counterparts, Chinese music advocates grew up with a different cultural heritage, lived in different sociopolitical conditions, had access to a different pool of economic resources, and were committed to unique nationalistic goals in response to colonialism. Because of their nationalistic visions, many worked diligently as music educators and authors—besides writing and making music—to press for modern changes. Confucianism, a major force in Chinese cultural heritage, permeated different modern and nationalistic endeavors among music advocates, molding their musical translation practices in Chinese modernity.
Confucianism, Interwar Politics, and Huang Zi Huang Zi was an active member among the Chinese music advocates. His musical career illustrates how sociopolitical conditions of interwar China shaped the opportunities of embracing musical modernity. In his versatile endeavors of music education, composition, and essay publications, Confucianism consistently appeared as his major source of Chinese cultural heritage. As I will show
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in this section, Huang Zi’s working relationship with the Education Ministry of the Nationalist government, which provided structural support to his music endeavors, inevitably reinforced the Confucian narrative in his music advocacy. His administrative experience with colonial authority in China and his patriotic involvement against the expanding Japanese invasion continuously strengthened his nationalistic commitment throughout his professional career. Throughout his musical career, Confucianism consistently provided essential cultural values for his sense of national identity. Similar sets of sociopolitical, cultural, and nationalistic factors conditioned how Confucianism supplied crucial meanings to other music advocates of Huang Zi’s circle. In order to understand the immediate factors that imprinted Confucian piety into “Familial Bliss,” therefore, it is necessary to examine how these factors interplayed with one another in Huang Zi’s musical life and in Chinese musical modernity as a whole. In the following, I will first examine how the interplay of those factors conditioned Huang Zi’s career and his translational understanding of music and Confucianism. Then, I will turn to his “Familial Bliss.” At the time Huang Zi wrote the music for “Familial Bliss” in 1935, he had served for 5 years as the Provost and the chief faculty member in theory and composition at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music. He took up these positions shortly after returning to China with a Music degree from Yale University (1929) and a Psychology degree from Oberlin College (1927).13 The strong affiliation with the Conservatory14—the most organized music specialization institute that received support from the Chinese Nationalist government—connected Huang Zi to the music task force of the Ministry of Education. On governmental invitations, Huang served as a key member on the school music education committee in 1934, performing the major duty of writing and editing music textbooks for schools. But Huang Zi took up school music education as his priority mission earlier. Upon graduation at Yale in 1929 and shortly before his return to China, Huang Zi told a local news reporter in New Haven that there was an urgent need to “enlighten” the musical sense of school children in China (Han 1990, 51–2). To realize his nationalistic passion for school music education, Huang composed music for several dozens of school songs, which were published in Teaching Guides for Reviving Junior High School Music Education (Fuxing chuji zhongxue yinyue jiaoke shu), a series of music educational materials that Huang Zi coedited, published by the Commercial Press from 1933 to 1935. About half of Huang Zi’s songs in the series became the core vocal repertoire in the school music curriculum, whereas the other half comprised Chinese cantata and art songs that students and Chinese faculty at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music performed regularly. In the monumental series of Teaching Guides, Huang also published his multipart essay titled “The Appreciation of Music” (“Yinyue de xinshang”). The essay ambitiously presented not only introductory listening
12 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 guides to European classical masterpieces, but also the basics of Western musical structure and form, Western music history, and even a brief outline of Chinese music history. The opportunities for Huang Zi to play an influential role in modern music education came from the transforming political and musical scenes in China, which were just taking new turns. Coincidentally, it was at this time that Huang returned to the country. Huang’s active participation in these opportunities in turn brought new momentum to the changing music scene. Even though Huang’s career upon return to China lasted for only 8 or 9 years—ended by an untimely death in 1938—his various musical endeavors had profound impact on Chinese musical modernity. By the time Huang was invited to join the Shanghai Conservatory of Music in 1930, the Nationalist government had just recently reestablished its political authority with the new Chiang Kai-shek administration based in Nanjing. Putting the chaos of warlordism under more effective control, the Nationalist government exercised a more centralized scheme of rulership, trying to build a solid administrative structure while removing anti-Nationalist forces. The Shanghai Conservatory of Music—the first national Chinese institute specializing in music training15—was established in late 1927 upon receiving enough basic support from the renewed Nationalist administration. Huang Zi’s return to China happened at the right time, when the key founder of the Conservatory, Xiao Youmei (1884–1940), was looking for a competent music faculty and administrator to build the young institute. With his position at the Conservatory, Huang Zi quickly became connected to the growing Chinese musical network in Shanghai, asserting influences at different institutions. While serving on the school music education committee of the Ministry of Education, Huang Zi obtained for his Conservatory students access to the best Western art music resources in the neighborhood, especially those provided by colonial forces of the city. Shanghai was a port city mapped with both dominant zones of colonial concessions—which had their first presence after the defeat of Qing-dynasty China in the Sino-British Opium War (1839–1842)16—and fragmented Chinese-ruling zones.17 For Xiao Youmei, the Conservatory founder, Shanghai was more appealing than the centuriesold capital city of Beijing to be China’s modern music center because of its vibrant cosmopolitan culture. The internationally renowned Shanghai Municipal Orchestra, which was maintained by the British-led administration in the International Settlement, gathered world-wide musical talents of professional Western art music training (Han 1999). (Also, of course, the globally routed port of Shanghai circulated the most recent Western musical news and products to its residents.) To take advantage of such a remarkable musical group for his students, Huang Zi knocked at the door of the Italian conductor Mario Paci (1878–1946) to obtain free student access to their rehearsals. As an accomplished
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composer with a highly acclaimed graduation work from New Haven,18 which Paci performed with his orchestra in 1930, Huang Zi acquired the permission without apparent difficulties. Meanwhile, Huang Zi gained a reputation among both Chinese and colonial social dignitaries in Shanghai. In 1932, he was invited to serve as a Chinese representative on the music committee of the Shanghai Municipal Council, the administrative organ of the International Settlement. But as much as Huang Zi wanted to balance the war of interests between local Chinese and colonial forces, he consistently safeguarded the collective interests of the Chinese—however diverse those interests were.19 Besides standing on the Chinese side at the Shanghai Municipal Council, Huang Zi earned his reputation also with patriotic deeds throughout the 1930s. Indeed, shortly after taking up the positions at the Conservatory, Huang Zi plunged into active musical patriotism to resist the intensifying Japanese invasion in northeast China. He wrote music for war songs, and even organized musical campaigns to collect donations for military supplies. These nationalistic ventures further strengthened Huang Zi’s ties to the Nationalist political authority, securing for him an increasingly favorable reputation among book publishers and the Ministry of Education through the 1930s. Huang Zi’s amicable relationship with the Nationalist administration accounted for the opportunities he received in promoting music education—a modern enterprise structurally dependent on governmental resources. In both the Nationalist mandate of governance and the goals of the music education program, social and moral values based in Confucianism comprised an essential source of legitimacy. Nurturing Confucian morality in school children had always been an important goal in modern Chinese school education policy, which was officially implemented by the imperial Qing government in the 1900s— shortly before the last imperial dynasty fell in 1911. Teaching Confucian virtues, especially values of loyalty, was emphasized along with teaching modern subjects such as science. Confucius was honored in modern schools through sacrificial ceremonies (Wu 1999, 10). The Republican government formally incorporated music in the modern school curriculum in 1912. The music program emphasized instruction in “school songs” (yuege), a modern genre adopted from the Japanese model of shoka. “School songs” usually incorporated adjusted European or Japanese tunes to set Chinese texts. What made the Japanese music practice appealing to the Chinese education policymakers was its combination of song singing and Western music learning with Confucian ethical teaching, especially after the 1880s (Kurozumi 2002). As the Chinese Education Ministry instructed, teachers should teach “school songs” in order to “cultivate moral character” among school children (Wu 1999, 15–6). Such ethical emphasis resonated at all levels of the modern education institution, including music specialization training at the Conservatory. The founding
14 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 of the Conservatory was made possible with the support of Cai Yuanpei, the erstwhile Minister of Education who was the first chancellor of the National University of Peiping in 1916. Cai Yuanpei played a key role in soliciting government support for the unprecedented national music institute. Aside from the personal factor that Cai Yuanpei was an acquaintance of Xiao Youmei, the Conservatory idea struck good terms with his own philosophy of “aesthetic education” adopted from Germany (Duiker 1972). Underlying his translational vision and the Conservatory project was the conviction that Western art music learning well served ethical cultivation in modern China. Guided by such emphasis on Chinese morality, then, a similar set of beliefs and values supported music teaching in both modern schools and the Conservatory. Both institutions were also under the same regulatory mechanism of the Ministry of Education. As the modern musical genre of Chinese school songs functioned in modern schools to transmit Confucian moral values, the modern genres of Chinese art songs and choral cantatas performed a similar function at the Conservatory. Aesthetics rooted in the Western idea of autonomous art, that the highest musical values were detached from social forces, did not make much sense in such an educational system. In contrast, musical teaching embedded with Confucian values easily made its imprint in the minds of school children and music students. Despite voices of anti-Confucianism that pressed for radical sociopolitical changes in the early interwar period, Confucian values were by no means alien to school children. For one, Chinese classics developed from more than two millennia of Confucian guidance were maintained as a crucial subject in modern school curriculum, not to mention private schooling of the old style. Huang Zi’s ancestral background in the Qing-dynasty officialdom gave him easy access to the impressive collection of Chinese classics and arts at home.20 As his parents and close relatives were reform-minded modern educators,21 Huang Zi grew up with a solid training in Chinese classics. He was particularly fond of classical poetry of the Tang and Song dynasties. Meanwhile, he had been a school song lover ever since his mother sang them to him at bedtime (Huang 1937, 1). Despite the foreign origins of most Chinese school songs, their melodic adjustment and their Chinese textual poetics appealed to Huang Zi as Chinese songs. Confucian values that had shaped the values and beliefs of Huang Zi since early childhood, therefore, came not only from Chinese classical learning, but also from school songs and modern schooling. Indeed, Huang Zi was so adept at the Confucian narrative during his junior high school years that when his dear uncle Huang Puqi (1892–1968)—a textile engineer by profession—did not support his musical interests, he defended serious music learning not only with quotes of renowned European thinkers but also with references to the lives of Confucius and Confucian sages. Also, Huang Zi found Confucian moral values
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in the cited European ideas, asserting a hypothesized value equivalence between great thoughts of the West and of China. Such translational arguments are best found in a family letter that Huang Zi wrote to his uncle, dated March 13, 1919 (Huang [1919] 1997). To show the importance of music in human life and society, Huang Zi sought support from a dozen European authoritative figures in literature and philosophy of the past two centuries. Citing influential thinkers and writers such as Goethe, Kant, Tolstoy, Kropotkin, and Thackeray,22 Huang told his uncle that music is not merely a form of entertainment, but the loftiest form of fine arts. The lofty nature of music, as Huang Zi explicated, lay in its transforming potentials. When one fully realizes the lofty potentials, music can powerfully balance one’s personality flaws and inspire a peacemaking heart, bringing social benefits to human society. Such a narrative had always been fundamental to Confucian beliefs of music. Through a translational frame, Huang Zi moved back and forth between European thinkers and Confucian sages in delivering the same argument. In the middle of his European discussion, Huang Zi reminded his uncle that music in ancient China was one of the “six practical arts” (liuyi)—the six basic subjects of education that complemented classics learning in the Zhou Dynasty (1122 BCE–256 BCE)—subjects that Confucius and his disciples professed. Also, following the long Confucian practice, Huang sought legitimatization from the sage Minister Zhou (c. 1100 BCE), who was revered as establishing the most perfect forms of music and ritual in the whole Chinese civilization. The ancient Confucian practice did not matter for ancient China only, however. As Huang Zi suggested, the ancient practice rooted in Chinese history resonated with the pedigree of European ideas on music and arts, though only the latter represented “the mainstream trend of the contemporary world” (Huang [1919] 1997, 1). Such a translational interpretation of European musical thinking and Chinese practice, which Huang Zi would elaborate in his published writings more than a decade later, thus had already taken shape in his early youthful mind during junior high school years. Huang Zi’s letter has further implications. It reflects real suspicions among modern Chinese professionals that music did not have practical use for building up the nation. Compared with engineering machines that had the potential to affect economic and military developments, these professionals saw music as mere entertainment at best, and as a waste of mind power at worst. Trying to change such an attitude held by his engineer uncle—an authoritative paternal figure in his family—Huang Zi explained how music had social and political significance comparable to that of the “production enterprise” (shengchang shiye) of manufacturing and military industries. The Confucian moral discourse, as the family letter indexes, was the best legitimatization source that allowed Huang to
16 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 align music with political and educational enterprises. Even before launching his professional musical career—when music was still an unpretentious leisure activity—Huang Zi already identified musical values in Confucian terms. Huang Zi’s translational thinking, as I have traced, came from the larger discourse of modern music education. Indeed, modern school music education—gradually becoming institutionalized around the time when Huang Zi was born—was crucial to the genealogy of Chinese musical modernity. On the one hand, musically inclined individuals who aspired to pursue a career in music as a serious, professional endeavor in modernity had to join the emerging modern education institution, working with its Confucian foundation. On the other, they directly relied upon the Confucian rhetoric to justify music as a modern subject of learning that served national causes. The institutional need and internal logic of such a justification narrative shaped Huang Zi’s generation; many who received formal Western art music training would apply the Confucian narrative to their advocacy of organized Western art music learning. The extant document that best informs us of Huang Zi’s translated understanding of music is his “The Appreciation of Music” (“Yinyue de xinshang”), first presented as a lecture given at the Shanghai College of Fine Arts only a few months after his return to China in 1929. The lecture presented a three-level approach to appreciating music as a branch of fine arts: “Sensual appreciation,” “emotional appreciation,” and “intellectual appreciation.” Drawing from Western music theory, accompanied with some Western painting discussion and likely combined with psychology perspectives, Huang Zi talked about basic concepts of music and fine arts that were necessary for one to deeply understand music as a listener. Beethoven’s famous “fate motive” from the Fifth Symphony and American tunes such as “Star Spangled Banner” and “Old Folks at Home” were used as musical examples, with illustrations in staff notation. To define music as having unique properties distinctive from other branches of fine arts, Huang Zi drew upon ideas developed from the Western culture of autonomous art. He cited Walter Pater, the English art scholar who regarded music as the highest form of art because of music’s aspirations to “pure feeling,” and its exclusive aesthetic meaning (Schoen 1942, 22–3). With Pater’s thought, Huang Zi discussed the supreme union of “content” and “form” in music (Huang [1929] 1997, 28). Following such an identification, Huang Zi continued that “the meaning of music is—of course—[inherent in] the music itself, not based on things in the external world” (ibid.). Huang Zi illustrated the idea with an anecdote of Beethoven, who once explained the meaning of his newly composed sonata piece by playing it at the piano repeatedly without making verbal comments. The meaning of “pure music,” Huang Zi concluded, could not be explained in words. Had Huang Zi closely followed the larger Western notion of art for art’s sake, he would have contended that music did not serve functions other than its own
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aesthetic nature and properties. But in Huang Zi’s translational interpretation, the transcendent nature of music as detached from the external world was never an ultimate emphasis. It is likely that Huang Zi’s idea about music’s unique meanings resonates with what Charles Seeger described as “the unspeakable” nature of music: that music engages a mode of communication distinct from that of language, but its value still lies in an “act of interest” related to the society and individual (Grimes 1999, 72–3). The emotional and life experience factors that Huang Zi emphasized in the lecture revealed the importance of social relations in his concept of music. In his view, what triggers the composer to compose music originates from what is being felt in the composer’s heart. Meanwhile, the music being composed unintentionally reflects the composer’s personality, shaped by the composer’s life background and character (Huang [1929] 1997, 32). For the listener to deeply understand musical meanings, then, it is necessary to know about the composer’s life and character. Such an approach of balancing musical inquiries with contextual factors (which sounds familiar to current practicing musicologists) subtly differed from the prevailing currents of Huang Zi’s time, which still tended to emphasize one-sidedly the genius personification of the composer. Indeed, the way Huang Zi described the phenomenon of music making strongly resembles a classic definition of music expounded at the beginning of the Confucian classics Record of Music (Yueji; c. 100–1 BCE): In all cases, the arising of music (yin) is born in the hearts of men. The movement of men’s hearts is made so by [external] things. They are touched off by things and move, thus they take shape in [human] sound (sheng). Sounds respond to each other, and thus give birth to change. Change forms a pattern, and this is called music (yin). (Cook, trans. 1995, 24–5).
The similar image of a sensitive heart responding to the external world was alive in Huang Zi’s description. Unlike the attribution of musical wonders to the composer genius one finds in the Western autonomous art culture, Huang Zi’s discussion seems to retain the triangular relationship between music, the human heart, and the external world defined in Record of Music. The “heart” (xin) in the Confucian classics is indeed more than simply a sensor of emotion. Often translated as “heart/mind,” the classical concept sees the human intellectual and affective faculties as essentially inseparable. The same holistic mode of thinking also underlies the integrative approach that defines music as linked to the human agent and the external world. Different from the Western notion of the genius mind that tends to transcend the social, the Confucian notion of the musical “heart/mind” dwells in its interaction with the surroundings. Based on such an interactive view, great music in Confucianism originates from a genuineness with which the “heart/mind” responds to the surroundings, engaging a moral act that necessarily involves certain affective involvement.23 For the
18 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 listener to deeply understand great music, then, the “heart/mind” responses that give birth to the music—reflected in the organized musical sound—are meaningful aspects to feel and know. Continuing such a fundamental Confucian view of music, Huang Zi presented the social and emotional factors as integral parts of musical phenomena in his lecture. In contrast, emotion in Western musical modernity has a relatively uneasy relationship with practices that seek to pursue the scientific and rational ideal, which Rose Rosengard Subotnik characterizes as “structural listening” (Subotnik 1996, 154–60). When emotion gained prominence in Romanticism, it appeared more as a rebellious antithesis to the prevalent rationalism than a trend that would alter the rationalist foundation of “structural listening” and the concept of autonomous art. But for Huang Zi, both emotion and sound structure were indispensable aspects of music. Re-telling sensual and affective experiences inspired by music was a common subject in classical Chinese poetry. As poetry was a common genre of classical Chinese learning in modern school curriculum, musical experiences of poets re-enacted by their brilliant verses continued to live in the collective memory of educated Chinese. Suggestive details that comprise a poetic occasion—the event, the time, and place—as well as subjective feelings and thoughts of human agents, all contribute to the poetics invoked by a literary play of words. The pleasure and memory generated by such Chinese poetics continued to be part of their readers’ imagination of music in Huang Zi’s time, so much so that Huang Zi opened his lecture with the Tang-dynasty poem Ballad of Pipa (Pipa xing). Although Huang Zi could have singled out the sonic aspect of the plucked sounds of the pipa (four-stringed pear-shaped lute), which are marvelously described in the poem, he focused on the emotional resonances that the pipa performance triggered in the poet Bo Juyi and in himself as a reader: Now that I . . . have tasted a little more the sadness and joy of separations and unions in life, when I read this poem, I gradually understand more the feelings of drifting loneliness that Bo experienced since the demotion [from the imperial office]. (Huang [1929] 1997, 26; translation mine)24
The technical aspect of the pipa music was not the focus of Huang Zi, given his disapproving stance toward the technological development of preexisting Chinese music.25 Nonetheless, he mentioned the life frustrations of the pipa player, how she effectively conveyed her loneliness in the music, resonating with the Tang poet Bo Juyi, and reaching Huang Zi himself. Elaborating upon the emotional aspect of fine arts as related to the artist’s life experience, Huang Zi demonstrated to his audience how it would enhance one’s appreciation of music with better knowledge of the biography and personality of the composer, among other contextual factors. Such an emphasis assumed that genuine life and affective experiences would, as natural phenomena, shape the processes of musical
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expression and reception. The millennia-old Confucian concepts and style of engaging music, which shaped the musical world of poets in the Tang dynasty, continued to influence Huang Zi and his modern audience. With such an integrative and moralized framework of musical understanding, associating musical sound organization with particular emotive characters was an ordinary mode of thinking. It therefore made sense to the Chinese audience when Huang Zi explained how emotional expressions in Western music were conveyed through different aspects of sound patterns and qualities, including keys, scales, rhythmic patterns, phrasing style, dynamic variations, melodic contour, consonance and dissonance, and instrumental timbres (Huang [1929] 1997, 31–2). In the Western autonomous art tradition, however, classified emotional association tended to carry secondary weight, serving the structural rationality that the order of pitches presented. Or emotion in its abstract appeal could be turned into a metaphysical form of “pure feeling,” in which detailed classification of music-emotion correspondences became irrelevant. For the general Chinese audience, in contrast, learning those concrete correspondences was crucial to making Western music a meaningful expression. But to Huang Zi, the emotional appeal of Western music did not grow into the glorified subjectivism of European Romanticism, which believed that the sacred score contained the composer’s subjectivity, awaiting the performer’s faithful re-creation. To Huang Zi, Beethoven’s eschewal of explaining musical meaning with words did not merely show that music meaning was unspeakable. It also revealed the fact that “Music has inexhaustible flavors for people to taste—you can have your way to think about it, others can have their ways to think about it” (Huang [1929] 1997, 27). The European idea that music is a closed, objectified vessel containing transcendent musical meanings did not make much sense in Huang Zi’s view. Instead, continuing the Confucian-based integrative, experiential concept of music, Huang Zi’s translated discourse defined music in an intersubjective world of interpretations, existing as a phenomenon of human responses to life circumstances with morally based genuineness. But did Huang Zi’s teaching of the “intellectual” aspect of musical appreciation, with illustrations of Western musical form and technique, bring any changes? The structural concepts of Western music theory were indeed new knowledge to modern Chinese. In the lecture, Huang Zi taught his audience a list of such new kinds of knowledge: classified types of textural relations among musical parts, the unity of musical structure based on organic development of the motive, and the patterns of phrasing and sectional divisions that defined a particular kind of musical form. However, adopting these structural concepts and analytical perspectives did not necessarily alter the integrative and moralized concept of music developed from Confucianism. Rather, filtered through Huang Zi’s persuasive translation, the change that the technological adoption
20 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 brought was a substantial expansion of structural and technical possibilities with which Chinese engaged with music in modernity.26 Guided by the lively Confucian legacy, Chinese “hosting” of the Western autonomous art establishment was selective and locally tailored. Even to the extremist music advocate Liao Shangguo (1893–1959),27 who openly rejected the Confucian association of music with ritual, the Western idea of music as socially transcendent did not make good sense. As much as Liao wanted to promote German ideas to his musically curious readers,28 he showed skepticism toward Schopenhauer’s metaphysical concept of music, and did not believe that music could exist on its own without collective human relevance—a belief that ironically echoed the Confucian-based musical foundation (Liao [1930] 1947, 6).29 Huang Zi did not focus on the European metaphysical discourse either, but emphasized what could chime well with familiar Chinese beliefs and values that he obtained from family, society, and education—especially classical poetry. The musical examples he selected to illustrate his teaching, such as the American parlor song “Old Folks at Home,” had direct appeal to the modern Chinese community to which he belonged. The stake of his advocacy was music’s legitimacy in the nation-building project, which for him was a matter of life and death under colonial pressure. The Confucian belief that great music would strengthen human character and society served well the sociopolitical discourse in Chinese modernity. Besides colonial pressure, various campaigns of the Nationalist government also shaped the complex sociopolitical condition of interwar China. As the administration—recently settled in Nanjing—attempted to secure its power over a divided nation, Confucian moral values were appealing not only for moral rectification effect, but also national strengthening and unification. The New Life Movement, launched in early 1934, was the most (in)famous campaign that essentialized Confucianism together with values and principles drawn from Christianity and the founding Republican doctrines.30 The goal of the New Life Movement was to nurture courage among the people, “a capacity to endure hardship,” “a habit and instinct for unified behavior,” and a willingness “to sacrifice for the nation at all times.”31 Eventually, fascist elements in the ideology and in its implementation failed the movement’s goals, causing confusion and, instead, arousing more dissension and resistance against the Nationalist government. But during the course of the movement, especially in its beginning, leaders from different sectors of the society tried to show at least rhetorical support to New Life ideologies while presenting something good to the public. The conscious ones among the visionaries attempted to do so without sacrificing their professional integrity. The new musical endeavors that Huang Zi and his circle at the Conservatory engaged in during 1934 directly or indirectly lent support to the New Life
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Movement. These endeavors included conducting a new radio broadcasting program, forming a new music society, and releasing new publications. The publication that showed the most explicit support of the movement was Xiao Youmei’s The New Lives of Music Masters (Yinyuejia de xinshenghuo), a hagiography of nine European master composers who, in Xiao Youmei’s interpretation, demonstrated model virtues and life attitudes that resonated with Confucian ideal personalities and New Life ideologies (Xiao 1934b).32 In a less direct way, Huang Zi published a biography of Brahms that, besides offering substantial discussion of musical compositions, presented the German composer as having admirable moral characters commonly found among “great people” (weiren).33 Such moral commentaries were a result of projecting Confucian personality values onto European composers, a practice found in Huang Zi, Xiao Youmei, and other Western music biographers or hagiographers during the year 1934. Compared to before that year, music advocacy of Huang Zi’s circle more frequently and directly cited Confucian values and classical texts in published writings; influences of the New Life Movement were thus evident.34 Directly or indirectly, the unprecedented New Life initiatives also brought to music advocates new capital and resources, encouraging stronger sociopolitical interests in their music advocacy. For example, the Education Bureau of the Chinese-governed municipal administration invited the Shanghai Conservatory of Music to radio broadcast their live music performance once a week, from October 1934 to June 1935.35 The program of their performance, mainly drafted by Huang Zi, was printed in the Chinese newspaper New Evening News: Music Weekly (Xin yebao: yinyue zhuankan) in advance. As a government-invited production addressed to the general public, the performance program routinely began with “Party Song” and/or the national anthem, no matter if the program was featuring Western classical music or Chinese songs (Huang 1934b, 1934c). Also, with the support of the director (Pan Gongzhan [1894–1975]) of the Education Bureau, leading members of the Conservatory and their like-minded friends formed the Association of Music, Arts, and Literature (Yinyue yiwen she) in 1934. The Association published the journal Music Magazine (Yinyue zazhi), which had four volumes printed during that year. Although the journal was under Nationalist censorship and thus inevitably complied with the New Life rhetoric, the scope of the musical discussion and the information included were impressive. They were not simply propagandistic musical speakers for the Nationalist government, but included modern musical perspectives representative of the translational discourse that had emerged since the early 20th century. Defining the value of music in Chinese modernity, the translational discourse saw music with technological terms, measured musical achievements of Chinese history with an evolutionary gauge, and envisioned Chinese essence in music (Cheung 2008, 237–325). The kind of musical knowledge presented in the
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journal, as well as in other publications of 1934, defined foundational trends of musical thinking in Chinese modernity, trends that have their influence even to this date. Indeed, the ascendance of Confucianism for Huang Zi and his circle in 1934 was a moral turn that originated from the school music movement earlier. During the New Life Movement, music advocates continued their translation practice that mediated the Western autonomous art concept through the Confucian integrative, socially bounded concept of music. Different from the early years of the school music movement, music advocates now had to cope with a new set of ideological imperatives imposed by the Nationalist government. But despite the coercive means of censorship and control, the imposed ideologies included familiar Confucian moral values that had already been part of the music advocacy. The New Life Movement did not change fundamental beliefs and orientations in musical translations of Huang Zi and like-minded music advocates, though it certainly generated political pressure and restraints in their translation practice. It was in such a complex sociopolitical condition that Huang Zi composed music for the song “Familial Bliss,” a theme song of the film Song of China. Song of China (hereafter, SOC) is a film that United Photoplay Service (Lianhua) produced in 1935.36 The film producer Lo Ming-Yau (Luo Mingyao, 1902–1967), also founder of United Photoplay and a movie theater chain tycoon, intended to reinforce the New Life spirit in the film with a theme of filial piety. SOC featured how a son receives from his dying father the Confucian teaching of treating the elders and children. The son tries to realize the teaching by opening an elderly center and orphanage two decades later, and passes the teaching to his children and grandchildren. His rebellious children and grandchildren, however, bring to him and his wife frustrations and pain. At the end, the wayward children and grandchildren repent and return.37 Because of SOC’s apparent ideological connection with the New Life Movement, Leftist or quasi-Leftist film critics generally criticized its lack of progressiveness. Although it was directed by Fei Mu (see Figure 2),38 who later earned the honorable title “poet director,” SOC is ranked the lowest among his productions (Cheng 1963, 350–1; Chen 2000, 90–1). Like Huang Zi, however, Fei Mu took Confucian values as a lively and meaningful part of Chinese culture. Five years later, in 1940, he even created the film Confucius (Kongfuzi). Renewing the nation’s understanding of the Confucian sage, Fei Mu presented his patriotic criticism against the Japanese invasion in that film (Fei 1940, in Huang, ed. 1998, 65–72).39 Thus, despite the New Life ambition of United Photoplay in producing SOC, and the restraints it inflicted upon Fei Mu, Confucian teaching of filial piety and its practice in the modern time was a relevant subject in Chinese filmic modernity. In this light, SOC involved negotiations between Confucian moral values and the essentialized New
Figure 2. Members of the Song of China production team in front of the Grand Theatre in Shanghai, where the film had its debut screening. Fei Mu is at the far right (Yang 2006, 112). The music production team is not included, unfortunately.
24 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Life ideologies. Because of the SOC film production, a modern song that sings the ancient teaching of filial love came into being. The scriptwriter of the film, Zhong Shigen, was also the text writer of the theme song, “Familial Bliss.” At the invitation of Fei Mu, Huang Zi became the music composer of the song. “Familial Bliss” was not just another song written for the popular medium of film, however. In the same year, Huang Zi published the essay “Music in Film” (“Dianying zhong de yinyue”) in which he differentiated “pure and righteous music” (chunzheng yinyue) from “licentious tones” (meimei zhi yin), denouncing the latter as degenerate popular music—or “yellow music”—that prevailed in the film industry.40 As Huang Zi intended, “Familial Bliss” was not a new piece of “yellow music” for musicians to play at the dance halls. It had the lofty ideal of extending honors, reverence, and kindness to other people, celebrating the “heavenly” familial bliss, and even singing aspirations for the Confucian utopia of supreme harmony in human society—“great unity.”41 Despite the mild reception of SOC among the Chinese filmgoers, the theme song soon became a well-received modern art song, characterized by its Confucian ethic and creatively fashioned Chinese sounds. Beyond movie theaters, “Familial Bliss” began to be performed and heard at concert performances that took place in modern concert hall settings.
Chinese Sounds in “Familial Bliss” For appreciative Chinese art song singers and listeners, “Familial Bliss” embraces a modern gentility with its graceful piano accompaniment. “Familial Bliss” is also unmistakably a Chinese song; the pleasing piano elegantly embellishes and enhances poetic expressions of the Chinese text. What constitutes the gracefulness of the Western piano, however, lies beyond the pleasant keyboard timbre. On the one hand, the piano invokes the refined Western bourgeois sentiments associated with the German Lied and American parlor songs. On the other hand, it embodies the modern foundation of Western musical science. What constitutes the Chinese style and feeling in the musical sounds of the song, then, is a complicated question. Similar to Chinese adaptation of the Western autonomous art concept, creating modern Chinese sounds was a translation practice. In such cases, modern Chinese composers adapted Western musical techniques and forms to Chinese musical stylistics. While we could trace preexisting local musical values to Confucianism, however diverse its philosophical tenets and practice systems are, it is difficult to single out a fixed Chinese musical-stylistic tenet that modern composers necessarily employed to project Chineseness. Indeed, because the sound organization of music involves the simultaneous unfolding of various pitch- and time-related patterns at multiple structural levels, an inquiry of musical stylistics
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needs to examine a multitude of sound aspects. This section attempts such an inquiry, presenting an interpretative analysis of Huang Zi’s translation practice in organizing musical sound in “Familial Bliss.” To begin, let me first introduce the interestingly mixed Chinese-Western musical character of the song. Generally heard, the most salient Chinese character of “Familial Bliss” comes from its pentatonic melodic style. The beginning part of the vocal melody, preceded by a piano introduction based on the same melodic material, sets the song with a Chinese pentatonic flavor. Using the scale degrees 1–2–3–5–6 as the main tonal materials and de-emphasizing 4 and 7, the vocal melody embodies a style that invokes a common Chinese musical character. In the film SOC, the pentatonic portions of the song melody are arranged as background music performed by Chinese melodic musical instruments.42 The timbre of the Chinese instrumental sounds reinforces the Chinese character of the vocal melody in the film, seamlessly suggesting a stylistic proximity between “Familial Bliss” and preexisting pentatonic-styled Chinese music.43 Pentatonic design, however, only constitutes parts of the vocal melody; other parts of the song melody do not inherit the pentatonic Chinese character. If we examine the pentatonic parts closely, we even find melodic figures and connections not typically used in preexisting Chinese music, but subtly blended with adopted Western stylistics. The most prominent Western elements of “Familial Bliss” are likely heard in the accompanying piano, playing supportive sounds based on principles of Western functional harmony. Also, the vocal melody generally has a uniform phrasing orientation that is different from classical Chinese songs such as Kun Opera arias, but commonly found in Western songs. However, Huang Zi’s functional harmony support in the pentatonic portions of the vocal melody does not quite resemble the lush accompanying sounds in the German Lied. Also, despite the Western-styled phrasing structure, the rhythm of the song’s melodic figuration articulates the grouping of the Chinese texts so effectively that the singing seems to embrace a sense of Chinese rhythm. After all, “Familial Bliss” is based on a Chinese text that consists of a series of rhymed couplets. Together with the familiar rhythmic feel, the undulating movement of the vocal melody accommodates the undulating phonetic inflections of the Chinese words, delivering the texts with familiar Chinese tonal feeling. Yet, simultaneously, the melodic contour of the song’s melodic phrases bears an overall consistent, regular shape that is not quite the same as that of Kun Opera lyrical melodies, but is commonly heard in Western songs. Overall, the Chinese musical feel is more prominent in some parts of the song than in others.44 As the song arrives at its ending, it is likely that appreciative Chinese listeners retain impressions of regularly paced and shaped musical phrases unified in a cohesive structure, as in Western songs. However, while they appreciate the carefully controlled formal procedure in “Familial Bliss” that embodies the rational restraint and graceful eloquence of
26 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Western songs, they hear a Chinese voice, a Chinese musical feel, and Chinese lyrical sentiments in the adopted formal restraint and eloquence. The mixed Chinese-Western musical character of “Familial Bliss” manifests a conglomeration of different kinds of translational changes. Heuristically, for the sake of understanding the complexity of those changes, we can identify three levels of translational changes: literal, adjusted, and drastic levels. At the literal level, the formal appearances and/or underlying principles of Western musical practices are kept, with limited changes to adapt to Chinese practices. At the adjusted level, the basics of the Western underlying principles are kept, but their appearances and/or usages are altered in order to adapt to Chinese practices. At the drastic level, the extent of adaptive change is comprehensive; the appearances of adopted Western musical practices, and/or significant parts of their underlying principles, are altered to follow Chinese practices. The designation of these three approximate levels is not absolute, of course, depending on what particular song samples one chooses to compare, and on how one interprets the principles being mobilized and transformed. I have found that most sound structure practices of “Familial Bliss” involve translation processes at the “adjusted” level. The practice aspects that I select to discuss in this section include arrangement of musical form, usage of tonality, designs of melody, rhythm and musical texture, and the employment of functional harmony. Among them, it is the melody practice that involves altering certain Western principles, thus engaging the “drastic” level of translation. Processes of “literal” translation do not seem to apply to sound structure practices of the song, but apply to the composition, notation, and performance practices involved. I will briefly discuss these “literal” translation aspects toward the end of this paper. My translation analysis below is based on my musical research of Huang Zi and his contemporaries. It is impossible, however, to probe into the brain of Huang Zi to know what exact Western and Chinese stylistic practices he was drawing from for each sound structure aspect. I present my interpretation of his translation practices on the basis of his published musical discussions and advocacy. It is likely that Huang Zi drew from more than one song source to constitute both the Western and Chinese pools of musical materials for his compositional work. My analysis makes references to a selected pool of representative Western and Chinese classical song examples. Unless further specified, I draw from American parlor songs and the German Lied to illustrate characteristics of Western songs. The German Lied of Schubert and Schumann—the exemplar of Western art songs established in the 19th century—have long been identified as the model of Chinese art songs. But based on biographical data and my stylistic analysis, I contend that American parlor songs—which were incorporated into the classical art song repertoire in America by the early 20th century—constituted another
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essential Western source for Chinese art song composers. Whereas the modern Chinese practice of writing down a fixed musical accompaniment came from the German Lied, the style of the vocal melody of many Chinese art songs, along with their accompanying style and sometimes their pentatonic-styled harmony, resonated with a certain repertoire of American parlor songs. Huang Zi himself introduced to the Chinese general audience the Victor recordings of “Home, Sweet Home”45 and “The Last Rose of Summer,”46 sung by Amelita Galli-Curci, the famed Italy-born soprano in America (Huang 1934d, 3–5).47 For Chinese examples, I take the lyrical Kun Opera arias (the southern repertoire) as the major representative of a preexisting classical song genre. In order to closely examine the various sound structure practices of “Familial Bliss,” it is unavoidable to break down the continual unfolding of musical sounds into discrete aspects. In the actual aural experience of the song, of course, the various sound aspects unfold simultaneously. Different translational arrangements of sound organization conjoin together in a musical whole. In the following, I discuss the translational adjustments of “Familial Bliss” regarding the aspects of musical form, tonality, melody, rhythm, musical texture, and functional harmony. (See Appendix A for the English translation of the text and Appendix B for the full notation of the song.) The formal design of “Familial Bliss” has a ternary structure of three distinctive sections, following the three-stanza structure of the song text. Like in Western songs, the three sections in “Familial Bliss” have a clear sense of closure at their respective endings attributed to an apparent cadential gesture. The three sections also have contrastive musical and expressive styles. The first section (mm. 1–19) tells of the mournful heart of an orphan suffering from the pain of parental loss. In the home key of E-flat major, it features pentatonic-styled melodies that have an upbeat beginning, with a rhythmic motif consisting of an active dotted eighth followed by two quarters that seem to set off the drive just initiated; the thwarted motion suggests a sense of frustration. In the second section (mm. 20–30), a sympathetic third person assumes the persona, consoling and nudging the orphan to rise up from self-pity. The tonality here modulates to the relative minor key of C minor to articulate the sympathetic pain, with the accompanying piano playing a more forceful chordal style. The third section (mm. 31–57) lifts the afore-featured gentle nudge to spirited exhortations that persuade self-sacrifice for a social and utopian cause, citing verbatim master Mencius’s teaching of honoring all elders and children with reverence and kindness. The musical design returns back to the home key of E-flat major, along with the beginning pentatonic style. The dotted eighth motion that generates a sense of frustration in the first section is here replaced by even eighths with a downbeat start, transforming the thwarted motion into a firm and spirited marching style.
28 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 The ternary division of the song seems to follow the Western practice of ABA, or ABA´ formal procedure, manifesting the principle of statement-contrastrestatement. However, in typical Western ternary form, characteristic materials of the beginning A section would recur in the third section in a more straightforward fashion. An apparent recurrence of the A section, however, is not found in the song’s third section. The vocal melody, its rhythmic configuration, and the piano accompanying style in the third section do not repeat any of the Asection materials. The first and third sections are so contrastive that we could even give the ternary structure an ABC—instead of ABA—designation. While such a contrastive presentation would seem too elusive to form an effective unity in Western formal practice, it is not unusual in the more flexible sectional form of Chinese music. For example, the classical Chinese form introductionexposition-transformation-culmination (qi cheng zhuan he) could accommodate three or more contrastive, but related sections. Direct repetitions of introductory materials are not necessary after a contrastive section is presented. The text of “Familial Bliss” demonstrates such a structure. To interpret the musical form of the song with the classical Chinese design, we could see the “introduction” as the beginning A section. The “exposition” corresponds to the B section, except that the last phrase (mm. 26–30)—where the third sympathetic voice urges the orphan to rise up—could be read as the beginning of the “transformation” section. This third section, in which the opening mournful mood of self-pity is “transformed” into an uplifted admonition of self-sacrifice, ends at m. 46.48 The remaining phrases, which conclude the song journey with images of the cosmos and the Confucian utopia of “great unity,” constitute the “culmination.” The song ends with a return of the beginning piano solo phrases, a device that is common in Chinese formal practice. Viewed in the light of the Chinese classical form practice, Huang Zi’s modification of the Western ternary form becomes a translational adjustment. However, while Huang Zi closely follows the poetic progression of the song text to present continued sectional contrasts, he structures the sectional progression within a Western-styled unity, binding the contrast and return with “organic” cohesiveness. The third section (mm. 31–57), though not repeating the A section melodies until the piano introduction recurs, features a return to the home key of E-flat major and to the beginning pentatonic melodic style. More importantly, it builds upon motivic materials that characterize the A section, only that they are rendered in a form of responsive variation—responding to the A section with a variation of the material. Different from the B section, the third section does not contrast with the A section the same way. The descending melodic motif “E-flat–C–B-flat–G” expounded at mm. 5–6 is subtly embedded in the third section (e.g., mm. 31–32), but in a varied form that presents an uplifted spirit (Figure 3). I propose to call Huang Zi’s translated design as “variational modified
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Figure 3. Variational modification of the same melodic motif in sections A1 and A2. ternary form” (A1–B–A2), which underlies the typical Western ABA principle of contrast and return with a modified third section. Listeners, therefore, would hear an overall Western-styled formal unity in “Familial Bliss.” Presenting the restraint and balance that characterize Western-styled formal unity, “Familial Bliss” relies on a variety of Chinese-styled sonic deliveries. One of the most commonly identified aspects of Chinese musical sounds—to the point of assuming a stereotypical image—is the anhemitonic pentatonic scale and its corresponding modal tonality. The anhemitonic pentatonic scale is based on the scale steps of 1–2–3–5–6, de-emphasizing the 4 and 7. The tonality built upon such a tone selection—known as a kind of modal tonality—generates melodic patterns and effects distinct from a diatonic tonality that employs all seven scale degrees. Listening to “Familial Bliss” closely, however, we can easily identify sounds of the Western diatonic tonality besides the pentatonic modal effects. Diatonic tonality has become a fundamental practice in Western musical modernity since around the 17th century, standardized with the major and minor key systems. As the score of “Familial Bliss” designates, the song’s primary tonality is set in E-flat major, with the B section modulating to its relative minor key of C minor. The modal tonality of the song is indeed structured within the E-flat major key order. Huang Zi’s presentation of a Chinese pentatonic modal order, therefore, involves the translation adjustment of the E-flat major tonality. Specifically, we can identify Huang Zi’s pentatonic episodes as invoking the Chinese gong-mode order. “Gong” is the first scale step in the Chinese tone system, corresponding to “do” in solfege designation. In gong-mode, tonal development is directed toward the “gong” tone, or the first tone. The cadence tends to end on the “gong” tone as well. While the third section (A2) of the song is straightforwardly in the blended tonality of gong-mode in E-flat major, the first section (A1) has melodic portions that significantly integrate the supposedly de-emphasized scale step 7 (mm. 7, 9–10, 15, 17). These melodic parts, which do not change the overall pentatonic character of the A section, most interestingly articulate a translated
30 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 tonal expressiveness that Huang Zi created. Of course, the scale step 7 can be explained as a change of key that still features the Chinese gong mode—that is, the gong-mode structure is now moved to a different pitch set, with B-flat (the original scale step 5) as the new temporary tonic. However, Huang Zi’s design of the modulated phrase simultaneously invokes some of the characteristic tonal flavor of American parlor songs. For example, in the descending melodic phrases of “Home, Sweet Home” (see Figure 4), where the upper tonic slowly moves down through the octave, the scale step 7 is featured as an integral element in the song’s lyrical expressiveness. Functioning as a dissonance in the major key, the scale step 7 here generates an underlying tension, driving a melody that stretches over a wide interval. A few instances in section A1 of “Familial Bliss” capture dissonant images of such a characteristic gesture, subtly weaving lyrical elegance of Western songs while maintaining the Chinese pentatonic character.49 Through a translational creation, Huang Zi realized a Western-styled expressiveness with gong-mode, persuading listeners to appreciate the lyrical motion on the whole as refined Chinese expression.
Figure 4. Generating lyrical elegance and sentiments with the use of scale step 7 in the melody.
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Beyond the pentatonic images, there are other aspects in the vocal melody of “Familial Bliss” that contribute to its Chinese sounds. Even in the B section, when the melody is exclusively based on a Western minor key, the movement of the vocal melody seems to work well with the text’s delivery and thus generates a Chinese sense. Among others, such a Chinese stylistic sense comes from the vocal melody’s effective accommodation of the Chinese speech tones of the texts. The linguistic tonal inflection of the Chinese texts was a fundamental concern in preexisting classical song practices. Chao Yuen Ren (1898–1989), a contemporaneous art song composer and a scientist turned linguist, discussed the different principles of delivering linguistic tones of Chinese words when writing a song melody. Chao’s observation allows us to characterize the Chinese melodic practice in “Familial Bliss,” which transforms the Western principles of vocal melody writing at the “drastic” level. Chao identified two established melodic principles in Chinese songs: one is to reflect the contours of the four standard linguistic tones of the text,50 the other is to reflect the oscillation of “level” (ping) and “oblique” (ze) inflection types of the linguistic tones.51 The division into “level” and “oblique” contours is fundamental to classical Chinese poetry, especially regulated poetry (lüshi). The latter approach best manifests the vocal melody–word tones relationship in Chinese classical songs.52 In their melodic settings, the “level” inflection type tends to be set with low tones, while the “oblique” inflection type inclines to be set with high tones, or to take more than one musical tone for a word. In “Familial Bliss,” the “classical” approach is prominent. In places where the melody does not conform to the “classical” approach, the first straightforward approach often applies. The two approaches generally complement each other to generate a vocal melody guided by Chinese principles. For example, the “classical” approach applies to the first vocal melodic phrase (mm. 5–6). The third and fourth words “you” and “fu” both carry “oblique” inflection, are set with pitch E-flat in the upper octave, higher than the previous two words of “level” inflection (“ren” and “jie”) at least a third apart. Then, following the next two words “yi” and “wo” that carry “oblique” inflection set with pitches C and B-flat, the melody falls down a fourth below to match “du” and “wu,” of which both carry “level” inflection (Figure 5a). When the “classical” approach is not in use, the straightforward one may apply. For example, in the last melodic phrase of the song (mm. 52–54), the melody rises at words that have “level” inflection: the “tong” and “bo” at m. 52, and “tian” at m. 53. While these melodic risings contradict the “classical” approach, they capture the tonal inflection contour of each individual word. Both “tong” and “bo” at m. 52 carry a standard “rising-level” tone, and the stepwise rising melodic design of the phrase captures a “rising” image: moving from E-flat–F–G and then to B-flat. The “tian” at m. 53, which carries a standard “high-level” tone, follows the word “xiang”
32 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Figure 5 (a, b, c). Linguistic inflections of the texts and their corresponding melodic design in “Familial Bliss.”
Figure 5a. The classical approach, designing the melody based on the “level” and “oblique” types of linguistic inflections. that carries a lower registral range in its speech tone (though classified with the name “upper-tone”). The melodic skip from C to F aptly imitates the rising linguistic tone motion proceeding from “xiang” to “tian” (Figure 5b). In the B section, where the gong-mode tonality gives way to a Western minor key, these two approaches—especially the “classical” approach—guide a Chinese-styled melodic design. The ending phrase of the section (mm. 28–30), for example,
Figure 5b. The straightforward approach, closely following tonal levels and movements of the texts.
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Figure 5c. Another instance of the classical approach. basically conforms to the “classical” approach, setting a descending melodic line to words that carry “level” inflection. “Mi,” “tu,” “gao,” and “yang” all carry “level” inflection, and are set with a melodic motion that moves from F down to C (Figure 5c). In contrast, matching linguistic tones with the melody is not a major concern in Western classical songs. Unlike the Chinese language, most European languages are not tonal. To reflect linguistic elements of the European texts, the vocal melody of Western songs follows the pronunciation accents rather than the tones of the texts. Although the Chinese language also has accent patterns, they tend to be more flexible than with European languages. Huang Zi’s creative practice of matching linguistic tones of the texts with his melodic design, therefore, transforms the Western principle of melody writing. Meanwhile, Huang Zi incorporated the characteristic arch-shape melodic phrasing style from Western songs, especially American parlor songs. Typical arch-shape phrases begin with an upward movement until reaching the tonal climax—that is the highest note, followed by a downward movement, generating an approximate image of an arch. Regular phrasing of 4 measures long is common. In Chinese classical songs, however, the upward and downward melodic movements alternate more frequently, generating shorter “wave-shape” patterns. Also, the cutting of musical phrases based on word groupings tends to be flexible and irregular, contrasting the more controlled and regulated arch-shape contour of Western songs (Figure 6a). In “Familial Bliss,” the melodic contour and phrasing style generally embrace the restrained, balanced character of American parlor songs. Except for the ending phrases of the three sections (mm. 17–19, mm. 24–30, mm. 52–54), which are 3 or 5 measures long, the predominant melodic phrasing of the song adopts the common 4-measure regular style of Western songs (Figure 6b).
Figure 6 (a, b). Shapes of melodic phrases.
Figure 6a. Comparing arch-shape and wave-shape melodic phrases.
Figure 6b. Regular, arch-shape phrasing style in “Familial Bliss.”
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The melodic substance of the regular arch-shape stylistic features, however, comprises successive movements of tones guided by Chinese melody-word matching principles. The prominent conformity to Chinese linguistic tones and inflections subtly orients the Western-styled melodic contour to deliver a Chinese-styled melody, whether it features pentatonic images or not. There are exceptions, however, where the Chinese melody-text matching approaches do not apply. For example, the first verse of the third couplet at mm. 8–10 has an elaborate rising melody that stretches from B-flat of the lower octave to F in the higher octave—an octave and a fifth apart. The four words of the verse, “bai,” “yun,” “you,” and “you,” however, all have “level” inflection, which according to the “classical” approach should have a descending motion or tendency of low tones. Also, the last two words—a repetition of “you”—carry a “high-level” speech tone, not “rising-level.” The straightforward approach of setting music to words, therefore, does not apply either. If this phrase still invokes an impression that the vocal line and the texts correspond to each other, it would probably lie in its translated design of the rhythm. Rhythmically, the vocal line generally reflects the word groupings of the Chinese text. The dotted patterns, eighths, quarters, halves, and rests of different values capture images of the relative durations that guide the speech or recitation delivery of the text. There are stressed and nonstressed units in each Chinese word that consist of more than one syllable. For example, the disyllable “jiangshui” (lit. river water) at mm. 10 and 11 has the stressed unit on the second syllable “shui,” carrying a relatively longer duration than the first syllable “jiang.” Huang Zi rhythmically reflects such a stress pattern with a quarter note followed by a dotted half. As Chao Yuen Ren’s complimentary comment suggests, Huang Zi’s stressed and nonstressed arrangement of Chinese words “is extraordinarily strict” (Chao [1939] 1994, 87). But the Chinese rhythmic feeling in “Familial Bliss” is articulated within an overall regulated phrasing structure adopted from Western song practice. Most Western songs, especially parlor songs, basically have regular pausing between phrases. The clear sense of closure for each vocal phrase unit sets the norm, and any deviations from it are only temporary, to be restored momentarily. In “Familial Bliss,” the rhythmic gesture of each phrase embraces the sense of balance and unity that characterizes Western songs. Such a phrasing style is not common in preexisting classical Chinese songs, though it is not uncommon in certain folk song repertories. But instead of invoking the Chinese folk song images, the regulated phrasing style of “Familial Bliss” is meant to invoke the Western classical sense of balance, symmetry, and organic unity. As a translated practice of Huang Zi, the Chinese-styled rhythmic figuration substantiates the Western classical style with a familiar Chinese sense of motion.
36 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Defining the textural and harmonic practices of “Familial Bliss,” the stylistics of the piano accompaniment constitute another set of translated aspects that generates Chinese sounds in the modern song. For appreciative ears, the piano accompaniment enhances the song’s translational Chinese melodic and rhythmic styles. Even though the accompanying piano uses the unprecedented functional harmony as its guiding principle, its chordal construction, relationship between parts, and choice of harmonic configuration adjust typical practices of Western songs to present distinctive Chinese-styled effects. The construction of the piano allows a variety of textural possibilities, as it supports fingers of both hands to play simultaneously. These possibilities include unison, when different parts play the same melody including octave placements; two- or multi-part divisions, when each part presents distinctive musical materials; chordal configuration, when blocks of tones are pressed simultaneously; or combinations of these styles. Among these possibilities, chordal construction that involves more than 3 tones is rare in preexisting Chinese musical practices. In “Familial Bliss,” chords of 2–4 tones played by one hand are heard throughout, with a maximum of 8 tones played by both hands at mm. 37 and 45. The chordal accompanying style is most prominent at the beginning of section B (mm. 20, 22), generating a texture commonly found in Western songs— especially Protestant hymns. In other places, however, chordal components and their successions are mixed with linear melodic movement. Besides the linear-oriented vocal melody that appears at the top line of the right hand, the tenor and bass parts of the left hand also involve linear melodic movement. For example, the tenor line played by the left hand at the beginning of the song presents a melodic fragment of C–B-flat–G, which shares the same motion in the vocal line that comes right after, only with some elaboration (Figure 7). The melodic fragment in the tenor part then recurs continuously for 4 measures, while the vocal line follows its own course. Although mixing chordal and melodic styles is not an uncommon textural practice in Western songs, the extensive melodic featuring in “Familial Bliss” generates effects that are reminiscent of Chinese melody-based heterophony. But the quasi-heterophonic image here has a slightly different temporal structure, in which the second musical part (the vocal line) comes after the first (the tenor line). The different timing of the two parts seems to embrace the imitative device in Western polyphonic music, with which Huang Zi composed his “Two-Part Inventions” in 1930 (Huang 1930). However, the two parts in “Familial Bliss” are more closely apart than in the polyphonic organization of two-part inventions. Also, the melodic configuration of the vocal line adorns the tenor melodic fragment with an “echappée-like” tone when a second C appears after B-flat, which is reminiscent of a kind of melodic ornamentation in Chinese heterophony. In lyrical Kun Opera arias, for example, the leading
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Figure 7. The tenor line and the vocal line share a similar melodic fragment, invoking Chinese-styled quasi-heterophonic effects but blended with Western-styled imitative, polyphonic images.
melodic instrument—the dizi flute—accompanies the vocal line by playing the same melody, with idiomatic ornamentation. More directly, the few instances of unison-styled or quasi-unison-styled accompaniment in “Familial Bliss” (e.g., mm. 9, 36) invoke the common textural practice in Chinese songs, despite the fragmented nature of those instances. The harmonic usage of “Familial Bliss,” therefore, supports a quasi-heterophonic impression. It maintains melodic prominence while providing vertically oriented sound materials based on functional harmony. Adopting common functional harmony practices of Western songs, Huang Zi organized the vertical orientation of the piano accompaniment with the “tonicdominant axis.” While the axis features basic chordal elements of Western functional harmony, it characteristically generates a continued sense of harmonic motion through a play of “tonal polarity” (Stein and Spillman 1996, 105–106). “Tonal polarity,” which propels harmonic motion in Western songs by developing tonal tensions and their resolutions, depends on opposition between the tonic and dominant tonalities. Along the “tonic-dominant axis,” the tonic chord has the most stable harmony. The dominant chord, on the one hand, creates departure from the tonic to create phrases, and, on the other, generates closure through cadence. The dominant is thus also the primary means to articulate the tonic stability. In “Familial Bliss,” the dominant-tonic, or V-I cadence, is most
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Figure 8 (a, b, c). Different dominant-tonic, or V-I, cadential configurations.
Figure 8a. Typical Western-styled cadence in “Familial Bliss,” toward the end of the B section.
apparent toward the end of the B section in mm. 25–26 and mm. 29–30 (see Figure 8a).53 However, compared to Western songs, the “tonal polarity” that Huang Zi unfolds in “Familial Bliss” is less extreme. A crucial component of the dominant that opposes the tonic tonality is the third note of the chord—the seventh or “leading” tone, which forms a dissonance against the tonic (Figure 8b). In “Familial Bliss,” however, the third note of the dominant chord is omitted at several cadential points. For example, the final cadence that accompanies the vocal line employs a V-I cadential gesture, but the third note of the dominant chord is omitted (Figure 8c).54 Omitting the third note—the leading tone—is almost unthinkable in Western songs of the 19th century, for it crucially generates a dissonance pull to bring about a tonal closure. Here, in “Familial Bliss,” the omission of the leading tone diminishes tonal tensions generated along the tonic-dominant axis.55
Figure 8b. Typical V-I cadence in Western songs: ending of Schumann’s “Die Lotosblume” (1840)(Gerhart [2003] 2006, 47).
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Figure 8c. Nontypical V-I cadence in “Familial Bliss,” with omitted third—the crucial tendency tone. Also, compared to most Western songs, the pace of harmonic progression in the A1 and A2 sections of “Familial Bliss” is more stable. The opening tonic lasts for 8 full measures before progressing to the dominant. Then, without moving through other different chords, the tonic returns 4 measures later, dominating the rest of the section. The modified A2 section, though colored with the minor sixth chord (the submediant) besides brief visits to the dominant, still has a relatively slow rhythm of harmonic change. Together with the omission of the third note in dominant chords, the stable harmonic rhythm further diminishes the contrast between tonic departure and closure. Compared to the more dramatic tonal contrasts and polarities in many Western songs, “Familial Bliss” features a gentle flow of harmonic motion. The gentle harmonic flow supports the Chinese-styled features of the song. It effectively highlights the melodic fluidity of the quasi-heterophonic style of the piano part. Also, it reinforces the pentatonic modality of the song. The pentatonic modality structurally de-emphasizes the fourth and the seventh scale steps. Among diatonic chords of a scale, only the tonic and the sixth chords do not consist of the two de-emphasized scale steps. The choice of tones in chord compositions is thus limited. Invoking the style of a pentatonic modality, diatonic chords come and go in the A sections of “Familial Bliss,” but without generating the harmonic lushness that characterizes Schubert and Schumann’s Lied.56
40 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 The configuration style of functional harmony in “Familial Bliss” is an outcome of Huang Zi’s translational creativity. While Huang Zi regarded Western functional harmony as superior scientific principles that best develop the multidimensional potentials of musical sounds, his harmonic usage highlights the melodically oriented practice commonly featured in preexisting Chinese music. If his doubling of the vocal melody in the top part of the piano sounds too redundant to aficionados of the German Lied, who may think that “Familial Bliss” has not matured in exploiting the dramatic capacity of functional harmony, appreciative Chinese listeners exactly enjoy the melodic elegance of the vocal melody that the piano doubles and reinforces, realized by a pleasant timbre. For their ears, the harmonic flow of the piano enhances the melodic elegance and poetic sentiments of the Chinese song with the rational and refined organization of Western sound principles. Listening to “Familial Bliss,” therefore, appreciative ears hear Chinese sounds mediated by translated Western science.
Socio-Musical Practices of “Familial Bliss” The translational sound arrangement of “Familial Bliss” relies on adopted Western musical behaviors for its production and consumption. As a modern Chinese art song, “Familial Bliss” engages with new practices of composition, performance, and attentive listening. These socio-musical practices involve their own sets of translational processes. Compared with sound structure arrangement, however, their translational practices took place mostly at the “literal” level. Similar to many contemporaneous art songs, “Familial Bliss” adopts the practice of fixed composition from the German Lied. In practices of premodern Chinese classical songs, vocal melodies are mostly based on preexisting tune types or prescribed melodic structures. While instances in which musical literati composed new tunes for their poems existed—the most documented of which were done by Jiang Kui (1155–1221), who composed ci-songs, the practice was not representative. Even in Jiang’s exceptional cases, only the song melodies were composed and notated; the instrumental accompaniment, mostly created by instrumentalists during performance, is not part of the notated composition. The practice of fixing and notating accompaniment, which is standard procedure in Western musical modernity, is rare in premodern Chinese song culture. Also, the style of accompaniment in Chinese songs is different from that in Western art songs; it shares the same melodic basis with the voice without the use of functional harmony. If we compare the concert hall performance practice of “Familial Bliss” with public singing practice in China before the 20th century, we find another instance of literal translation. As late as in the early 20th century, public performances of
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solo singing took place mainly in such venues as teahouses, and the professional singers were mostly singsong girls who did not enjoy comparable social status to Western art song vocalists. They sang for customers who, sitting at dining tables, engaged in tea drinking, refreshment dining, or socializing. In the somewhat private venue of brothels, courtesans performed solo songs for their male clients, some of whom might request the performance be held in the courtesan’s boudoir. The concert hall practice of “Familial Bliss,” which relates the professional singer to the audience in an unprecedented setting of attentive listening, thus directly adopts the social function of music from the modern West. Such adopted practices of performance and listening—along with practices of fixed composition and notation—have predominantly replaced premodern styles of musical engagement in China, conditioning the experience of music in Chinese modernity.
Conclusion Attentively listening to a respected soprano singing on the proscenium stage, accompanied by her pianist partner, was almost unthinkable in premodern China. But such a new musical practice made sense to modern Chinese because it continued to transmit something familiar and sensible. As much as the modern relies upon a determined split from the old and the premodern, it was a fluid concept, involving constant dialogues and negotiations between the old and the new. Although the “new” drew upon the musical West, creative individuals turned it into Chinese with translational practices. Built upon unprecedented adoptions, translations gave forms to Chinese musical modernity with continual meanings, indigenous values, and familiar feelings. Through practices of musical translation, Confucian morality continued its mainstay in Chinese music advocacy that promoted Western music. As I have contended, the ancient piety of “Familial Bliss” was not simply a propagandistic work serving the Nationalist government’s political-cultural movement. Adoption of Western art music and modernity came hand in hand with revitalization of Chinese ancient piety. Similarly, adoption of Western musical science relied upon Chinese-styled sounds in its full realization. For those—such as Barbara Fei—who appreciate what “Familial Bliss” realizes, singing ancient piety and modernity in a single song is a convincing and pleasant Chinese musical experience. “Honor your own elders as befits elders, and extend this honor to all elders. Honor your own children as befits children, and extend this honor to all children.” In “Familial Bliss,” the ancient piety is properly celebrated with modern, Chinese musical sounds. City University of Hong Kong
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Appendix A Text of “Song of Familial Bliss,” in English translation Stanza 1 People have fathers, why have I not? People have mothers, why have I not? White clouds float in the sky, river flows toward the east. Returning birds no longer find their nests, the returning son no longer finds his boat. Where is my root, my source of spring? Stanza 2 Say not that you are a forsaken lamb, son; say not that you are crushed inside out with tears, son. Losing father and mother, is not the only pain and suffering of this world. Arise, orphan! Awake, the lost lamb! Stanza 3 Wrap up the moaning of pain, offer your pure heart instead. “Honor your own elders as befits elders, and extend this honor to all elders. Honor your own children as befits children, and extend this honor to all children.” Wrap up the moaning of pain, offer your pure heart instead. Serve and sacrifice, serve and sacrifice, give up yourself and serve others as all equal. So vast is the flowing river, so expansive are the floating white clouds, the majestic universe is here since antiquity. Pursue Great Unity, extend your love to others, Together, we enjoy the heavenly familial bliss.
Appendix B “Song of “Familial Bliss,” complete notation (Liang, ed. 2002, 11–13)
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Glossary Chuansha Ꮁ≭ chunzheng yinyue ㋨ℷ䷇ῖ datong ৠ “Dianying zhong de yinyue” 䳏ᕅЁⱘ䷇ῖ dizi ワᄤ duli yishu ⤼ゟ㮱㸧 Fei Mingyi 䊏ᯢ۔ Fei Mu 䊏〚 Fuxing chuji zhongxue yinyue jiaoke shu ᕽ㟜߱㋮Ёᅌ䷇ῖᬭ⾥ gong ᆂ Guoli yinyue yuan ゟ䷇ῖ䰶 Guoli yinyue zhuanke xuexiao ゟ䷇ῖᇜ⾥ᅌ᷵ Huang Puqi 咗༛ Huang Zi 咗㞾 Jiang Kui ྰ㰋 Kang Youwei ᒋ᳝⠆ Kongfuzi ᄨᄤ Lang Yuxiu 䚢↧⾔ Lianhua 㙃㧃 Liao Shangguo ᒪᇮᵰ Liji ⾂㿬 Liting ⾂ᒁ Lo Ming-Yau (Luo Mingyao) 㕙ᯢԥ lüshi ᕟ䀽 meimei zhi yin 䴵䴵П䷇ Mengzi ᄳᄤ Neishidi ܻ Pan Gongzhan ┬݀ሩ ping ᑇ Pipa xing ⨉⨊㸠 qi cheng zhuan he 䍋ᡓ䔝ড় Qin Pengzhang ⾺區ゴ Qing Zhu 䴦Џ qu এ ru ܹ sanxian ϝᓺ shang Ϟ Shanghai yinyue xueyuan Ϟ⍋䷇ῖᅌ䰶 shangjie Ϟ⬠
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sheng 㙆 shengchang shiye ⫳⫷џὁ Sun Zhongshan ᄿЁቅ Tianlun “Tianlun ge” ℠ Xiao Youmei 㭁᳝ṙ Xinshi geji ᮄ䀽℠䲚 weiren ؝Ҏ yangping 䱑ᑇ yin ䷇ yinping 䱄ᑇ yinyue ䷇ῖ Yinyue chuanxi suo ䷇ῖڇ㖦᠔ Yinyue de xinshang ䷇ῖⱘ䊲 Yinyue yiwen she ䷇ῖ㮱᭛⼒ Yinyue zazhi ䷇ῖ䲰䁠 yuege ῖ℠ “Zaoluo pao” ⱖ㕙㹡 ze Ҙ Zhao Yuanren 䍭ܗӏ Zhong Shigen 䥒ḍ
Notes 1
Translation is mine, except the quote “Honor your own elders . . . ,” which is from Hinton (Mencius [trans. Hinton] 1998, 13). 2 Ci-poem songs were developed during the Song dynasty (c. 10th–13th centuries), whereas Kun Opera arias were established during the Ming dynasty (c. 15th–17th centuries). Kun Opera continued its development through the Qing dynasty until the present day, despite periods of decline. A revival of Kun Opera has been underway among Chinese communities, inside and outside China. In 2001, Kun Opera was declared by UNESCO as a “Masterpiece of Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.” 3 The “May Fourth,” originally referring to student protests that took place in Beijing on that date in 1919, generally refers to iconoclastic movements epitomized by the New Culture movement in the early post–World War I period. The May Fourth paradigm, which is predicated upon a radical break from China’s past, has been challenged and revised in recent scholarship (see Chow et al., eds. 2008). 4 See, for example, Elman’s “Rethinking ‘Confucianism’ and ‘Neo-Confucianism’ in Modern Chinese History” (in Elman et al., eds. 2002). 5 The Book of Mencius is attributed to master Mencius (Mengzi) (c. 385–303 BCE). Translation of the quote is from Hinton (Mencius 1998, 13). 6 A representative is Bruno Nettl’s The Western Impact on World Music: Change, Adaptation, and Survival, an insightful study published in 1985.
48 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 7 The translation framework is also more multidimensional than the concept of sinification—the flip side of westernization, for it probes into the tremendous Western impact simultaneously. 8 The sonic valorization practices are unique to musical phenomena, compared to most linguistic and literary practices in Liu’s translingual studies. The primary communication medium of music is sound. Unlike visualized symbols, objects, or bodily gestures, musical sound itself speaks to our aural sense—without excluding other senses, of course. Unlike fixed symbols and objects, musical sound unfolds its expressive organization in time. Meanwhile, the unfolding process of music takes place in a socially charged space, with a particular manner of operation and of aesthetic communication. The performance factor thus involved, encompassing the social, technical, material, and aesthetic aspects of sound execution and presentation, is integral to the realization of music. The transmission of these factors involves notational and/or oral practices. Different kinds of musical classifications, such as genre, shape the processes of musical production and transmission. During translation processes, all these individual idiosyncratic musical practices are potential platforms for negotiation. But of course, for the resultant translated practices to operate meaningfully, the individually negotiated platforms are meant to participate in the new productions together. 9 Also, see Attali’s Noise: The Poltical Economy of Music for political-economic aspects of Western musical development (Attali 1985). See Richard Leppert’s “Music, Domestic Life and Cultural Chauvinism: Images of British Subjects at Home in India” for a colonial aspect of Western musical modernity (Leppert [1987] 1996). 10 The Chinese bourgeoisie is a more complicated and diverse social class than the European counterpart (see Kraus 1989, 23–30). 11 Although the Chinese compound word “yinyue” existed in classical Chinese, the usage did not carry the modern artistic connotations that originated in modern Europe. The words “yin” and “yue” were often used separately. The graphics of the modern Chinese term ䷇ῖ (yinyue), were an adoption of the Japanese ䷇ὑ (ongaku), which used classical Chinese characters to translate the Western concept of music as art in modern Japan. 12 Considering their diverse modernity agendas, however, “music advocates” in Chinese modernity hardly made a uniform group. To underscore their historical role and the way they intellectually and musically transformed China, “music advocates” can be divided into two contrasting but not unrelated groups elsewhere. They are (1) Reformers: those who denigrated preexisting Chinese music as backward and, through a series of musical reforms, promoted Western art music as the modern musical foundation of China; and (2) Defenders: those who defended Chinese music, and strove to adjust and develop it as the music of modern China. The differences between the two groups were not impenetrable, however. This paper focuses on the “reformers,” to which the composer Huang Zi and his circle belonged. Nonetheless, the film recording of “Familial Bliss” involved musician members from the “defenders,” an often overlooked reality that underlined the collaboration dynamics between the two rival groups (see Cheung 2008, 155–80). 13 Huang took substantial music courses offered at the Music Department of Oberlin College, before transferring to Yale University.
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14 The Chinese name of the Conservatory changed a number of times before it became Shanghai yinyue xueyuan—directly translated as the Shanghai Conservatory of Music— in 1956. When it was established in 1927, it was named Guoli yinyue yuan (The National Conservatory of Music). In 1929, the name was changed to Guoli yinyue zhuanke xuexiao (The National College of Music). The changes in name reflect, among other things, how the first formal music-training institute was so new to the Chinese educational system. 15 Earlier, in 1922, a music organization called the Music Transmission Institute (Yinyue chuanxi suo) was formed in Beijing, being expanded from a music ensemble and research society established in 1916. But the Institute was affiliated with the National Peiping University, not an independent music-training institute. 16 As a result of China’s defeats in the Opium War and subsequent wars in the second half of the 19th century, the British and Americans controlled the district named the International Settlement, and the French had their share of the French Concession in the city. 17 Chinese were allowed to move in and out of colonial zones, and jurisdiction of the colonial zones applied to Chinese citizens if they were convicted within the colonial zones. The resultant jurisdiction practice was complicated and often confusing. See Wakeman (1995). 18 Huang Zi’s graduation piece is titled In Memoriam. For a study of Huang Zi’s music training at Yale University and at Oberlin College in relation to the musical style of the piece, see Han (1990, 53–61). 19 In an intriguing case, Huang Zi reportedly voted on the side of Chinese members at the Shanghai Municipal Council to cancel the Shanghai Municipal Orchestra. The Orchestra became an issue as Chinese members in the Council complained that only a small percentage of the Chinese community members attended the expensively maintained symphony concerts, while Chinese members were substantial tax revenue contributors to the maintenance funds. 20 A relative member of Huang Zi’s family was a distinguished official in the Qing government during the 19th century, holding the position of “a Secretary in the Grand Secretariat,” or unofficially known as “neishi.” Benefiting from this official relative, Huang’s extended family for four generations had lived in a residential complex called Neishidi, literally meaning Residence of the Secretary in the Grand Secretariat. The household, located in Chuansha of the present-day Pudong area, had a substantial collection of Chinese classics, metal and stone inscriptions, calligraphy, and paintings (Dai 2004). 21 Huang Zi’s mother was a pioneer female educator who founded a girls’ school in their home region. His uncle Huang Yanpei, who was influential to Huang Zi, was the supervisor of a local modern school. His father was no less reform-minded, serving the local community as an administrator. 22 Huang Zi’s list of European thinkers included a wide selection of modern writers and thinkers from Germany, Britain, and Russia. Most of these European thoughts were representative of Romanticism from the 18th to 19th centuries, but the selection had a diverse mix of philosophical, literary, and political orientations. The quotes Huang Zi chose to use did not lend immediate support to the concept of autonomous art. To trace
50 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 the sources from which Huang Zi claimed authority for the selection would certainly be an interesting part of the genealogy of his musical thoughts, though perfecting such a trace is beyond the scope of this paper. 23 In Record of Music, “emotion” is addressed in numerous places. For example, in one place, it presents the idea that “Emotion is stirred within and thus takes shape in sound” (Cook, trans. 1995, 29). 24 Huang Zi also used the poem example to show the sensual and intellectual aspects of appreciating poetry as fine arts. The sensual aspect came from the rhyming sounds of the verses, while the intellectual aspect involved the technique of employing recurring poetic images to present a unified structure. 25 The earliest extant record that shows Huang Zi’s ambivalent view against the preexisting Chinese musical establishment is perhaps a news report that appeared on the New Haven Evening News, told by a reporter who interviewed Huang Zi right after his graduation piece at Yale University (In Memoriam) had an acclaimed debut. According to the news report, Huang Zi commented that Chinese people had not yet developed their musical sense (Han 1990, 52–3). The comment was based on a measurement that regarded technical understanding and practices of Western art music as the supreme standard. Huang Zi later published a similar comment in the short essay “How to Create Our National Music” (1934), advocating the need for Chinese to learn from the West (Huang [1934e] 1997, 56–7). Similar skepticism was indeed popularly held among music advocates with formal Western art music training. They predominantly regarded the technological development of Chinese music as inadequate, lagging behind the Western scientific evolution of music. 26 Structural parameters for analytical purposes and theoretical examination of music had their developments in the long Chinese music history (Lam 2001). A thorough comparison of Chinese and Western music theory establishments is beyond the scope of this paper, however. Here, it suffices to say that it was exactly from the similar trends of theoretical thinking in Chinese and Western music histories that Chinese music advocates contended for the relevance for Chinese to adopt the Western music model, which evolved more successfully than in China. In their adopted evolutionary thought, the discovery of equal temperament was a major incident in both Chinese and Western music histories. But to their regrets, only the West had successfully put the measurement into practice (for an analysis of the technological discourse in Chinese musical modernity, see Cheung 2008, 237–61). 27 Liao was often known by his pseudonyms, including Qing Zhu, Li Qing, or Li Qingzhu. 28 Liao earned a doctoral degree in Law from Berlin University, and was fluent in German arts and philosophy, besides music. He was married to E. Vales-by, a German musician who composed Chinese art songs based on classical Chinese poems. 29 Liao’s translated idea of autonomous art, “duli yishu” (lit. independent art), does not exclude the need of modern music to serve moral needs and agendas. For Liao, “autonomous art” is merely an “independent art” that contrasts with a preexisting Chinese musical concept—that the best music ought to perform a proper ritual function. As much as Liao intended to leave behind such a concept shaped by Confucianism, his idea that
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music as an “independent art,” as “a language of the soul” operating in the “higher plane of life” (shangjie) continues to relate music to social and moral transformation (Liao [1930] 1947, 11). His emphasis on nurturing Chinese people’s ethical and nationalistic being ironically reinforces the fundamental Confucian conception of music’s primary function. 30 The foundational Republican doctrines were based on the “Three Principles of the People,” political doctrines of Sun Yat-sen (Sun Zhongshan, 1866–1925)—the founding figure of the Republic of China in 1911. 31 See The Search for Modern China: A Documentary Collection (Cheng et al., eds., 1999, 356). 32 For a discourse analysis of “music master” in Chinese musical modernity that projected Confucian moral values to European great composers, found in Xiao Youmei’s The New Lives of Music Masters and beyond, see Cheung’s “Chinese Music and Translated Modernity in Shanghai, 1918–1937” (Cheung 2008, 290–308). 33 When commenting on Brahms’s endurance of poverty, Huang Zi saw that even genius needed to be polished with adverse life circumstances before it could make great contributions—an idea that came from Mencius. Also, as Huang Zi wrote, Brahms humbled himself before “music masters” of previous generations and revered them heartily. Although Brahms sometimes used harsh words in criticizing others, he always spoke what he truly felt—even to the point of risking friendship with his supportive critic, Hans von Bulow (Huang 1934a, 26–7). 34 Another commentary that critically minded music advocates made more frequently in 1934 than before was objections against “yellow music,” a label referring to the emerging Chinese popular music that was banished as licentious and hazardous to the nation. See Andrew Jones’s Yellow Music (2001) for analysis of the complex discourse. 35 The music program was broadcasted at the China–Western Pharmacy Radio Broadcasting Station (Xiao 1934a). 36 In 1936, a shortened, English version of the film tailored for the American audience was shown in New York City. It was produced by Douglas MacLean (1890–?), a former musical comedian who sojourned in Shanghai and found interest in bringing the film to the American audience. Intertitles were added with the English translation, and the original Chinese film title, Tianlun, was translated as Song of China. Only the film copy of the American version is extant, though the published script of the original Chinese version is preserved. 37 The original Chinese production and the American version of SOC end differently. In the Chinese version, after the repenting and return of his rebellious children and grandchildren, the primary male protagonist—Liting—dies wearing a smile. But in the American version, the protagonist recovers from serious illness at the end (Huang, ed., 1998, 383–413). Both versions, however, feature Liting’s inheritance of his dying father’s Confucian teaching based on a quote from The Book of Mencius, which is included verbatim in “Familial Bliss.” 38 In the extant copy of the film, Lo Ming-Yau is given credit as the director. But veritable information (including Fei Mu’s daughter Barbara Fei’s account) shows that Fei Mu is the actual director of the film.
52 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 39 For more balanced evaluation of Fei Mu, SOC, and Confucianism, see Huang Ailing’s collected essays on Fei Mu (Huang, ed., 1998). 40 “Yellow music” was the label used by cultural critics of early 20th-century China to refer to popular music of licentious, degenerate, or even racially inferior characters. Rejecting “yellow music” became more pronounced during the New Life Movement. See note 34. 41 The utopian concept of “great unity” (datong) dates back to the ancient Confucian classics Book of Rites (Liji), which is believed to be first compiled by Confucius (c. 551– 479 BCE) himself. The utopian vision was revived by Kang Youwei (1858–1927), featured in his The Book of Great Unity. It was also included in the “Three Principles of the People,” the Republican political doctrine stipulated by Sun Yat-sen; the “Three Principles” became the text of the national anthem of the Republic of China in 1943. 42 According to the extant copy of the film, the dizi (traverse bamboo flute) and sanxian (3-stringed plucked lute) were used to play the pentatonic materials of the theme song melody. 43 In the American version of the film, the singing of “Familial Bliss” is heard at the end. It was sung by soprano Lang Yuxiu and students of Jiangsu Shanghai High School (Qin [1985] 1998, 158). The student choir joins Lang Yuxiu in the third section of the song. 44 This idea is borrowed from Chao Yuen Ren (Zhao Yuanren), another influential composer of Chinese art songs. In 1928, Chao published his songs in a collection titled Songs for Contemporary Poems (Xinshi geji), for which he wrote a long preface to compare Chinese and Western songs, and to introduce his own songs. He anticipated that his Chinese listeners would complain that some sections of his songs are more Chinese than the others. He defended in advance such a design, contending that one should not be surprised to find differentiated levels of appeal within one single piece, as it is a Western compositional norm of practice (Chao [1928] 1987, 263–4). 45 “Home, Sweet Home” was composed by Henry Rowley Bishop for the melodrama Clari, the Maid of Milan, in 1823. The American actor and writer John Howard Payne wrote the text of the song (Crawford 2001, 112). The song, first published in America around the time when Clari was performed in New York, shortly after its debut in London, became very popular in America throughout the century (Tawa 1980, 101). 46 “The Last Rose of Summer” is based on the poem of the Irish poet Thomas Moore, who arranged the song melody based on an Irish folk song. It was published around 1808, and became very popular in America shortly afterward. 47 Parlor songs comprised an important musical source in American public school music education during the early 19th century, led by Lowell Mason (1792–1872) in Boston (Tawa 1980, 55–8). Mason played an important role in the public school music education program in modern Japan, led by Shuji Izawa (1851–1917), and the Chinese school music model was based on Japan. Also, American missionaries and teachers who came to China brought American parlor songs to churchgoers or their students. For example, Chao Yuen Ren learned to sing “Home, Sweet Home” and “Auld Lang Syne” from an English teacher and his wife who came from Nashville, Tennessee, when studying at Jiangnan Advanced Academy, Nanjing, from 1907 to 1910 (Chao 1984, 75–8). Huang Zi, studying at Tsinghua High School, an institution that prepared students to study in the
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United States and was staffed with American teachers, also received a musical education with American influences. The American parlor songs shaped the early Chinese school songs and art songs, both their sentiments and musical styles, though this link is not emphasized enough in current scholarship. 48 The 3 notes in the vocal melody at m. 26 (c, b-flat, g) and at m. 27 (f, e-flat, c) are based on reversing the intervallic relationship of the 3 melodic notes that open the song, both at m. 1 and m. 5 (b-flat, c, e-flat). The 3-note figures in both sections progress through the same set of intervallic relationship: a major second followed by a minor third. However, they are arranged toward different directions: descending at mm. 26–27, and ascending at the beginning of the A section. 49 The scale step 4 that appears in the last phrase of section A1, however, cannot be explained with Chinese modal tonality. It is probably a preparatory or transitional tonal element that Huang Zi used to smoothly lead to the B section, which is in a diatonic minor key. 50 The four basic linguistic tones of modern Chinese, based on standard Mandarin, are high-level tone (yinping), rising-level tone (yangping), “upper” tone (shang), and “falling” (qu) tone. 51 Level inflections comprise the two level tones mentioned in note 50, while the oblique inflections include the “upper” and “falling” tones. Systems reflecting earlier pronunciation practice include an “entering” (ru) tone among the oblique tones. 52 Chao himself, as an art song composer, preferred the “classical” approach. As much as he advocated Western musical science and technology, he described himself as having “emotional attachment to the old convention” when writing song melodies to match the linguistic tones, because the classical style is more elegant (Chao [1928] 1987, 263). 53 To be more precise, the typical dominant-tonic cadence in Western functional harmony is represented by V7–I in Roman numerals. The dominant chord V consists of 4 tones instead of 3, with the “7” indicating the order of the fourth tone. In Figure 8, “V7” is used. 54 At m. 38, the cadence ends on the V—a device known as “half cadence.” Here, the third of the dominant chord is omitted as well. 55 For analysis of tonal contrast along the tonic-dominant axis in German Lied, especially Schubert’s “Nachtviolen” and “Ave Maria,” see Stein and Spillman (1996, 105–18). 56 The stable harmonic rhythm in the A sections of “Familial Bliss” resonates with the beginning of Chao Yuen Ren’s “How Can I Help but Think of You?” (1926). The song opens with a prolonged E-major-chord sonority that is sustained for 12 measures. Presenting a pentatonic modality, the gentle harmonic flow supports the pentatonic movement of the vocal and violin melodies (see Cheung 2008, 347).
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1934b Yang Jinfu 2006
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Going with the Flow: Embracing the Tao of China’s Jiangnan Sizhu Kim Chow-Morris Introduction Religion has for many decades been a sensitive subject in mainland China. So, too, has tradition. Despite the social freedoms gained since the early 1980s, the people I encountered during my four research excursions to Eastern China from 1998 to 2006 were at times quite nervous about questions I posed which might reveal that they had warm feelings for religion, particularly as expressed in China’s feudal past. The New Culture Movement of 1919, the more lenient Communist Party of the 1920s, the Great Leap Forward (1958–1961), and the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) all attempted to eradicate so-called “feudal superstition” from Chinese music and culture (see Hsü 2000; Lary 2007). As the atrocities of the Cultural Revolution, which labeled traditional Chinese culture “backward” and “superstitious,” remain fresh in the minds of the older generation, the questions that I posed during my fieldwork may have been perceived by some as “baiting the snake out of the hole”—a technique of subtle interrogation common during the revolution that prompted individuals to incriminate themselves, and often resulted in a forced exile from their home to a commune in the country, where they endured “re-education” through hard labor.1 However, traditional religious worship is significantly less taboo than it once was. Since the overthrow of the Gang of Four in 1976, the Third Party Plenum in 1978, and the Fourth Congress of Arts Workers in 1979, sanctions against tradition and religion have become more relaxed. In fact, as one professional musician from Shanghai commented, “there are no restrictions on religion now. No one is worried. Only on superstition” (George Gao, personal communication, 1999). Nonetheless, this musician’s perception of a clear and rigid division between superstition and religion serves only to highlight the governmental control over whose beliefs may today be considered religion, and whose superstition. In my travels on the mainland, several people were eager to point out the revived St. Ignatius Cathedral now actively functioning in Shanghai. Throughout the Cultural Revolution, the same cathedral had lain quiet, filled with grain.2
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60 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Moreover, during my 1998 climb up Taishan—one of the five sacred Taoist mountains of China—I engaged in a lengthy and animated conversation with a well-traveled Chinese man in his mid-twenties, in which we discussed our personal religious beliefs, and the difficulties of his plight as one of the few Christians in China. Such liberal debate would have been quite impossible only a few years previous. Nonetheless, unpredictable, recurrent backlashes against these new freedoms, such as the (1989–1990) Seven Evils Campaign, which railed against “feudal superstition,” have kept mainlanders cautious in their speech and writing.3 The Chinese government’s ongoing arrests of members of the Falun Gong meditation movement, which authorities regard as a cult, have raised new questions regarding mainlanders’ freedom of religious expression, and the government’s intentions in protecting its citizens from the group. While in Shanghai, I was invited to play bamboo flute with a large number of Jiangnan sizhu (silk and bamboo from south of the Yangtze River) ensembles. This musical exposure, in conjunction with my interest in the strong historical connections between Chinese philosophy and music, led me to ponder the socio-musical and philosophical influences of Taoism on the Jiangnan sizhu instrumental ensembles.4 As no cohesive research has been devoted to this issue, this paper attempts to lay a foundation for the examination of Taoist influence on the genre. In a broader sense, this paper also explores the intersections between traditional Chinese religious culture and contemporary musical practice. In so doing, I question the sanitized secular historiographies of Jiangnan sizhu widely propagated by local Chinese performers and historians and western academics alike who have, with the notable exception of Stephen Jones (1995) and a few brief references in J. Lawrence Witzleben’s ground-breaking monograph on Jiangnan sizhu (1995), largely portrayed the genre as secular “teahouse music” or described the music in positivistic terms (cf. Thrasher 1985, 1989, 1993; Wong 1997; Lau 1998, 2008; Witzleben 2002; Miller 2009; Stock 2009).5 Jiangnan sizhu is, along with Beijing and Cantonese opera, one of the most well-known Chinese genres, and has received significant attention in western academia. Indeed, it is a genre frequently performed by Chinese ensembles in world music programs in North American universities such as York University, Ryerson University, the University of Toronto, the University of British Columbia, Kent State University, Wesleyan University, and the University of Hawai’i at Manoa. Nonetheless, it would be folly to assume that western academia’s handful of Jiangnan sizhu studies have rendered the tradition a known entity. The existing studies offer valuable analysis of Jiangnan sizhu, yet I argue that much remains to be learned about this genre, in particular in terms of inter-genre connections, rural variants, and religious associations. In an effort to further this exploration, I first contextualize the approach China has taken to religion and music in recent history and then briefly outline the fundamentals
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of Jiangnan sizhu. I then illustrate the transmission of Taoist beliefs to Jiangnan sizhu musicians in southern China, the musical, social, and philosophical synchronicities that resulted, and the impact of this philosophy on the aesthetics and performance practice of contemporary Jiangnan sizhu.
Historical Contexts Until the early 20th century when the government-sponsored guoyue (national music) began to emerge on concert stages throughout the country,6 Chinese music has always been closely linked to a specific locale and its particular set of circumstances. J. Lawrence Witzleben’s 1997 article “Whose Ethnomusicology? Western Ethnomusicology and the Study of Asian Music” elucidates the progression of, and divisions in, Chinese scholarly work on music. Witzleben justly criticizes the ethnocentricity of Western scholars who value only Westernstyle scholarship and fail to create space for the academic approaches of other cultures, such as the Chinese, who focus on “‘music sound’ rather than contextual or conceptual aspects of music” (235). Although this argument is entirely valid, what Witzleben does not mention here is the fact that the recent mainland Chinese scholarly slant is still frequently mediated by practical concerns—the fear of ideological criticism and persecution—rather than intellectual choice. Scholars and musicians who seek to validate their research or music commonly go to great lengths to stress its “scientific” nature, the non-programmatic nature of their music, and its ability to “serve the masses.” Sixty-five-year-old Jiangnan sizhu performer Gu Mingxiang, for example, pointed out that Jiangnan sizhu repertoire, unlike Cantonese music, has many core pieces that are not programmatic.7 Gu notes also that he “wasted many years” of his life due to the Cultural Revolution, since after graduating from university in 1966, he was sent to do manual labor on the docks. Gu states that he was unable to play his erhu (two-stringed bowed lute) for 30 years as a result, but was required to sing “Dongfang Hong” (The East Is Red), which compares Revolutionary leader Mao Zedong to the sun that is necessary for the growth and life of all things, before every meal during the 10 years of the Revolution (Gu Mingxiang, personal communication, 2006). Forty years since the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, local Shanghai Jiangnan sizhu musicians stated that Mao Zedong “had a good heart, but forgot to do some things,” and quoted the widely spread governmental platform that “Mao Zedong was seventy percent right, and thirty percent wrong” in his work as the Great Helmsman of modern China. Others related their ongoing efforts to rally the masses at their concerts, urging them to press the government to support traditional folk music like Jiangnan sizhu (Zhou Hao, personal communication, 2006). Gu Mingxiang explained these measures in 2006, stating,
62 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 “If you want something done, you must have government support” (personal communication). Due to the strong governmental influence on musical practice in China, as Stephen Jones argues in his excellent monograph Folk Music of China: Living Instrumental Traditions (1995), “Chinese studies tend to describe music-making neither as it is, since many complex social factors are at work which can hardly be broached, nor as it was, since the past contexts must also be played down” (70).
Fundamentals of Jiangnan Sizhu In keeping with the categories traditionally used to define the eight instrument families in classical Chinese music, the “silk and bamboo” of the term Jiangnan sizhu refers to the materials used to construct the main instruments played in this ensemble repertoire. Although more recently replaced by sturdier nylon or metal strings, silk strings were traditionally used for Jiangnan sizhu ensemble instruments such as the erhu (two-stringed bowed lute), yangqin (trapezoidal hammered dulcimer), pipa (pear-shaped plucked lute), sanxian (python-skin fretless long neck lute), zhongruan (long neck fretted lute), and qinqin (plum blossom–shaped fretted long neck lute).8 Bamboo instruments played in Jiangnan sizhu include the dizi (transverse flute with vibrating membrane), xiao (vertical notched flute), and sheng (bamboo and gourd–based mouth organ). The ensemble is also accompanied by a wooden clapper, woodblock, small drum, and sometimes a small brass bell, as I outline below in greater detail. The term “Jiangnan” (south of the river) is understood to refer to the Yangtze River, which is traditionally conceptualized as dividing China into northern and southern regions, each of which yields a dense historical mythology and unique cultural attributes. A heterophonic ensemble music originally played in the region bounded by Shanghai, Suzhou, and Hangzhou in eastern China, Jiangnan sizhu has become increasingly more popular since the 1980s as an “untainted” representative of Han Chinese music (Witzleben 1995, 4, 118–9).9 Although forced underground during the Cultural Revolution due to its traditional associations, Jiangnan sizhu ensemble music has made a steady comeback in modern Jiangsu province, through transmission from elderly carriers of the tradition who continued to perform in secret in private homes during the “Ten Years of Chaos,”10 buried instruments and scores for preservation, or kept in practice performing politically sanctioned Revolutionary songs during this tumultuous decade. Jiangnan sizhu is a study in contradictions: it is historically associated with the educated literati, but is now heralded as music for the masses. It is both a rural and an urban phenomenon, although the more boisterous rural genre is little studied.11 Jiangnan sizhu has traditionally been a male domain, and is predominantly performed by elderly gentlemen in amateur ensembles, but is required
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study for both male and female musicians in the westernized Shanghai Conservatory. Shanghai Conservatory alumnus George Gao states that all students are required to study Jiangnan sizhu for 2 years. Traditional players, however, contest that conservatory-trained performers actually receive little training on the genre, and play in an unsuitably flashy, jagged, and unbalanced style. During the past decade, a number of local and foreign women have been welcomed into the traditional ensembles for varying periods of time.12 Witzleben states that he perceived no restrictions against female performers in his year in China (1995, 31), but saw only two women playing Jiangnan sizhu. I was, myself, always warmly welcomed into the ensembles and urged to play. My efforts were given careful attention by the knowledgeable performers, and my scores scrutinized to weed out errors and discrepancies from each ensemble’s style. During my fieldwork, I witnessed two professional female erhu and pipa performers, in addition to myself, in the ensembles in 1998; another female performer in 2000; several female percussionists, and a female yangqin player engaged in doctoral research on Jiangnan sizhu in 2002; and two female percussionists, an older female erhu player, and two young girls learning by listening in 2006; yet felt that certain censures of females’ full involvement existed. In the ensembles, none of the women addressed the group to suggest the next piece or comment aloud on the performance as the men did. Instead, we whispered politely among ourselves, and attempted to be as unobtrusive as possible, as befitting traditionally hierarchical Confucian gender relations. During the post-musicking dinner parties, women were also quite subdued, on the occasions when they were invited, but not nearly to the extent evident while performing Jiangnan sizhu. In other ensembles, women were simply not asked to play: this may have been for other social reasons, yet since all other women were relegated to the status of audience members, and milled about on the sidelines serving tea, minding their children, tapping along to the music, or simply sitting quietly, the issue seems strongly linked to issues of gender and agency. As a male Jiangnan sizhu performer explained to me, even today, women participating in musical performance outside of the conservatories tend to quit playing after marriage, when care of their family traditionally becomes their primary responsibility, and leisure time becomes far less than that available to men (see Chow-Morris 2004, 162–92). Jiangnan sizhu involves both improvisation and adherence to pre-composed melodies through the constant and simultaneous reinterpretation of the interrelated core pieces—the Ba Da Qu (Eight Great Pieces)—by each musician. Despite the small repertoire, it can be quite difficult to recognize the skeletal tune when listening to the music due to the admittance of wide, improvised variation in different renditions.13 I began consciously studying this music in Shanghai in 1998, only to discover eventually that I was already relatively familiar with roughly half of the core literature through my previous studies on the bamboo
64 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 flute, as the music has now spread quite far from its turn of the century locale and context, and figures prominently in several solo instrument repertoires.14 The music is now frequently staged in western-style concert halls, and can be heard not only throughout the mainland, but also as far afield as Canada, Australia, Malaysia, and the United States. As illustrated in the final chapter of “Improvising Hegemony, Exploring Disjuncture: The Music and Cultures of Jiangnan Sizhu” (Chow-Morris 2004), the current situation for Jiangnan sizhu is markedly different from the common Chinese “micro-regionalism” which Alan Thrasher notes in his examination of dance songs from Yunnan province (1990, 112).
The Spread of Taoism The Zhengyi (True Unity) branch of Taoism identifies a complementary relationship between all things, and a dynamic flow between the constituent elements of the universe. This philosophical belief system is fundamental to the knowledge base of the Han Chinese. In fact, the most influential book on popular Taoism, Tai Shang Gan Ying Pian, or The Great Supreme One’s Treatise on Response and Retribution, has been reproduced more than any other book in China (Palmer 1996, 47). In the Qing dynasty (1644–1911), both active temples and full-time priests declined in numbers.15 From 1949 until the early 1980s, religious groups were persecuted and their musical traditions forbidden. Thus many Taoist musicians left their sacred positions and joined their local urban opera and folk troupes. For example, the leading Taoist musician in Shanghai in the late 1980s, the late Jin Minggao, was a well-respected Jiangnan sizhu performer. Similarly, in 1985, the head of the Baiyun Temple in Shanghai played the lead percussion part in the now annual Jiangnan sizhu festival: his son, an erhu (two-stringed bowed lute) teacher, even believes in the existence of a Taoist pai or “school” of Jiangnan sizhu, with a distinct performance style which is as of yet unstudied (Witzleben 1995, 20). Jones, however, suggests that these different schools refer primarily to lines of transmission, and reveal only small differences in style and repertoire (Jones 1995, 93). Unfortunately, he does not outline the differences that he has identified: this remains an area for future research. Recent years have brought significant changes to Taoist temples within mainland China, including mandated cooperation between Taoist organizations and the government. In the mainland Chinese publication Taoism in China (2005), Wang Yi’e indicates that the Chinese Taoist Association established in 1957 is the first Taoist organization that contains all sects in Taoism. A patriotic, nongovernmental organization, it has been very helpful in assisting the government to carry out the policy of religious liberty and uniting the Taoists across the country to actively participate in socialist construction, and thus enjoying a high reputation within the Taoist circles. (91)
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But while the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945), the Great Leap Forward (1959–1965), the early years of the People’s Republic of China, and the Cultural Revolution wreaked havoc north of the Yangtze River, religious worship in the southeast continued to thrive even into the 1950s.16 In the Jiangnan region, many Zhengyi Taoist temples have notable instrumental traditions—these include the Maoshan, Changshu, Jiangyin, and Hangzhou temples (cf. Jones 1995, 27, 253; Tsao 2002a, 321–3), Shanghai’s Baiyun (White Cloud) Temple, Shanghai’s Temple of the City God, and Suzhou’s Xuanmiao (Temple of Mystery).17 Melodic string and wind instruments used in Jiangnan sizhu can be heard regularly in the major rituals of these temples and also during other less formal occasions. The south has also enjoyed a quicker resurgence of Taoism since the Cultural Revolution, thanks in part to the financial support of overseas Chinese. Furthermore, unlike adherents of the Quanzhen sect of Taoism, Zhengyi Taoists frequently live outside the temple, marry, have children, and integrate with mainstream society (Wang 2005, 1–5). In the south, then, Taoist ritual specialists called huoju tao commonly lived among the people and spread their beliefs, which ensured the continuity of their influence despite both Communist Party persecution and rampant destruction of temples by the zealous Red Guards. These specialists, in conjunction with village musicians, played an important role in overseeing village funeral processions. While the first part of the ceremony consisted of Taoist sacred music, it was traditional for the crowd of onlookers to ply the huoju tao for performances of vernacular music during their journey back to the village—as a form of admission fee (Jones 1995, 248). Thus the Taoist musicians were required to be familiar with both sacred and vernacular traditions such as Jiangnan sizhu. In fact, Jones asserts that before the revolution in 1949, almost all of the great musicians of the Jiangnan sizhu hotbed of Suzhou were from Taoist families (Jones 1995, 254). My contact with performers in the Taoist temples of Shanghai and Suzhou confirm that older musicians in particular were quite familiar both with the Jiangnan sizhu repertoire and other regionally popular repertoire.18
Interaction of Taoists with Jiangnan Sizhu On a holy ceremonial day in the summer of 2000, while chatting about Jiangnan sizhu with Zhu Zhang Fu, the elderly head priest of the Baiyun Temple, Zhu related that he was close friends with my dizi (bamboo flute) teacher, Lu Chun Ling, the president of the Jiangnan sizhu society of Shanghai, and stated that he had enjoyed musical interactions with Lu in the past. Spying my bamboo flute in my knapsack, Zhu quickly inked a Taoist melody called “Liu Yao Jin” (Willow Waist Brocade) into my notebook with his long calligraphy brush (see the transcription of Zhu’s notation in Appendix A), and invited me to perform
66 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 the piece as a dizi and erhu duet.19 In our duet outside on the temple grounds, Zhu played the erhu from memory as I sight-read on the dizi. In its undulating melodic contour, heterophonic texture, motifs, style of ornamentation, and general musical character, the piece revealed many affinities with the Jiangnan sizhu style.20 Zhu further indicated his association with Jiangnan sizhu by inviting me to the well-attended Wednesday afternoon rehearsals held in a building formerly known as Boli Gong So (Glass Station) at the intersection of Shanghai’s Renmin Lu (People’s Street) and Qing Lian Jie (Green Lotus Avenue). Many of the stylistic features of Boli Gong So’s Jiangnan sizhu performances seem to have filtered into Zhu’s performance in the Taoist temple, or vice versa. Similarly, the musicians of the Taiyun she society in Wuxi were known to have practiced the local Kunqu opera, Jiangnan sizhu, and Taoist shifan music genres, and were often joined by the virtuosic shifan drum master Zhu Qinfu—a Taoist priest.21 Moreover, in 1947, Kan Xianzhi, a Taoist musician and member of the Taiyun she society, worked with Zhu Qinfu, Yang Yinliu, and an ensemble of Taoist musicians to record local percussion music in Shanghai (Witzleben 1995, 39; Jones 1995, 255).
Role of Percussion Jiangnan sizhu percussion parts now serve mainly to keep the time and usually use only two interlocking instruments—clappers and either a small singleheaded “chestnut” drum or the more ubiquitous woodblock. However, Jiangnan sizhu scholar Xu Qingyan asserts that the percussion parts were once more complex, similar to the Taoist shifan music he cites as its predecessor (Witzleben 1995, 57; Jones 1995, 104). Having heard more complex syncopated percussion accompaniments in several Shanghai ensembles, I note that this additional layer adds substantially to the rhythmic complexity and interest of the music, in a manner reminiscent of the shifan genres. The shifan piece “Luogu Sihe” (Gongs and Drums Four Together) contains eleven structural sections, of which fully five are played solely by percussion (Witzleben 1995, 78–9). This melodic “suite,” from the western suburbs of Shanghai (Jin and Ma 1983, 28), is structurally related to the Jiangnan sizhu pieces “Sihe Ruyi” (Four Together as You Please) and “Xingjie” (Walking through the Street) through a technique of melodic and rhythmic expansion and contraction common to this repertoire.22 In fact, the basic melodic skeleton of “Xingjie” is a small excerpt of the larger “Luogu Sihe,” but has deleted the percussion sequences (Zhou Hao, personal communication, 2006). This alternation between percussive and melodic instruments is characteristic of much of Taoist shifan music which suggests an additional structural link to Jiangnan sizhu. Since only one of the Eight Great Pieces—“Huanlege”—is melodically unrelated to “Luogu Sihe,” Taoist shifan music has a definite link to almost all of Jiangnan sizhu’s core repertoire.
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Interestingly, Jones states that the rural Jiangnan sizhu traditions, which he believes to be the predecessors of urban Jiangnan sizhu, still use the many gongs and cymbals of the shifan genre (Jones 1995, 271). Percussion instruments are known to Chinese Buddhists and Taoists as faqi, or “instruments of the dharma,” and are thought by more conservative priests to be the only suitable accompaniment for liturgy (cf. Tsao 2002b, 312). In C. K. Yang’s monograph Religion in Chinese Society: A Study of Contemporary Functions of Religion and Some of Their Historical Factors, he states that “the sounding of cymbals and drums in a religious procession or service was always meant to summon a crowd or gather a following, and hence the (governmental) stipulation against it” (1961, 206). Noting religious organizations’ threat to political power in China’s past, the Qing dynasty rulers declared that any soldier or civilian who summoned a god “with the clang of cymbals and beating of drums” (Yang 1961, 205) would be subject to 100 blows with a long stick. Wang Yi’e confirms that after the 16th century, Taoism, “being discriminated against . . . turned to the countryside and gained more popularity there, further merging with Buddhism and folk beliefs” (2005, 4). Seen in this light, it is not surprising that the more remote rural Jiangnan sizhu, where governmental control has always been more fluid, should maintain the boisterous percussion sections, while urban Jiangnan sizhu could not.23 Nonetheless, urban Shanghaiese Jiangnan sizhu performers offer a slightly different interpretation of the reason for omitting the loud percussion sequences, citing the strain of holding a conversation over the din of such raucous percussion, which is a large part of the performers’ enjoyment in the urban tradition (Zhou Hao, personal communication, 2006). This interpretation aligns the urban performers with the refined qingke chuan amateur musicians who performed as respected guests at festive and life-cycle events from the middle of the 19th century, and who performed at least four of the main Jiangnan sizhu repertoire pieces (see Witzleben 1995, 10). Rural Jiangnan sizhu is, unfortunately, still fairly difficult to access due to the current governmental strictures against foreign visitors in remote areas and is, therefore, as of yet little studied. Ethnographic research in these less volatile areas would yield a great deal of further information about the history of Taoist influence on Jiangnan sizhu.
Similarities in Instrumentation There is further evidence of Jiangnan sizhu’s hushed social, philosophical, and musical association with Taoism. Analysis of the core instrumentation of one of the two Taoist shifan genres (see Jones 1995, 259)—shifan luogu—shows it to be highly similar to that of Jiangnan sizhu, using dizi (transverse bamboo flute), zhongruan (fretted medium-sized lute), woodblock, and wooden clappers, and sometimes sheng (mouth organ), xiao (vertical notched flute), and
68 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 erhu (two-stringed bowed lute). Moreover, I noted the regionally popular qinqin (plum flower lute),24 sanxian (long-necked python skin lute), and biqi gu (chestnut drum) characteristic to silk and bamboo music in photographs on display in both 2002 and 2006 that depicted Suzhou’s Xuanmiao Temple ensemble in a guest performance at the “4th Singapore Taoist Day.” The Suzhou Taoist temple also included percussion instruments such as large cymbals, dagu (large drum), large muyu (wooden fish), suspended yunluo (cloud gongs), and suona (doublereed shawm) in the same performance. Performances by Shanghai’s Chenghuang Miao (Temple of the City God) and Baiyun (White Cloud) Temple musicians also revealed heavy use of most of these same louder percussion and wind instruments, along with those typical of Jiangnan sizhu. The increased dynamic level that these instruments impart, together with the doubling and tripling of wind instruments such as the dizi and sheng, again suggests a stronger link to rural variants than contemporary urban Jiangnan sizhu. Taoist shifan music of this area, however, tends to use more melodic string instruments than in other regions, which suggests the possibility of reciprocal influence from the local Jiangnan sizhu. The somewhat fixed seating arrangement of these instruments around a rectangular table, with the yangqin (hammered dulcimer) at one of the short ends, and percussion at the other, is quite similar in both shifan ensembles and Jiangnan sizhu (Jones 1995, 259, 274). Common dizi melodies borrowed from the local Kunqu genre also link shifan and Jiangnan sizhu genres (Yue 2006, 73–105; Jones 1995, 248, 268).25 Additionally, both shifan and Jiangnan sizhu also use the same two regionally popular modes, with tonics of D and G, where the G mode is linked to the refined and contemplative repertoire of the pipa (pear-shaped plucked lute).26 Moreover, a specific structural “break” called zhongchai, which uses syncopated ostinato patterns revolving around a previous cadential note, links the shifan and Jiangnan sizhu genres. Zhongchai are found, for example, in the syncopated final section of the Jiangnan sizhu piece “Xingjie” and the old Taoist dizi piece “Liu Yao Jin” (Willow Waist Brocade): the latter is transcribed in Appendix A (written in simplified form without improvised syncopation). In the transcription of “Liu Yao Jin,” the two note patterns following the two quarter note F#s at measure four represent the beginning of the first zhongchai, while a second zhongchai follows directly after the two quarter note Ds at measure seven. These two zhongchai are each marked by a bracket in the transcription.
Literary Associations The origin of musical titles is characteristically difficult to trace in Chinese music, as the same title is often given to pieces with no structural link, while the same piece can often hold multiple names; yet an examination of Jiangnan sizhu
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piece titles and section subtitles also reveals a clear relationship to Taoism. The opening of “Xingjie” and the second section of “Sihe Ruyi” reveal religious associations through their common title, “Xiao Baimen,” or “Small Worshipping at the Gate” (see Witzleben 1995, 15–6, 79–80).27 In keeping with the secularization of titles in many musical genres which occurred after 1949, this heading is now often referred to as “Xiao Kaiman,” or “Small Opening the Gate.” The pieces “Sihe Ruyi,” “Xingjie,” and “Luogu Sihe” also contain a qupai (submelody) adopted from the local Kunqu (Kun opera) Ye Sun Fun (At Midnight). This qupai was given the fairly rare title “Yu Elang” (Jade Beautiful Youth), which is also the name of an instrumental qupai in Shanghai’s Taoist music (Witzleben 1995, 80).28 Shanghai musicians state that the names “Yu” and “Elang” represent a girl’s and boy’s name, respectively, in Ye Sun Fun. Witzleben translates this qupai as “Jade Moth” (⥝㳒㳟) (1995, 80–1); however, the Chinese characters (⥝ 䚢) printed in the Jiang Yuanlu and Yan Zhu score collection do not seem to support this interpretation entirely (Jiang and Yan 1987, 1995). “Yu” is correctly translated as “jade,” and is one of the materials used by religious Taoists in their ongoing quest for an elixir of immortality, which began circa 300 BC (Creel 1970, 7–23). Yet the second half of the title should be interpreted as “Beautiful Youth,” which echoes the theme and goal of immortality represented in the word “jade.”29 Erhu master Zhou Hao states that both “Yu Elang” and “Xiao Baimen” are melodically related (personal communication, 2006), which explains the use of religious imagery in both. Witzleben notes that he witnessed the piece “Yu Furong,” a slightly shortened variation of the qupai “Yu Elang,”30 being played independently in one Jiangnan sizhu club in Shanghai (1995, 67). In 2000, the late dizi master Yu Xun Fa taught me this melody when I requested to learn some pieces from the Taoist repertoire. While Witzleben accurately translates this subtitle as “Jade Hibiscus,” keeping the genre’s Taoist roots in mind, a more revealing translation of the two Chinese characters is “Jade Lotus.” Here, the image of the jade elixir of immortality is coupled with that of the lotus, a flower venerated in religious iconography for its ability to remain pure and clean in the mud and mire in which it grows. The lotus acts as a metaphor for enlightenment in both Taoist and Buddhist iconography, and represents the individual who maintains his spiritual purity in the midst of chaos and corruption, which is, of course, a central aim of religious adherents. The subtitles of the elegant piece “Ni Chang Qu” (Colorful Skirt Song) similarly reflect Taoist ideology.31 There are five programmatic subtitles in “Ni Chang Qu,” which can be translated as “Jade Rabbit Is Rising,” “Cricket Plays with Jade Rabbit,” “Moon Is Mid-Sky,” “Chang-E Is Spinning,” and “Jade Rabbit Is Setting.” In its most literal translation, the piece depicts the rise and fall of the moon in the night sky: the shadows on the moon are said, in East Asia, to resemble a rabbit with a mortal and pestle in its paws. Yet knowledge of Taoist symbolism reveals
70 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 a deeper meaning to the story. In ancient times, the Jade Emperor’s ten sons are said to have transformed themselves into blazing suns which were destroying the earth. The Jade Emperor, the Taoist ruler of Heavenly and Earthly realms, enlisted the help of the immortal archer Hou Yi to scare his sons/suns out of the sky; however, Hou Yi shot down nine of the ten sons/suns with his arrows, killing them to save the earth. The angry Jade Emperor punished Hou Yi and his consort Lady Chang E by making them both mortal. The immortals later gave Hou Yi a single pill of immortality to share with Chang E, but (according to some versions), before he could explain what the pill was, he was called away for a period of time. The curious Chang E ate the entire pill of immortality and floated away to the moon just as her consort returned, becoming the Goddess of the Moon. Hou Yi was later given the elixir of immortality by the immortals a second time, in some versions, becoming the god of the sun. Hou Yi, living in the blazing sun, represents the supreme yang element in Taoist cosmology, while Chang E, living in the cool moon, represents the supreme yin element. On the 15th day of each month when the moon is full, yin and yang meet, as Hou Yi flies from the sun to meet Chang E. According to traditional legend, the Jade Rabbit in the moon is constantly pounding the ingredients for an elixir of immortality with a pestle. This quest for immortality parallels that of many ancient Taoists, who strove to defeat death through the consumption of various, often toxic, substances and the practice of spiritual exercises such as qigong. The story of Chang E and Hou Yi is traditionally told during the Mid-Autumn festival, which falls on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month when the moon appears at its fullest, and marks the transitional point at which the hot yang summer season gives way to the cooler yin of autumn (Oldstone-Moore 2003, 80).
Philosophical Associations The taiji symbol appeared during China’s Spring and Autumn period (770– 476 BC) and underlies much of Chinese thought (Hoisey and Hoisey 1993, 3). Briefly, the black yin element of the now popular taiji symbol represents the feminine, earthly, introverted, meditative, cold, peaceful, quiet, dark, and downward-moving aspects of existence. It is also associated with even numbers and, as noted earlier, the moon. The white yang element represents those aspects which are considered to be masculine, heavenly, extroverted, active, hot, martial, loud, light, and upward moving. Yang is also associated with odd numbers and the sun. Illustrated together as two nestled tear drops, this pair forms a unity represented by the circle. These elements are considered to be balanced and complementary, rather than oppositional, and are in a state of continuous transition, as yin flows into yang and yang into yin in an eternal cycle. Moreover,
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there is always an aspect of one in the other.32 The concept of yin and yang has had great impact on classical Chinese music theory, for the ratio of 2:3 is said to embody the yin-yang relationship, and thus heaven and earth. This 2:3 ratio produces the interval of the fifth, upon which the classical Chinese anhemitonic pentatonic scale was built using the ancient system of the lü (bamboo pipes). In this way, the ancient Chinese believed that their music literally ensured the harmony of heaven and earth. Jiangnan sizhu’s repertoire is also ideologically linked to Taoism through its yin-yang structural divisions. Jiangnan sizhu musicians divide their music along the yin-yang continuum into wen, or peaceful repertoire which embodies the yin principle and uses a smaller, more intimate, ensemble of pipa, erhu, xiao, and yangqin; and wu, or martial repertoire, which embodies the yang principle and incorporates the much larger full string, wind, and percussion complement.33 While the quiet wen repertoire is performed with the airy vertical bamboo flute, the xiao, the wu repertoire is played with the much louder transverse bamboo flute, the dizi, which has a dimo (fine bamboo membrane) affixed to one hole to create a penetrating buzzy timbre. The wu repertoire is more energetic, using wider melodic intervals, punchier dotted rhythms and syncopation, and more florid ornamentation. Interestingly, the same melody can sometimes be played in both wen and wu arrangements. The core piece “Zhonghua Liuban” (Moderately Ornamented Six Beats), for example, an excerpt of which is transcribed in Appendix B, can also be performed in wen style where it is called “Xun Feng Qu” (Fragrant Breeze Melody) and played on the xiao. In keeping with the passive wen ideology, much less ornamentation is used in the performance of the melody as “Xun Feng Qu.” The yin-yang relationship is also reflected in musicians’ frequent discussion of the dichotomy between shi or xu (“substantial” or “empty”) playing, da or xiao (large or small) ensembles, cu or xi (“coarse” or “fine”) instrumentation, and ya or su (“refined” or “common”) repertoire (cf. Jones 1995, 81, 93, 281). The complementary nature of these elements is emphasized in musicians’ eloquent metaphorical description of them as yuanyang, a pair of mandarin ducks, which in traditional Chinese culture is a symbol of marital bliss.
Contemporary Practice and Debate I turn now to the debate surrounding this Taoist philosophical heritage in contemporary China. Smarting from their defeats in the Opium Wars from 1839 to 1842 and 1856 to 1860, and subsequent suppression by European political powers, many Chinese sought to pursue the “modern and scientific” military and cultural advantages they viewed the West as enjoying. In an attempt to overcome the perceived backwardness of Chinese culture (see Lau 2008, 31), a westernized,
72 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 pan-national conservatory style of Jiangnan sizhu began to be performed in the 1930s. The nationalized guoyue conservatory style differs greatly from traditional performance of Jiangnan sizhu in its emphasis on contrast through dramatic terraced dynamics, acoustic experimentation with traditional instruments in order to make them louder and to extend the bottom end of the tessitura, and virtuosic western-style instrumental techniques. Guoyue also differs in its western-influenced use of exaggerated expressive bodily movements, fixed orchestrations played from a printed score, and shortening of extended folk music forms. These aesthetic changes were thought to make the music more accessible and pleasurable for the commoner, thus also following Communist Party dictates, both during and following the Cultural Revolution, that music should serve the masses. This new performance style, influenced heavily by the European music taught alongside Chinese music in the conservatories, also brought the equal temperament of the West to Jiangnan sizhu, and the advent of formal ticketed concerts, and thus a physical division between audience and performers, rich and poor, and professional and amateur musicians. As these stylistic and performative changes crept into the genre, these conservatory influences sparked an aesthetic crisis in modern Jiangnan sizhu, with musicians from both the traditional and the conservatory schools hotly debating the validity of their choices. I focus here on those aspects that seem to contest aesthetic ideals that have been the inheritance of Jiangnan sizhu’s lengthy association with Taoism. Traditionally, Jiangnan sizhu is centered on extended compositional forms. When I mentioned the piece “Xingjie” to Shanghai Conservatory alumnus George Gao, for instance, his immediate response was to laugh and pronounce, “Oh! It’s too long!” (personal communication, 1999). This kind of response is standard among conservatory-trained musicians. But while conservatory musicians now accustomed to brevity and drama denounce the tedious nature of some Jiangnan sizhu pieces like “Xingjie,” which lasts for around 18 minutes in performance, the traditional rendering of the music falls in line with the Taoist focus on the present moment and path. This philosophical ideology is nicely illustrated by Martin Palmer in his book Travels through Sacred China (1996), where he points out that the path to the summit of a Taoist holy mountain meanders and wanders its way along scenic sites with the intention that the journey be valued for its own sake, rather than the ultimate destination (Palmer 1996, 10–16): the path is the point. With few exceptions, in the many Jiangnan sizhu gatherings that I have attended, the mood was one of relaxation, with the focus on enjoying the present moment. There was no rehearsal schedule, nor any concert for which to prepare. In fact, despite the fact that most performance rooms are booked for a prescribed period of 2–3 hours, the biggest time restraint often seemed to be the rumbling of hungry stomachs in the late afternoon. This behavior was a marked contrast to the almost frenetic hustle and bustle of other social and musical settings in Shanghai.
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The emphasis on the path is also reflected in discussion of the music, for after a particularly good performance of Jiangnan sizhu, where the dynamics swell and ebb gradually, the tempo smoothly increases, and the phrases flow one into the next, musicians often refer appreciatively to the processual continuity of the performance, likening it to yitiao xian, a continuous thread.34 This may explain traditional musicians’ distaste for the sudden tempo changes and dramatic dynamic contrasts of conservatory musicians that break the thread with the aim of entertaining the masses—a non-participatory audience. The exaggerated bodily movements of the conservatory performers, influenced by Romantic era performers of the west, are similarly thought to be somewhat unseemly by traditional Jiangnan sizhu musicians, whose intention is to communicate among themselves, rather than externally, through intent musical awareness. Musicians often speak in admiration of the moqi, or tacit understanding, which develops between musicians who have played together for many years. This sensitivity to one’s socio-musical surroundings is integral to balanced improvisation in Jiangnan sizhu, and is considered the mark of a good ensemble. Musicians practice to improve this communication for years.35 Thus rather than provide a set of études or technical exercises for the student to master, a beginner is generally told “duo ting; duo chui” (listen more; play more). As I experienced in my earliest visits to Jiangnan sizhu ensembles in the teahouses, private homes, seniors’ centers, and recreation centers of Shanghai in 1998, beginners play together with the most advanced musicians in a club from the start as a means of learning the most important skill: to relate to the group, both musically and socially.36
Principles of Improvisation and Creative Interaction Foremost in this learning process is the development of an understanding of the “yin-yang” techniques of jiahua and ranglu that allow each musician to have yudi (creative latitude) in their interpretation of a piece. The yang technique jiahua can be translated literally as “adding flowers,” and describes the process of ornamenting and melodically or rhythmically activating the gugan yin, or skeletal melody. The yin technique ranglu, conversely, may be translated as “giving way,” and is the technique of simplifying the melody so as to allow another musician’s more ornate version to come forward in the musical texture. The technique of ranglu is also frequently referred to as jianzi, or “simplification.” A common aphorism describing the dynamic balancing of improvisational techniques is “ni fan, wo jian; wo fan, ni jian,” or “when you play elaborately, I play simply; when I play elaborately, you play simply.” Musicians who develop moqi to a high level are able to intuit when their companions will add flowers or give way and respond appropriately in order to produce a harmonious and balanced result.
74 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Appendix B offers a transcription of two interpretations of the melody “Zhonghua Liuban” by dizi, xiao, and erhu players from two well-known commercial recordings. Performed by Lu Chun Ling (dizi and xiao) and Zhou Hao (erhu), these brief excerpts reveal the characteristic styles of two of the most famous masters of Jiangnan sizhu.37 The interplay of jiahua and ranglu can be seen throughout these transcriptions in varying degrees. Lu’s and Zhou’s interpretations of the melody, while unique in each performance, also reveal a certain degree of consistency, which mark their recognizable fengge (styles).38 Lu’s xiao interpretation remains quite similar to his highly decorated dizi interpretation, with the exception of the characteristic dayin (rhythmic grace note) ornamentation in bar three of the xiao line. We see a greater degree of creative latitude between Zhou Hao’s two erhu renditions, particularly in the final bar and a half. The two players also balance each other well, revealing their many years of performing together. The erhu adds ornaments on the third beat of the first bar, while the dizi gives way with a sustained note. The erhu in turn gives way on the last 2 beats of the second bar, allowing the dizi to come forward and ornament. Similarly, the erhu consistently activates the melody in the fifth bar, while the dizi gives way. In the fourth bar, however, the two players are equally matched—a technique that garners high praise when performed in moderation. The use of jiahua and ranglu are governed by a number of additional social and musical factors, including skill, aesthetic taste, instrumental style, ensemble constituency, and social hegemony, which are examined in detail in “Improvising Hegemony, Exploring Disjuncture: The Music and Cultures of Jiangnan Sizhu” (Chow-Morris 2004). While Taoism rules local musicians’ discussion of performance philosophy, the Confucian respect for social hierarchy seems to have made a notable impact on the actual performance practices of this music as well: famous musicians and men tend to be socially permitted to jiahua more than the other musicians. As a case in point, when I mentioned to a Shanghai Conservatory musician that my elderly dizi master at times seemed to jiahua more than the other musicians in Jiangnan sizhu ensembles, I was told laughingly, “Lu always plays jiahua! But no one minds because he is very old and famous” (George Gao, personal communication, 1999). Further complicating the analysis of jiahua and ranglu is the fact that each instrument is, as illustrated above, expected to ornament within its characteristic style. In fact, there is even a folk saying which describes the appropriate instrumental interpretation: “clumsy the sheng, artful the guanzi, ornate the dizi.” Moreover, each musician has his own style of interpretation in performing jiahua and ranglu. Experienced musicians are able to name the performers on a given recording through identification of each musician’s unique style: several elderly musicians even recognized the influence of the late dizi master Yu Xun Fa in my dizi playing after I had taken only my first few lessons with him, when I integrated a few of his motifs into my playing.
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Since the extroverted nature of adding flowers is considered a yang technique in Taoist thought, while giving way is yin, the proper balance and fluid interaction of these elements leads to harmony. The techniques of jiahua and ranglu are also expected to maintain peaceful relations among friends and family in social situations. It is, therefore, the active relationship between the musicians, and between their improvised musical lines, which are the focus of the experience: ideologically, at least, process dominates structure. Thus it seems that for the Jiangnan sizhu musician, the compositional framework is not a prison, but a playground. As befitting its Taoist ideological influences, Jiangnan sizhu itself is a fluid and ever-shifting form, which has been forced to respond to the many changing religious, economic, political, and social forces of its environment. As with all music, it is, ultimately, natural that change occurs in this genre: this is a basic tenet of Taoism itself, where one is encouraged to follow without strain the natural flow of the universe, and to respect one’s place within it. Yet bearing in mind these same Taoist ideological intentions, it is perhaps only understandable that traditional musicians would balk at the notion of “their” Jiangnan sizhu being performed in the “new” conservatory style on a stage, for money, facing outwards toward an audience instead of in their usual inwardly directed circle, for an externally prescribed period of time, with a preapproved program order, and fixed orchestrations which deny them the very function of the musical interaction as they understand it. Despite the prescriptive secularization of the mainland government, through the complementary struggles of both traditional and conservatory musicians, and the transitions of form and function, one may still recognize the echoes of Jiangnan sizhu’s Taoist roots, and the dynamic interplay of yin and yang. An excerpt from the famous Taoist disciple Zhuang Zi’s Inner Chapters speaks well to the current aesthetic schism in modern Jiangnan sizhu, and acts, I believe, as a Taoist response to the ongoing debate over the correct and authentic performance of Jiangnan sizhu: Suppose you and I argue. If you win and I lose, are you indeed right and I wrong? And if I win and you lose, am I right and you wrong? Are we both partly right and partly wrong? Are we both all right or both all wrong? If you and I cannot see the truth, other people will find it even harder. Then whom shall we ask to be the judge? Shall I ask someone who agrees with you? If he already agrees with you, how can he be a fair judge? Shall I ask someone who agrees with me? If he already agrees with me, how can he be a fair judge? Shall I ask someone who agrees with both of us? If he already agrees with both of us, how can he be a fair judge? Then if you and I and others cannot decide, shall we wait for still another? Waiting for changing opinions is like waiting for nothing. Seeing everything in relation to the heavenly cosmos and leaving the different viewpoints as they are, we may be able to live out our years. What do I mean by seeing things in relation to the heavenly cosmos? Consider right
76 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 and wrong, being and non-being. If right is indeed right, there need be no argument about how it is different from wrong. If being is really being, there need be no argument about how it is different from non-being. Forget time; forget distinction. Enjoy the infinite; rest in it. (Feng and English 1997, 46)
Like the performance practice of Jiangnan sizhu, Zhuang Zi’s words obfuscate singularity and “truth.” In so doing, he shifts our focus back once again to the appreciation of the present moment and the path. Ryerson University, Toronto
Acknowledgments I wish to thank most sincerely my dizi teachers, Lu Chun Ling and Yu Xun Fa, erhu master Zhou Hao, yangqin master Zhou Hui, erhu specialist Gu Mingxiang, pipa master Lu Dehua, and all of the Shanghai Jiangnan sizhu musicians for their generosity in welcoming me to visit and perform with many clubs over the years, and their open-mindedness and patience in training me—a foreign female musician—in the genre. I thank guzheng master Miriam Sue Phig Choy from the Chinese music store Harmony Music, in Scarborough, Ontario, and the president of the Toronto Chinese Orchestra, Frederick Yiu, for their thoughtful assistance with translation. I assume, however, full responsibility for any interpretative errors printed here.
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Glossary Ba Da Qu (ܿ᳆): The “Eight Great Pieces” that form the traditional core of the Jiangnan sizhu repertoire. Baiyunguan (ⱑѥ㾖): “White Cloud Temple”; a well-known Taoist temple in Shanghai. A thriving Taoist temple of the same name exists in Beijing. biqi gu (㥌㤴哧): “chestnut drum”; a small flat drum played with a single thin drum stick. Chenghuang Miao (ජ䱡ᑭ): Temple of the City God. A small Taoist temple in the heart of Yu Gardens in Shanghai where Taoist musicians frequently play. cu (㉫): coarse.
78 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 da (): large. dagu (哧): large drum with a skin head that is played with two thick cylindrical drum sticks. dayin (ᠧ䷇): struck note; a quick grace note ornament typical of Chinese wind instruments; to play this ornament, the hole that produces the neighbor note to the main melodic pitch is quickly slapped with the finger. dimo (ワ㝰): dizi membrane; a thin slice of bamboo that is affixed to the hole adjacent to the embouchure hole on the bamboo flute to give the instrument its characteristic buzzy timbre. dizi (ワᄤ): transverse bamboo flute with six finger holes; a membrane affixed to the hole adjacent to the embouchure hole affords the instrument a distinctive buzzy timbre. “duo ting, duo chui” (ˈ): “listen more, play more”; an aphorism commonly used to describe the method by which one ought to learn the correct performance style of Jiangnan sizhu. erhu (Ѡ㚵): two-stringed bowed lute; part of the larger huqin family of bowed instruments. faqi (⊩఼): “instruments of the dharma”; percussion instruments used in Buddhist and Taoist liturgy and religious processions. fengge (亢Ḑ): style. guanzi (ㅵᄤ): a double-reed instrument with a cylindrical bore. gugan yin (偼ᑆ䷇): skeletal melody; the architecture of a composition, without the ornaments typically added in performance. guoyue (Ф): “national music”; a pan-national aesthetic tradition developed in the western-influenced Chinese conservatories, which merges regional folk and classical traditions with western orchestral harmonies, forms, and aesthetics. Huanlege (Ф℠): “Song of Happiness”; title of a standard piece in the Jiangnan sizhu repertoire; also commonly played as a dizi solo. huoju tao (☿ሙ䘧): Taoist ritual specialists who live among the ordinary people rather than in a monastery, and are permitted to marry and have children. jiahua (ࡴ㢅): “adding flowers”; a technique of melodic ornamentation typically used in Jiangnan sizhu. Jiangnan sizhu (∳फϱネ): “South of the (Yangtze) river silk and bamboo”; a regional instrumental ensemble centered around Shanghai, Suzhou, and Hangzhou in central Eastern China; the title of the genre refers to the use of string instruments which were formerly strung with silk, and flutes and mouth organs made of bamboo; small percussion are also used in Jiangnan sizhu performance. jianzi (ޣᄫ): subtracting characters (notes) or simplification; a technique of melodic simplification typically used in Jiangnan sizhu, but also applicable to other Chinese genres; the same technique is also known as ranglu.
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Kunqu (ᯚ᳆): a traditional form of opera from central-eastern China that is led by the dizi; Kunqu both preceded and influenced Cantonese and Beijing opera styles, as well as other forms of regional opera. Liu Yao Jin (᷇㽕䫺): “Willow Waist Brocade”; title of an old southern-Chinese Taoist dizi melody. Luogu Sihe (䫷哧ಯড়): “Gongs and Drums, Four Together”; a melodic suite that originated in the western suburbs of Shanghai; the Jiangnan sizhu core piece “Xingjie” is an excerpt of “Luogu Sihe” with the percussion sections deleted. moqi (咬༥): “touching the vital essence”; a form of tacit understanding or intuition that develops when musicians have performed together for long periods of time. muyu (剐): wooden fish; a woodblock carved, and sometimes painted, to look like a fish. pai (⌒): school or lineage of transmission. Qing Lian Jie (䴦㦆㸫): Green Lotus Avenue; a street in Shanghai. qinqin (⾺⨈): a “plum blossom”–shaped long-necked fretted lute. Quanzhen (ܼⳳ): the “Complete Perfection” sect of Taoism, which originated in Northern China. qupai (᳆⠠): named tune; a brief fixed melody. ranglu (䅽䏃): giving way or yielding; a technique of melodic simplification typically used in Jiangnan sizhu; the same technique is also known as jianzi. Renmin Lu (Ҏ⇥䏃): “People’s Street”; a main street in central Shanghai. sanxian (ϝᓺ): a long-necked unfretted lute with a python skin sound box; similar in timbre to the banjo. sheng (ロ): a mouth organ of varying sizes which is traditionally affixed with bamboo pipes; often said to resemble the mythical phoenix. shi (ᅲ): strong; solid. shifan (क⬾): a Taoist musical genre which frequently alternates between melodic and percussive subsections. Sihe Ruyi (ಯড়བᛣ): “Four Together as You Please”; title of a standard piece in the Jiangnan sizhu repertoire that is melodically related to both “Xingjie” and “Luogu Sihe.” su (֫): common. suona (ਤ): a double-reed shawm with a conical bore. Tai Shang Gan Ying Pian (Ϟᛳᑨ㆛): “The Great Supreme One’s Treatise on Response and Retribution”; a seminal text in the Taoist liturgy. taiji (ᵕ): “yin-yang” symbol; this Taoist symbol represents the complementary nature of all things; it presents elements commonly perceived as “oppositional” as complimentary parts in a unified whole; the taiji indicates the existence of an element of yin in yang and vice versa, and represents the constant movement from yin to yang and vice versa.
80 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 wen (᭛): peaceful; civil. wu (℺): martial. xi (㌄): fine; detailed. xiao (ㅿ): a vertically held bamboo flute with a notched embouchure plate; the predecessor of the Japanese shakuhachi. xiao (ᇣ): small. Xiao Baimen (ᇣᢰ䮼): “Small Worshipping at the Gate”; the literary subtitle for the opening of “Xingjie” and second section of “Sihe Ruyi.” Xiao Kaimen (ᇣᓔ䮼): “Small Opening the Gate”; secularized translation of “Xiao Baimen.” Xingjie (㸠㸫): “Walking through the Street;” title of a core piece in the Jiangnan sizhu repertoire which refers to the procession of the bridal sedan through the streets in a marriage ceremony. xu (㰮): weak; empty. Xuanmiao (⥘ᑭ): “Temple of Mystery”; the main Taoist temple in the city of Suzhou. Xun Feng Qu (㮄亢᳆): “Fragrant Breeze Melody”; a variation of “Zhonghua Liuban” in the wen style, which is traditionally played with a smaller ensemble, less ornamentation, and the quieter xiao instead of the buzzy dizi. ya (䲙): refined. yang (䰇): the masculine, extroverted, white, light, active, hot aspect of the taiji symbol; at its zenith, yang gives way to yin; yang always possesses an element of yin. Ye Sun Fun (⏅≝): “At Midnight”; title of a piece in the Kunqu repertoire which contains the qupai “Yu Elang.” yin (䰈): the feminine, introverted, black, dark, passive, cool aspect of the taiji symbol; at its zenith, yin gives way to yang; yin always possesses an element of yang. yitiao xian (ϔᴵ㒓): “continuous thread”; a common description of the smooth and continuous melodic line desired in the performance of Jiangnan sizhu. Yu Elang (⥝䚢): “Jade Beautiful Youth”; title of a qupai found in “Xingjie,” “Sihe Ruyi,” “Sanliu,” and “Luogu Sihe”; also the name of a boy and girl in the Kunqu opera Ye Sun Fun. Yu Furong (⥝㡭㪝): “Jade Lotus”; title for a variant of the qupai “Yu Elang.” yuanyang (吇吃): pair of mandarin ducks; a symbol of marital bliss. yudi (ԭഄ): creative latitude; interpretive freedom; leeway. yunluo (ѥ䫷): “cloud gongs”; a set of suspended gongs of different sizes that is used to play melodic passages. Zhengyi (ℷϔ): the “True Unity” branch of Taoism, which originated in central-eastern China.
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zhongchai (Ёᔽ): structural break that uses syncopated ostinato patterns revolving around a previous cadential note. Zhonghua Liuban (Ё㢅݁ᵓ): “Moderately Ornamented Six Beats”; the title of one of the “Eight Great Pieces” of the Jiangnan sizhu repertoire.
Notes 1 One musician from Shanghai explained that “if you spoke English or played the wrong music, you were beaten or killed. If somebody didn’t like you, they could make trouble for you and you’d have big problems in the Cultural Revolution” (personal communication, 2006). Another local musician related the story of a Jiangnan sizhu musician who had spoken in English with a foreigner at Shanghai’s famous Huxinting teahouse in Yu Garden, explaining that the police interrogated him afterwards, asking what he had said and why he was speaking with a foreigner (personal communication, 2006). Such incidents still promote caution in some mainland Chinese today. 2 The famed dizi (transverse bamboo flute) master, Lu Chun Ling, was among these. I wonder whether this eagerness stemmed from the common belief that all westerners are Christian, or from a desire to illustrate the religious freedom enjoyed currently in China. A great number of mainlanders whom I met during fieldwork were intent on impressing me with the best attributes of China, fueled, perhaps, by the enduring perception that westerners do not have a high view of the country in light of its technological status. St. Ignatius Cathedral is located at 158 Puxi Road, Shanghai, and is also referred to as Xujiahui Cathedral. See Yang (1961, 367–71) on the conversion of religious buildings to secular uses. 3 In 1983, Deng Liqun, the head of the Central Committee’s Propaganda Post, listed four categories of “spiritual pollution.” These included “spreading things that are obscene, barbarous or reactionary; vulgar in artistic performance; seeking personal gain, indulgence in individualism, anarchism, liberalism, etc.; and writing articles or delivering speeches that run counter to the country’s social system” (MacInnis 1989, 375). The political censure of individual thought and free speech is certainly clear here. 4 The connection between Chinese music and philosophy is examined in Chow-Morris (1998). I use contemporary pinyin Romanization throughout this article except in select instances where terms are widely known in the Wade Giles system of Romanization. I use the Wade Giles Romanization “Taoism,” for example, instead of the pinyin “Daoism” due to its familiarity. 5 In addition to Jones and Witzleben, several other authors, including Miller and Stock, carefully note the connection of Jiangnan sizhu to life-cycle music and regional opera forms. Much remains to be revealed of these connections. Lau (1998) also raises important questions about the changing contexts and politicized presentation of Jiangnan sizhu. 6 Guoyue, or “national music,” is a westernized form of Chinese music largely based on adaptations of Chinese folk music from each region of China and new compositions in a hybridized Chinese-European style. It has been disseminated nationwide and acts almost as a musical lingua franca in China, bolstering Communist Party of China–driven propaganda of a unified multiethnic nation. See Witzleben (1995, 125–6, 134–8) for a
82 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 description of conservatory influence on Jiangnan sizhu, and Lau (2008, 30–58) for a historiography of the changing usage of the term guoyue. 7 Gu Mingxiang cited the core Jiangnan sizhu pieces “Xingjie,” “Huanlege,” “Sihe Ruyi,” and “Ni Chang Qu” as some exceptions to this case, as each has extramusical associations. 8 Nylon and metal strings create both a louder and brighter sound, which has altered the balance of Jiangnan sizhu ensembles. The term “Jiangnan” was added in the 1950s to the genre’s designation to emphasize the regional flavor of the music. 9 The Han are the largest official ethnic group in mainland China, comprising 92 percent of the population. The division and counting of ethnic groups has changed throughout China’s history and is contentious, particularly among minority groups. 10 This is a common synonym for the Cultural Revolution. 11 See, for example, Jones (1995, 31, 251, 270–1) and Witzleben (1995, xiii, 31). 12 Interestingly, a very young boy was invited to perform on dizi in my presence, but two slightly older girls were not permitted to do so during my visit. One stated that she played the pipa, while the other played the dizi: gender or performance experience may have been at issue. When I doggedly asked a Jiangnan sizhu sheng player to teach me to play his instrument, as he had offered to do for my male student, he eventually related that women do not play the sheng, and politely refused to teach me by repeatedly pretending not to hear the question. 13 See, for example, Huang and Thrasher (1982) and Thrasher (1989) for seminal analyses of Baban variants in sizhu (silk and bamboo) ensembles. 14 See, for example, Lu (1989). 15 See Yang (1961, 205) and MacInnis (1989, 119) for a description of the Qing government’s suppression of religion. 16 See MacInnis (1989, 213) for further explanation of the distinctions between northern and southern Chinese Taoism. 17 The more esoteric Quanzhen sect plays melodic instruments far less frequently, although in Julu in southern Hebei and southern Shanxi province, priests do use melodic instruments to an extent (Jones 1995, 29). The Xuanmiao Temple was built in 276 AD and originally named the Zhenqing Temple. It has undergone many renovations. 18 In 2006, for example, I heard a young Taoist priest from the Temple of the City God casually playing excerpts from the popular Hong Kong film theme song “Shanghai Beach” by memory as a warm-up before studying other notated repertoire. 19 This title would benefit from further literary analysis. “Willow Waist” is the name of one of the Taoist qigong (breath or energy work) movements found in the well-known “Eight Pieces of Brocade” set, and is used to improve the flow of qi (breath or vital energy) along the body’s energy meridians to improve health and as spiritual practice (see Chow-Morris 1998). As presented in the priest’s notation, a missing radical in the second Chinese character of the title conflicts with this translation; however, I believe that this was an error in writing. The folk song “Eight Pieces of Brocade” is well known in Jiangsu province, and in different variations across China (see Stock 1994, vi). The melody of “Eight Pieces of Brocade,” which is similar to the well-known Jiangsu folk tune “Purple Bamboo,” has a melodic relationship with the piece in question. A Pinju regional opera qupai has a similar title (᷇ ᧪ 䣺), but seems to have no melodic re-
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lationship (http://www.pingju.com.cn/qupai_detail.php?id=28). The variant ᷇㝄䣺 appears in Beijing opera. Moreover, a Taoist piece (᷇᧪᱃) played for funerals and worship also has a very similar title (http://www.emus.cn/BBS/viewthread.php%3Ftid% 3D576%26page%3D10%26authorid%3D464&ei=2E5RSqS3LYzENoCN7O0D&sa=X&oi =translate&resnum=5&ct=result&prev=/search%3Fq%3D%25E6%259F%25B3%25E6% 2590%2596%25E6%2599%25AF%26hl%3Dzh-TW%26sa%3DG). I thank Frederick Yiu and Miriam Sue Phig Choy for their lively debate on this translation. 20 When teaching me Taoist melodies in the summer of 2000, dizi master Yu Xun Fa instructed me to take two pieces home to practice and try to ornament them on my own. I added changyin (trills) to the upper neighbor note, dayin (ghosted upper and lower neighbor grace notes), and zengyin (ghosted upper neighbor notes usually placed at the end of a sustained pitch), and activated the melody (jiahua) by altering rhythms and adding notes at the interval of a second or third above or below the skeletal notes written. I also performed the piece using gentle dynamic waves, as Yu had been teaching me to do for the Jiangnan sizhu core repertoire. Yu was very pleased when I performed the Jiangnan Taoist pieces for him at the next day’s lesson using the ornamental and dynamic style I had learned when studying Jiangnan sizhu, and stated that this interpretation was quite appropriate for the Taoist pieces. 21 Shifan gu is performed by both Buddhist and Taoist priests. Both Shifan gu and the more popular Shifan luogu, which incorporates cymbals and gongs, were prevalent in the Wuxi-Suzhou-Changshu region prior to the Cultural Revolution (Jones 1995, 253). 22 In Jiangnan sizhu, the beats (ban) of a piece may be decorated to produce a new melody (which may in turn be decorated to produce yet another melody) or contracted by deleting less important structural notes. Thus a melody with the notes “ABEFC” might be expanded to “A C B C F E F E B C” or contracted to “A F C,” for example. Note that the spacing of the main beats does not necessarily remain constant when contraction or expansion occurs. For further analysis of this technique, see Chow-Morris (2004), chapter 5. 23 See Jones (1999, 53) for discussion of the “laissez–faire local attitude towards central policies” in rural regions of Hebei province, in northern China. 24 A fairly unusual version of the qinqin with a multipointed soundbox was displayed in the temple, rather than the usual scalloped-edged instrument more common to Jiangnan sizhu. 25 Meng Yue (2006, 73–105) provides a rich analysis of the merging of Kunqu and Hua (regional) drama forms with other musical styles in the Jiangnan region. Isabel Wong (2002, 291) notes both the inclusion of Taoist morality tales in the Tang dynasty predecessors of Kunqu and the use of dizi, sheng, sanxian, pipa, ruan, clappers, and small drum in Kunqu. These instruments are very similar to those played in Jiangnan sizhu, although cymbal, small gong, barrel drum, and occasionally a long trumpet or guzheng, may also be included in the ensembles accompanying Kunqu (2002, 292). Jonathan Stock (2002, 298) notes that Jiangnan sizhu pieces were played at the beginning of Huju (traditional Shanghai opera) performances as a form of prelude. The connection between Kunqu, Huju, and Jiangnan sizhu remains an interesting avenue for exploration. 26 See John E. Myers’s monograph The Way of the Pipa (1992) for discussion of the famous Pudong school of classical pipa playing. 27 Italics are my own.
84 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 28 Interestingly, when the “Shuang Qiao” version of “Sihe Ruyi” was performed for the first time in 20 years in the 1985 Shanghai Jiangnan sizhu festival, the head priest of the Baiyun Temple performed percussion (Witzleben 1995, 15), suggesting once again an ongoing exchange between the Jiangnan sizhu and Taoist musicians of the region. 29 The quest for immortality has long been associated with Taoist beliefs. However, this concern is not found in the philosophic branch of Taoism, which follows Lao Tsu in stating that distinctions between life and death are of no consequence, and reveal only unnecessary attachments to one’s physical form. 30 The relationship between the titles “Yu Furong” and “Yu Elang” begs further investigation. 31 The title “Ni Chang Qu” requires further consideration as it confuses all of the Chinese musicians with whom I have spoken over many years. I question whether the “colorful skirts” refer to the brightly colored robes worn by Taoist priests for important ceremonial occasions. On a ceremonial day at the Baiyun Temple in Shanghai, I witnessed priests wearing lavish robes in bright yellow, embroidered with lotuses, cranes, pearls, and other Taoist imagery. 32 A more in-depth explanation of the nature of yin and yang is presented in “On the Chinese Spiritual Tradition of Sound Qigong in Toronto as a Site for Negotiating Identity” (Chow-Morris 1998). 33 Myers (1992, 125–35) notes a similar wen-wu division in pipa repertoire, and also identifies a relationship to Taoist ideology. 34 See Jones (1995, 281) on musicians’ aesthetic preference for continuity and flow, and Witzleben (1995, 119) on the ideal of the unbroken thread (yitiao xian). 35 The Zhongguo Guoyuetuan (Chinese National Music Ensemble) led by Shanghai’s dizi and Jiangnan sizhu master Lu Chun Ling, who are said to have performed together for over 25 years, are a case in point. 36 In my own case, after having been taken to visit Jiangnan sizhu clubs on just two occasions in 1998, toward the end of one gathering, a book of music and a communal dizi were suddenly thrust into my hands, and I was urged by all to “play, play!” I had not been given a single word of instruction on the genre at this point, and was only later even told what it was that I had played. Interestingly, during private dizi lessons with Jiangnan sizhu master Lu Chun Ling, I learned all solo repertoires by first listening to my teacher and then playing back what I had heard. When I was introduced to a Jiangnan sizhu piece as a potential dizi solo, however, Lu picked up an erhu (bowed lute) and played together with me from the first minutes of the initial lesson. Ensemble interaction is clearly understood to be fundamental to correct performance of the genre. 37 Performers of the tradition were uniform in their praise for the Zhou brothers as the torchbearers of the Jiangnan sizhu erhu and yangqin styles, respectively. 38 Witzleben (1995, 99) analyzes Lu’s more florid and technically demanding style in comparison with other dizi performers. See Chow-Morris (2004, chaps. 4 and 5) for detailed explanation of the social ramifications and revelations exposed by Lu’s musical foregrounding.
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References Chow-Morris, Kim L. 1998 “On the Spiritual Tradition of Sound Qigong in Toronto as a Site for Negotiating Identity.” Master’s thesis, York University. 2004 “Improvising Hegemony, Embracing Disjuncture: The Music and Cultures of Jiangnan Sizhu.” PhD dissertation, York University. Creel, Herrlee G. 1970 What Is Taoism? And Other Studies in Chinese Cultural History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Feng, Gia-Fu and Jane English, trans. 1997 Chuang Tsu: Inner Chapters. Mount Shasta, CA: Earth Heart Press. Hoisey, Dominique, and Marie-Joseph Hoisey 1993 A History of Chinese Medicine. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hsü, Immanuel C. Y. 2000 The Rise of Modern China. 6th ed. New York: Oxford University Press. Huang, Jinpei, and Alan R. Thrasher 1982 “Concerning the Variants of ‘Lao Liuban’.” Asian Music 13(2):19–30. Jiang, Yuanlu, and Yan Zhu 1987 Jiangnan Sizhu Zongpu (Jiangnan Sizhu Ensemble Scores), Vol. 1. Beijing: Renmin Yinyue Chubanshe (People’s Music Publishing Co.). 1995 Jiangnan Sizhu Zongpu (Jiangnan Sizhu Ensemble Scores), Vol. 3. Beijing: Renmin Yinyue Chubanshe (People’s Music Publishing Co.). Jin, Zuli, and Ma Ziren 1983 “Shanghai Minjian Sizhu Yinyue Shi” (History of Shanghai Folk Silk and Bamboo Music). Zhongguo Yinyue (Chinese Music) 3:28–31. Jones, Stephen 1995 Folk Music of China: Living Instrumental Traditions. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1999 “Chinese Ritual Music under Mao and Deng.” British Journal of Ethnomusicology 8:27–66. Lary, Diana 2007 China’s Republic. New York: Cambridge University Press. Lau, Frederick 1998 “Little Great Tradition: Thoughts on Recent Developments in Jiangnan Sizhu.” ACMR Reports 11. 2008 Music in China. New York: Oxford University Press. Lu, Chun Ling 1989 Lu Chun Ling Dizi Pieces. Hong Kong: Shanghai Book Co., Ltd. MacInnis, Donald E. 1989 Religion in China Today: Policy and Practice. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Miller, Terry E., and Andrew Shahriari 2009 World Music: A Global Journey. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge.
86 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Myers, John E. 1992 The Way of the Pipa: Structure and Imagery in Chinese Lute Music. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press. Oldstone-Moore, Jennifer 2003 Taoism: Origins, Beliefs, Practices, Holy Texts, Sacred Places. New York: Oxford University Press. Palmer, Martin 1996 Travels through Sacred China. San Francisco: HarperCollins. Stock, Jonathan P. J. 1994 Chinese Flute Solos. London: Schott & Co. Ltd. 2002 “Huju.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, eds. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben. New York: Routledge. 2009 “East Asia/China, Taiwan, Singapore, Overseas Chinese.” In Worlds of Music: An Introduction to the Music of the World’s Peoples, 5th ed., ed. Jeff Todd Titon, 353–414. Belmont, CA: Schirmer. Thrasher, Alan 1985 “The Melodic Structure of Jiangnan Sizhu.” Ethnomusicology 29:237–63. 1989 “Structural Continuity in Chinese Sizhu: The Baban Model.” Asian Music 20(2):67–106. 1990 La-Li-Luo Dance-Songs of the Chuxiong Yi, Yunnan Province, China. Danbury, CT: World Music Press. 1993 “Bianzou—Performance Variation Technique in Jiangnan Sizhu.” Chime 6:4–20. Tsao, Penyeh 2002a “Religious Music in China: Daoist.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, eds. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben, 319–25. New York: Routledge. 2002b “Religious Music in China: Overview.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, eds. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben, 311–3. New York: Routledge. Wang, Yi’e 2005 Taoism in China. Beijing: China Intercontinental Press. Witzleben, J. Lawrence 1995 Silk and Bamboo Music in Shanghai: The Jiangnan Sizhu Instrumental Ensemble Tradition. Ohio: Kent State University Press. 1997 “Whose Ethnomusicology? Western Ethnomusicology and the Study of Asian Music.” Ethnomusicology 41(2):220–42. 2002 “Ensembles: Jiangnan Sizhu.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, eds. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben, 223–6. New York: Routledge.
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Wong, Isabel K. F. 1997 “Instrumental Performance at a Teahouse in Shanghai.” In Excursions in World Music, 2nd ed., eds. Bruno Nettl, Charles Capwell, Isabel K. F. Wong, Thomas Turino, and Philip V. Bohlman, 78–82. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall. 2002 “Kunqu.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, eds. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben. New York: Routledge. Yang, Ch’ing-K’un 1961 Religion in Chinese Society: A Study of Contemporary Functions of Religion and Some of Their Historical Factors. Los Angeles: University of California Press. Yue, Meng 2006 Shanghai and the Edges of Empires. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Discography Li Minxiong 1990 Drums: Chinese Percussion Music. Hugo Productions. HRP 719-2. Lu Chun Ling 1996 Glad Tidings. Hugo Productions. HRP 7148-2. 1998a The Art of Lu Chun Ling. Sonic Solutions. 8.225939DDD. 1998b The Charm of South Yangzi Ensemble. Shanghai: Shanghai Record Co. CD 0019. Shanghai Association for Research on Traditional Music 1997 Miniature Ensemble of Jiangnan. King Record Co. KICC 5234. Shanghai Traditional Music Society 1998 Jiangnan Sizhu: Beautiful Traditional Music from Southeastern China. Hugo Productions. HRP 7179-2. Society of Jiangnan Sizhu of Shanghai 1997a The Great Tunes of Chinese Chamber Music I. King Record Co. KICC 5235. 1997b The Great Tunes of Chinese Chamber Music II. King Record Co. KICC 5236. Yu Xunfa 1997 Lake Landscape on a Moonlit Autumn Night. China Record Co. CCD 97/726. Zhou Hui, Zhou Hao, Ma Shenlong, and Lu Chun Ling 1995 Charm of South Yangzi Ensemble. Shanghai Audio and Video Publishing House. CD-0019.
The 12 Girls Band: Traditions, Gender, Globalization, and (Inter)national Identity1 Hon-Lun Yang and Michael Saffle Chinese music has gone through dramatic changes in the past century in connection with modernization. Not only has the West influenced the nation’s overall art-music soundscape, but traditional Chinese music has also undergone significant transformations. Yet, although westernization and professionalization proved themselves especially important during much of the 20th century, it has been commercialization, commodification, and globalization that have exerted increasing influence since 2001. One example of the stylistic hybridity inspired by these last forces is a group known as the 12 Girls Band—a techno/ rock/ethnic fusion Chinese instrumental music ensemble. With 12 Girls the People’s Republic of China (hereafter PRC) has entered the global music scene of the 21st century. Consider these facts: the Band’s album Eastern Energy, released on August 17, 2004, in the United States, was ranked 62nd on Billboard’s 200 chart 2 weeks later (on September 3), the highest debut ranking achieved by an Asian artist or ensemble in the history of that poll.2 On the World Music chart, the album lingered for more than 15 weeks, during which it ranked No. 1 most of the time.3 Released in June 2007, Shanghai ranked 50th on Billboard’s Top Heatseekers chart; on the World Music chart it stayed for 10 weeks, ranking 7th at the highest and 15th at the lowest.4 It is in Japan, however, that the group has claimed its greatest successes to date. Beautiful Energy, released in that country in July 2003, remained at the top of the Nipponese chart for 30 weeks and sold more than 2 million copies; on August 18, 2004, it also reached first place on the Japanese Oricon music chart and stayed there for more than 10 weeks (Momphard 2004). As a consequence the 12 Girls Band was named “International Artist of the Year” at Japan’s 2004 Golden Disc Award ceremonies; past recipients of this last honor include Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, and Madonna (Lam 2004). At the same time, the group’s reception in the PRC has been mixed (Chen 2004; Zhang 2005). Recognizing its commercial success, some Mainland critics have proclaimed the Band the messiah of Chinese instrumental ensembles (e.g., Cheng 2004; Yao 2004), whereas others have questioned its authenticity, condemning the ensemble for damaging China’s complex and often explicitly politicized musical traditions (e.g., Li 2005; Sun 2004; Yu 2005).5 © 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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The 12 Girls Band’s earnings, the music it plays, and its mixed reception at home (and, to a lesser extent, abroad) exemplify important aspects of the globalization of popular music as well as the commercialization and popularization of ethnic music in Western and non-Western societies alike. Above all, the Band’s reception within the PRC illuminates what is—or is not—perceived to be Chinese about the ensemble itself and others like it. Why has the 12 Girls Band been perceived so differently at home and abroad in terms of authenticity? What roles have nationality (which, in this case, is often linked with tradition as well as politics) and gender played in the reception to date of the Band’s local and global identities? Finally, how has globalization acted both as a homogenous and as a heterogeneous force in the marketization and commodification of an ethnic/national ensemble? The present article attempts to provide a reading of an ethnic ensemble’s emergence into the international pop-music scene,6 evaluating its origin, commodification, and performance style as well as examining the influence and reception of national musical traditions and innovations insofar as they involve the globalization of Chineseness within today’s increasingly internationalized pop-music marketplace. In our opinion, the 12 Girls Band successfully projects an image of gendered otherness that panders particularly to the global audience’s cravings for exotic entertainment, even as it creates controversial new and interactive forms of traditional, national, and popular Chinese music within the PRC. As an international commodity, the Band represents an alternative form of manufactured musical colonialism within a global late-capitalist economy. As a musical ensemble, the Band’s style and look strengthen certain notions of Chineseness even as it challenges these notions by imposing upon them a variety of local and global stereotypes and paradigms. In many ways, the Band embodies virtually every issue associated with female ethnic instrumental ensembles inside China, as well as a great many issues associated with the commodification of popular music characteristic of the 21st-century’s increasingly globalized marketplace. Its reception also exemplifies ways of understanding musical preferences in terms of ideological constructs and the purposes to which they are put (Sorce Keller 2001, 2007). Above all, we argue for the importance of examining groups such as 12 Girls from multiple perspectives. We consider tradition, gender, commodification, and national/international identities important, and we seek to unravel the various ways in which these forces participate in the formation, perception, reception, development, and transformation of ethnic music in traditional societies as well as within the hegemony of the global popular music market. Before we begin, however, a word of caution: throughout the present article we often speak of local and global in contradistinction to each other. These terms, especially when considered culturally rather than economically, have
90 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 sometimes been used to suggest a false dichotomy. As Anne-Marie Broudehoux has explained, they are often understood to stand for “inalienable parts of the same [cultural] process” (2004, 7). In a great many places throughout the present article, however, we construe these terms narrowly and economically rather than more broadly and politically or culturally. Although economic globalization undoubtedly contributes to the reconstruction of local cultural identities, multinational corporations nevertheless continue to create ever more uniform—and uniformly profitable—markets and marketing strategies. In part because the most successfully commodified popular music (in the form of digital recordings) is especially easy to move internationally, today’s entertainment industry strives ever more energetically—and successfully—toward an increasingly global dissemination of increasingly homogenized musical products which nonetheless result in a more heterogeneous market in terms of consumer choices. At the same time, those individuals who receive the 12 Girls Band primarily as an ethnic instrumental ensemble rather than yet another vehicle for Westernized entertainment (whether within the PRC or outside that nation’s borders), are confronted—perhaps unpleasantly—by what Marcello Sorce Keller calls “creative misunderstanding.” By “making [local] music functional to forms of behavior for which it was not originally intended,” the Band and its organizers have introduced (and thereby enforced) a Westernized brand of cultural recontextualization to Asian audiences (Sorce Keller 2007, 98). Whether the Band and other globalized Chinese ensembles will triumph over ethnically local objections or continue to stimulate them remains to be seen (see Featherstone 1993). During 2007–2008, the Band was acknowledged by PRC officials through its use in commercials for CCTV, the PRC’s multichannel television network, and for the 2008 Beijing Olympics.
Selling 12 Girls Worldwide: Creation and Commodification The 12 Girls Band began as the brainchild of Wang Xiaojing,7 who has also promoted Cui Jian and other Asian pop stars (Chen 2004). During the 1990s, Wang looked for a way to market Chinese instrumental music internationally. Because of the language barrier separating China from the West, Wang considered it unlikely that Chinese rock or folk performers would ever take their seats, unaided, “on stage at the Grammy awards.” Only a blend of Chinese and Western instrumental music might provide “that kind of opportunity” (Wang 2004, 81), primarily because few Westerners would be able to understand Mandarin lyrics. In effect, Wang accepted the axiom, postulated at the very end of the 20th century by Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, that an “age of globalization is”—must be—one of “universal contagion” (Hardt and Negri 2000, 136; italics added). And accessibility.
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In June 2001, Wang auditioned some 4,000 female instrumentalists at major music schools throughout the PRC. The finalists consisted of 13 young, conventionally attractive, Chinese performers, each of them specializing in one or more of the following instruments: the erhu (a two-stringed fiddle), the pipa (a fourstringed lute with a pear-shaped body), the dizi (a bamboo flute), the guzheng (a zither with movable bridges), and the yangqin (a hammered dulcimer).8 A few Band members also play less familiar instruments associated with China’s minority peoples and autonomous regions. The 12 Girls’ repertory includes music—some of it written for the ensemble, some of it arranged from preexisting works, and all of it supported by Western bass, drum, and rhythm tracks—that foregrounds its Chinese (and perhaps, especially for Western audiences, its more exotic) instruments. Throughout July, August, and September 2001, Band members not only rehearsed as conventional musicians, but were trained by Wang to perform as a group and while standing up, in contradistinction to classical solo and seated modes of Chinese instrumental performance. On October 5, 2001, the Band’s “Fascinating Concert” debut took place in Beijing. Instead of creating a sensation (Zhang 2005), the ensemble was initially received as yet another xinminyue (new national music) group: one in a series of similar organizations that began to emerge as early as 1999 and continue to perform pastiches of pop sounds and Chinese folk songs (Yao 2004). Outside the PRC, and especially in Japan, the Band quickly achieved stardom—thanks largely to Wang’s global vision of syncretism: one that created a musically accessible and globally marketable Chinese entertainment for the popular music industry. As soon as the Band was organized, in fact, Wang began looking for ways to tap into international and especially Western markets. Although the Band also signed a contract with Warner China in February 2002, it was Platia Entertainment, a Japanese company that put the ensemble on the global pop-music map— and, perhaps, encouraged Wang and his performers to accommodate Japanese musical preferences. Founded by Kazuma Tomoto, who left Warner China to establish his own company, Platia chose 12 Girls as its first product (Li 2004, 82). Tomoto decided to spend a considerable amount of money on advance advertising, a familiar but risky tactic practiced throughout the pop-music industry.9 The money Platia spent in 2003 on promoting 12 Girls—3 billion yen (out of the company’s 3.5 billion initial annual operating budget)—was ten times the average amount spent at the time on advertising Japanese pop albums (Zhang 2005), and the investment paid off. Released on July 24, 2003, Beautiful Energy sold 10,000 copies within 24 hours and more than 2 million copies in less than a year (Chen 2004): success unprecedented for any Chinese ensemble. The 12 Girls Band represents a new and important, perhaps even an inevitable “next” phase in the evolution of sinified commodification within the realm of
92 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 global popular culture. In several of its aspects and features, the Band reifies the notion of syncretism suggested by Richard A. Waterman and Alan P. Merriam. As a vehicle for (inter)cultural contact, the Band has helped create and popularize new and mixed musical forms based on the confluence of similar or compatible traits in the cultures involved—those of China and the West (Nettl 1985). The Band is an all-female ensemble that performs both Chinese and Western musical materials on Chinese instruments. At the same time, it is a traditional Chinese instrumental ensemble that also relies both on rock grooves for much of its popularity, and on its members performing standing up and even moving around. The opening minute or so of “Freedom,” the opening track on the “free” DVD that accompanies the band’s Eastern Energy CD (as marketed in Canada and the United States), exemplifies all of these traits. It introduces the Band as a folk ensemble lost somewhere in the steppes of Central Asia, then magically transported indoors and transformed into a classical orchestra that stands while playing an ethnic tune accompanied by an indiscriminately international pop rhythm track. Initially dressed in emphatic Chinese red, the girls are magically re-costumed in green as soon as they leave the steppes and enter the concert hall. As a whole, the track makes it clear that no single girl is a star; instead, the Band is a star ensemble—and, as such, it seems to shift before our eyes, back and forth, between Chinese ethnicity and globalized homogeneity. However thoroughly grounded in localized Chinese musical and cultural history, 12 Girls has been harshly criticized within China on behalf of both its local and global characteristics (Zhang 2005; Yin 2005; Yu 2005). Ignoring such criticism, Tomoto and Wang have continued to maintain that “all this” is precisely “what Chinese music must become today, and throughout the world,” at least if ensembles like 12 Girls are going to be able to “tap into global mainstream music markets” (Lü 2004, 47). To facilitate the Chinese portion of what, in effect, is a bifurcated local/global commercial objective, Wang took steps to validate the Band’s credibility through allusions to localized authenticity. Even the ensemble’s name in Chinese—Nüzi shier yuefang—has explicitly Chinese as well as broader East Asian appeal. The number 12 (shier), for example, suggests the 12 symbols of the Chinese Zodiac, themselves associated with good fortune and perfection (Li 2004, 82). Furthermore, Wang’s word for Band (yuefang) is borrowed from the Tang dynasty word for workplace (fang) as well as from the traditional Mandarin word for music (yue). As one writer has observed, the ensemble’s name and especially the word band within it are not only acceptable to many Chinese listeners, but represent an attempt to capitalize especially on Japan’s yearning for a particular kind of sinicized authenticity—specifically, the lost culture of the Tang dynasty (Yao 2004).10 In this context, too, deep-rooted Japanese cultural issues are addressed
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Figure 1. The performance setup of a standard minyue group. as or even more explicitly than Western appetites for world music as a form of entertainment. At the same time, Wang has done much to consolidate the Band’s mainstream worldwide appeal. Among other things, he has replaced the Girls’ traditional national costumes with vaguely Western ones (see Figures 1 and 2). Gone, too, is the seated, concert-hall performance style borrowed by Chinese instrumentalists from the West. Instead, the Girls are presented as quasi-rockers, more active on stage than most Chinese musicians and, in this respect, more familiar to Western audiences. Also commercially successful has been the ensemble’s overall musical style: a fusion of Chinese melodies with rhythmic features borrowed from jazz, rock, and other pop styles, and a collection of sinified Western melodies performed on authentic Asian instruments.
Figure 2. The performance setup of the 12 Girls Band.
94 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Especially well planned for the global market have been the individual items comprising the Band’s repertory. As Keith Negus has explained, the ultimate goal of the global music industry involves “the most profitable categories of music within the industry itself ” (1999; italics added). Each Band album provides something for almost every listener. Consider its first album, which in its several regional iterations (Beautiful Energy for Japan, Eastern Energy for North America) features combinations of classical and popular melodies with both Asian and Western timbres and rhythms. The iteration released in Japan, for instance, opens with arrangements of three Japanese songs. The American iteration, however, features Coldplay’s “Clocks,” Riverdance’s “Reel around the Sun,” and Enya’s “Only Time.” This iteration appeals even to Western classical music lovers by means of “New Classicism”: a medley of well-known classical music themes—Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. The more recently released album Shanghai, on the other hand, features arrangements of instrumental works by Bach and Handel as well as the theme song from the 1997 blockbuster movie Titanic. The global marketing strategy associated with the Band’s recordings is perhaps even better exemplified in Dunhuang (marketed in the West as Romantic Energy). First released on February 1, 2005, in Japan, this album—named for a locality in China especially well known for its Tang dynasty cave paintings—capitalizes on the exotic appeal associated with oriental antiquity and artistic refinement. More to the point, Dunhuang caters specifically to Japanese audiences by incorporating a handful of Japanese tunes. “Youkan Kodou,” for example, is based on the theme song of TV Tokyo’s program World Business Satellite. “Ruten” was specifically composed by Takuro, the leader and songwriter of the Japanese rock group Glay, while “Whispering Earth” was composed by the New Age guru Kitaro of Silk Road fame. Finally, “Ihoujin” was adapted from Saki Kubota’s 1979 Japanese hit song of the same name.11 Korea and the United States are also catered to. The Dunhuang iteration includes “From the Beginning till Now,” arranged by O Suk Joon and You He Joon, which was adapted from the theme song of a popular South Korean television series The Love Story of Winter—a melody that had its origin in the Japanese hit song “Flower.” The Romantic Energy iteration includes Simon & Garfunkel’s 1970 hit “El Condor Pasa.” As a deliberately commodified musical product, the several iterations of Dunhuang not only conflate past and present, but also bridge East and West; their diversity appeals simultaneously to Japanese, Korean, Western, and (presumably) Chinese audiences. Every track on every 12 Girls Band CD is driven by the market: a force that both engulfs and contributes to an ever-increasing economic, social, and technological homogeneity in the international distribution of music (Featherstone 1993; Comeliau 1997). At the same time, the success of Dunhuang and other 12 Girls’ albums depends to a considerable extent upon the
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increasing willingness of local markets to adopt and approve of global trends.12 As Roger Wallis and Krister Malm observed more than 2 decades ago, globalized musical practices inevitably inundate local markets as soon as those markets begin to accept them (Wallis and Malm 1984). In the case of the 12 Girls Band, localized musical practices—ethnic instruments, tunes, and look—have mostly been aimed from the beginning, like a rifle, at global markets.13 Except in China, these markets have accepted them with almost unqualified enthusiasm.
The Global Market, 12 Girls, and Gender Politics An important component of Wang Xiaojing’s global music-marketing strategy has been the role played by gender in the commodification of Chineseness. Although Western critics have dubbed the 12 Girls Band a “folk techno-acoustic fusion” ensemble (Coonan 2004, 7), Wang is said to prefer the phrase “visual folk music”—which is to say, local music played by attractive, youthful Chinese women (Coonan 2004, 7).14 Not merely one or two women, either, but a dozen beautiful exotics, splendidly packaged and meticulously coordinated: an ensemble with ethnic as well as international visual appeal. As journalist Karmel Kingan has pointed out, “Asia’s pop-music industry is one arena where girl power has had a greater international impact” since the 1990s than has boy power (2006). Fans around the world have regularly been as or more impressed by the Girls themselves than by the music they play.15 To a limited extent the 12 Girls Band resembles other 21st-century female pop groups. Consider Bond, the all-female string quartet featured on Classified and other albums of quasi-classical, quasi-popular music. Both Bond and 12 Girls are composed of conservatory-trained musicians. Both groups are packaged as pop ensembles that foreground crossover repertories and performing styles. Both groups have also become standing rather than seated performers.16 In still other respects the Band resembles the girl groups of 1950s and 1960s North America. Band members don’t sing songs about teen love or wear sequins and lace, but they project an attractive imagined femininity without appearing vulgar or passive. They also achieve a successful pop sound without simply playing Western rock; in this they resemble such female ensembles as Enya, the Buena Vista Social Club, Riverdance, and other crossover performers. According to Wang Xiaojing, the word “yuefang” originated with the Tang dynasty’s court organization known as “jiaofang,” which trained female performers to play instruments, sing, and dance (Anon. 2004c). Historical documents suggest that of these female performers, though some of them may have been virtuoso performers (see Figures 3 and 4), every one of them was also a geisha, serving as an emperor’s or nobleman’s concubine (Xiu and Jian [1993] 2003). Because yuefang resembles jiaofang, the Band’s Chinese name calls to
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Figure 3. Tomb fresco from the Five Dynasties Period (907–960 CE) showing an instrumental ensemble of its time.
Figure 4. “Han Xizai’s Night Feast” by Gu Hongzhong (ca. 913 CE) depicting the night life of an aristocrat and his family ensemble of female players. mind the geishas of the Tang dynasty. Perhaps with these cultural associations in mind, a few Chinese critics have ridiculed the Band as a feminine (and therefore trivial) entertainment, a group of pretty girls who depend more on looks than musical skill or national values to reap foreign monetary rewards (Bu 2005). It is impossible to dismiss associations between Band members and geishas outright—especially since, like other girl groups, the Band invites the gaze of others, men and women alike (Mulvey 1989). This is reinforced by Wang
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Xiaojing’s emphasis on the group’s look and youthfulness (Anon. 2004c). From the perspectives of global postmodern popular culture, in which image—itself a mode of submission to patriarchal authority17—is often more important than repertory or musical skill, 12 Girls strikes even some of its most enthusiastic fans as more beautiful to look at than listen to.18 In fact, the Band has endorsed a number of products besides the Olympics, posing in front of various products, cars, shoes, lingerie, and so on.19
The 12 Girls Band and Chinese National Music In China, music has always been an ideological issue—which is to say, a political issue. Prior to the 20th century, many types of music were state-sponsored and supervised. During the reign of Emperor Wu (140–87 BCE) of the Han dynasty, for example, a governmental office of music (yuefu) was established to oversee not only ceremonial performances but also the collection of regional popular and folk songs (He 2003). In China, periods of foreign influence have also alternated with decades and centuries of national purism. Toward the end of the Western Han dynasty, during the Jin and Northern and Southern dynasties, and particularly during the high Tang dynasty, for example, music of the West (in today’s sense, the Middle East), then known as wuyue, became very popular in China (Feng 1998). Even Chinese instruments such as the erhu and pipa were imported from abroad, then sinified through centuries of use. The 12 Girls Band may have been the first Chinese instrumental ensemble to succeed commercially on an international scale, but global commodification began to wrap its tentacles around Chinese culture a century or so ago. Even before the outbreak of World War I, as Andrew Jones has pointed out, China had become part of a “rigorously transnational” world, one in which its culture and economy were increasingly required to respond both to “the irreducible specificity of the local and the immense complexity of the global” (2001, 9). Since the end of the Qing dynasty and the establishment of the Nationalist government in 1911, global and local forces have striven with each other for mastery. In musical circles this striving is often reduced to such binary oppositions as Western versus Chinese, cultivated versus vernacular, pop versus classical and folk, and even socialist versus capitalist. But the situation is considerably more complex than that. What today is often called minyue (national music)—or, in full, minzuyinyue— is associated historically with the modernization of early and mid-20th-century musical attitudes and practices in China (Wong 2002). The student-led May Fourth Movement set in motion new political and intellectual currents that affected almost every aspect of 1920s Chinese culture, including music (Schwarcz 1986). Many modern individuals, most of them associated with urban areas and
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especially with China’s pre-PRC trading ports, felt that traditional Chinese music, a product of outmoded social values, should be replaced with an altogether new form of national music. As a result, Western music began to be cultivated in the nation’s leading universities and private music schools during the 1920s and 1930s, the most prestigious and successful example being the National Conservatory of Music founded in 1927 by the German-trained Xiao Youmei on the model of the Leipzig Conservatory. European compositional practices were understood as improving upon the inadequacies of Chinese composition.20 For those modernists who sought to introduce Western harmonies and instruments into China, European musical classicism was considered scientific, that is, modern (Kraus 1989). As Bruno Nettl has pointed out, Western influences like these, when properly perceived by insiders, can be understood both in terms of the perpetuation of traditions as well as of modernization (Nettl 1985). Other individuals, however, have sought instead to modernize traditional music and bring it up to date (Wong 2002). As a result, amateur musical organizations devoted to studying, performing, and improving upon so-called Chinese folk-musical sources were also established in the 1920s and 1930s, again mostly in urban areas (Wong 1991). The music created by these latter organizations was dubbed guoyue (another term for national music). As Jonathan Stock has explained, during the 1920s, guoyue “was nationalistic in the sense that it did not entirely reject past traditions; rather, it sought to harness existing elements to progressive ends.” Guoyue, in other words, was “Chinese,” but in a way that was “open to modification, professionalization, and development in a way that the specific traditions of individual regions were not” (Stock 1996, 144). Two men, Liu Tianhua and (Abing) Hua Yanjun, played especially important roles in defining a new, so-called standard of professional performing style for traditional Chinese instrumental music (Gao 1981). In 1927, Liu in particular was responsible for organizing the Guoyue Gaijinshe (Society for Improving National Music) at Beijing University. This organization offered classes in Chinese solo-instrumental and ensemble performance (Wang 2002). The new performing organizations that emerged as a result were modeled on traditional sizhu (silk and bamboo) ensembles but permitted instrumental doublings, thereby sowing the seeds of the modern Chinese folk orchestra (Tsui 2002), known as minzu yuetuan in the PRC. After the PRC was established in 1949, the term minzu yinyue (which means national music) emerged in conjunction with those ensembles, large or small, that were officially sanctioned by the new regime as representative of a multiethnic Communist Chinese nation.21 But the term minyue, aside from its relationship to minzu yinyue (national music), has two other connotations: music
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of the folk traditions, and music of the masses. When the Chinese word min is combined with jian, the resulting term (minjian) suggests folk traditions. When min is combined with cong, the resulting term (mincong) suggests the masses or people. Today, however, the term minyue is mostly used denotatively—and with reference specifically to the political and social world of the PRC—in order to identify new forms of instrumental music created by the Han people, China’s largest ethnic group. These musical forms and instruments occasionally include adaptations of minority musical traditions and styles.22 Whatever the Band’s acceptance abroad, issues of local and national acceptance—which is to say, of ideology and politics—remain to be resolved. Some Chinese listeners have embraced the Band as an authentic national ensemble. Others, however, have rejected the ensemble as an inauthentic example of Chinese musical nationalism. In fact, despite (or, perhaps, because of) recordbreaking album sales in Japan and other parts of the West, the 12 Girls Band continues to raise eyebrows among PRC academics and musicians, especially those who strive to preserve authentic Chinese musical culture. Chinese opposition to the Band seems mostly to be ideological. The president of the Shanghai No. 1 Chinese Traditional Musical Instrument Factory, for example, has criticized the Band for its heavy reliance on synthesizers—which, he claims, overpowers the music. Here the ideological issue seems to be sound production; music is produced by the ensemble only insofar as it is performed on traditional Chinese instruments, rather than electronic Western ones. Another example involves the director of the National Music Ensemble at the Youth Palace of Shanghai’s Huangpu District, who recently complained that “the charm of minzuyinyue is the music itself, not those who handle the instruments.” This time the issue seems to be one of gender: because the Band is an ensemble of attractive young women, it is incapable of dealing with the essence of Chinese musical nationalism—and this no matter how many foreigners it may divert or entertain. Still another example involves a professor at the Shanghai Conservatory who proclaimed in 2005, “No matter how [well] the 12 Girls Band plays, its music is not mainstream minzuyinyue” (Anon. 2006). Innovation may sometimes be valid, but not where authentic Chinese instrumental, national, and/or folk music is concerned. The most severe criticism leveled to date against the ensemble originated with the renowned erhu master Min Huifen, who has several times spoken about the Band to members of the press. On one occasion she declared that “art is not a packaged product of pretty girls who wear sexy costumes, bat their flirtatious eyes, and jump up and down on stage. The performing format of the 12 Girls Band is not worthy of my critical attention. These players should not be even mentioned in the same breath as minyue performers. . . . [The 12 Girls] are not
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representative of high-standard minyue; they are mere laughing stocks in the eyes of connoisseurs” (Anon. 2004a).23 At first glance, Min’s argument would seem to invoke something like 19th-century notions of absolute Musik. Although not altogether self-referential, both the authentic minyue musicians imagined by Min and the music one imagines them performing in some sense transcend the “time and circumstances” that link the Band with emerging forms of globalized entertainment (Sorce Keller 2007, 93–4). These critics and others like them have raised concerns about the same interrelated issues: those of nationality, authenticity, and Chineseness. Presumably, the 12 Girls Band is an offshoot of the modern minyue tradition. Certainly its players were trained in such a tradition, and Westerners at least can imagine them becoming members of traditional minyue organizations. But the ensemble’s critics, including erhu master Min, rejected both the ensemble and the music it makes as inauthentic—and, this, in spite of the Girls’ training at classical conservatories. Perhaps for this reason the Band is presented only as itself rather than part of a tradition. Even Wang Xiaojing has been careful not to burden the Band with a single label: Our group does not claim to represent [any kind] of new national music (xin minyue), avant-garde music, or world music. We simply are what we are. What people hear is what they get. By combining Western music with Chinese instruments, I have provided a new venue for players of minyue. At the same time, I have provided an opportunity for foreign audiences to appreciate Chinese music. (Anon. 2005)
Confronted with accusations that the Band has too little or even nothing to do with either the minyue tradition or China’s emerging musical mainstream—and, moreover, with accusations that the ensemble in no way strove to be authentically Chinese—Wang replied, We have never claimed to represent the mainstream, the traditional, or the authentic. We have created a brand name. We do not even regard ourselves as minyue. . . . Besides, what do authentic and mainstream mean? Please have someone explain these concepts to us. Our world is changing, and so is our country. Why can’t we introduce changes to different forms of music? Are we going to regard only the music of the 1950s and 1960s as authentic[ally Chinese]? Change is the source of creativity and vitality. A few days ago, I attended a performance of the Central Instrumental Ensemble. Their erhu players also perform standing up and their costumes were far more forward-looking and sexually explicit than those of our ensemble. (Anon. 2005)
At the same time, the authenticity or traditional character of minyue is rarely questioned in PRC musical circles. To some extent, this situation has to do with ideological censorship. To cast doubt upon minyue, itself an artificial symbol of national identity, can be politically incorrect and even dangerous. Another prob-
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lem involves ideological differences between tradition and China’s new emerging national identity. At the Second Durham Oriental Music Festival (held in England during August 1979), performances by the Ensemble of the Central Conservatory of Music were challenged by Western attendees, who argued that recently created works of minyue were anything but traditional, if only because many of them incorporated unmistakable Western stylistic gestures. These issues proved less interesting to Chinese attendees, who were more concerned with defining contemporary nationalism and the performance practices that embody it.24 At the same time—and almost as if further to complicate things— traditional music has been defined officially within the PRC and since the end of the Cultural Revolution as music that (1) has come down from past centuries and peoples, (2) is of outstanding quality, and (3) has influenced and continues to influence later music (Fang 1981). In other words, traditional music, although in some sense archaic, necessarily possesses contemporary aesthetic appeal and continues to exert its own influence on emerging musical practices. Hence Mao’s slogan: “Make the past serve the present” (Fang 1981, 6). Within 21st-century China, therefore, boundaries between traditional music, folk music, and certain kinds of recently developed Chinese instrumental music remain blurry. In fact, any kind of Chinese instrumental music might today be accepted as minzu qiyue. A monograph with that title, written by Yuan Jingfang, one of the PRC’s most prominent musicologists, examines several kinds of pre20th-century Chinese instrumental music (1987). Most Westerners would probably call these kinds of music traditional or folk (see Jones 1995), but Yuan uses the term minzuqiyue for everything she examines. This apparent carelessness reflects a widespread conviction that everything national, no matter how new, is a continuation of the old. For this reason, almost everything written by Chinese scholars about their nation’s instrumental music begins with a sentence attributing the origins of contemporary genres to those of the past (Gao 1981, Ye 1983, Yuan 1987). In comparison with Yuan’s position, that of Min Huifen seems antiquated and increasingly untenable. Wang Xiaojing’s position, on the other hand, reflects attitudes characteristic of today’s progressive and increasingly globalized China. Somewhat (but not entirely different) attitudes are reflected in the history of Chinese instrumental music—which includes the adaptability of certain comparatively recent ensembles to social challenges, foreign influences, and fashionable trends. From this perspective the 12 Girls Band can be understood as a contemporary manifestation of its nation’s extraordinary and complex musical past. Not everyone, however, is willing today to accept the Band as is—at least not as part of Chinese musical tradition. In his study of Cantonese opera, Kevin Latham points out that there have always been “different ways of traditionalizing” the variegated manifestations of China’s rich and long-lived musical cultures
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(1996, 284). Shareholders in slightly older forms of authentic and national instrumental music continue to invoke tradition as they attempt to marginalize the accomplishments of later arrivals, the 12 Girls Band among them. For Min Huifen and others like her, the Band threatens an ideological position often overlooked or ignored by Western, especially American, consumers of popular culture (Sorce Keller 2007, 99). For Wang Xiaojing and 12 Girls’ enthusiastic supporters, on the other hand, the Band embodies an ideology more global than local, more commodified than traditionalized, and more musically Western than Asian. This last point is crucial to any understanding of the ensemble’s success. Those who like the Band’s music are more likely to hear it in terms of pop tunes and back beat. Those who dislike the Band are more likely to hear its music in terms of its Chinese instruments—no matter what melodies happen to be played on them—and, therefore, in terms of the traditions associated with the instruments themselves as well as with the instrumentalists.
Globalization and the 12 Girls Band The emergence of the 12 Girls Band exemplifies what globalization creates: tension between cultural homogenization and heterogenization (Appadurai 1996). At the same time, globalization strives to reconcile cultural differences through the establishment of a single worldwide economy. In spite of some critics’ opposition, the Band has achieved widespread popularity in China. Some of the ensemble’s fans even consider the Band the savior of traditional Chinese music, the model for minyue’s further development. (The very existence of such ensembles has been threatened since the 1980s when the PRC began to move decisively toward a market economy and government began to commodify most of its state-run institutions.25) These fans understand that the future development of Chinese music, be it minyue or Western-style classical music, will be guided by market forces. As nations everywhere become more and more industrialized, more and more modern, local and traditional cultures become increasingly remote, antiquated, perhaps inauthentic. In the future, groups such as the 12 Girls Band may well play an increasingly important role in bringing a hybrid style of Chinese music—one fused with Chinese and Western, traditional and contemporary, serious and popular music elements—to modernized, globalized, and largely urban audiences. In large part, of course, the ensemble’s popularity reflects the emerging hegemony of consumer culture throughout the world even as it contributes to that culture.26 At the same time, the introduction of a group like the 12 Girls Band into the international music market enlarges both Chinese and Western audience choices, giving consumers everywhere the opportunity to experience musical and especially instrumental sounds they might otherwise never have
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heard. Worth pondering is an Internet description that accompanies the sale of Eastern Energy, the Band’s first North America album: If you want to WOW your friends and give them something different, create a backyard party with and [sic] Asian yet modern twist, Twelve Girls Band will form the undercurrent for a classy, sophisticated yet fun party your friends will love. . . . Not only are these women talented, they are gorgeous. They do what even Beethoven couldn’t, combining 1,500 years of Chinese musical tradition, infusing it with contemporary Western beats and rhythm[,] [t]raditional instruments with modern harmonies and vibrant performances, their sound crosses all cultural barriers. You will seriously love it. It’s different, it’s addictive and your friends will be begging you to know who the heck it is! This is not just music, it’s art and America is about to discover it.27
Clearly, the Band’s difference—its local flavor—has won it Western acceptance. In the PRC, and within the present context, Western is tantamount to global. This difference also defines the ensemble and the music it makes as orientalized commodities, examples of what Edward Said epitomized as part of “a history and a tradition of thought, imagery and vocabulary” that have made the oriental a “presence in and for the West” (Said 1978, 4–5). At the same time, the Band’s financial strategies and successes have always been more global than local, even in Said’s conception of those terms: more about product, purchasing power, and easy listening than about (post)colonial stereotypes or marginalization. In an utterly globalized world, there would be no East or West; instead, there would be only those who sell (multinational corporations and other complex late-capitalist enterprises) and those who buy (whether in Asia, Europe, or the New World). Inevitably, as an increasing number of cultures and peoples move toward the global, the local is transformed from tradition into product. As one Chinese writer has pointed out: “Before the 12 Girls Band invaded Japan, many famous Chinese performers attempted to show that nation the depth and breadth of Chinese instrumental music. But the Japanese pop-music market does not care about the depth and breadth of Chinese music. What it wants is an appealing product. The success of the 12 Girls Band is a case in point” (Yao 2004, 15). “Fashion demands innovation” (Leshkowich and Jones 2003, 282), and the Band’s principal contribution to musical fashion has been the commodification of minyue—of the local, or aspects of it—on a global scale. To some extent, the homogenizing force of global marketing seems to be transforming our multicultural world into an increasingly monoeconomic entity (Wallerstein 1989). Those who fear globalization and the loss of the local understand this all too well. “If our nation’s music continues to be promoted by entertainment-oriented ensembles such as the 12 Girls Band,” PRC critic Yu Wenbo recently lamented,
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“I am afraid China’s traditional musical aesthetic is going to be lost entirely, homogenized by trendy, contemporary pop styles only to disappear into the popular culture of the outside world” (Yu 2005, 47). If individuals like Yu were to accept the inevitability of globalization and the immanent emergence of a single worldwide culture (Giddens 1999), they would also accept the commodification of traditional Chinese music. The 12 Girls Band and other hybrid ensembles, crossover performing groups that fuse Chinese and Western elements in terms of instrumentation, compositional style, performing practice, and even publicity strategies, are but one result of an overwhelmingly powerful historical process: the next phase in the development of Chinese instrumental music, now known as xinminyue (new national music) in the PRC.28
Conclusion For centuries the West has commodified the East. At the very least it has sold itself images of a largely imagined Orient. Today, and quite successfully, the 12 Girls Band delivers fetching images of Chineseness, but with a twist: that of a poised, musically powerful, yet playfully feminine orchestra of talent. In doing this, the Band also exemplifies a still-unbalanced pattern of colonialized cultural and especially economic exchange between China and the West. The West continues to exert a stronger cultural influence over the East, even though we may understand less about them than they do about us. When a subservient culture wants to export its artistic products to a dominant culture, it has to adjust its products to meet dominant value systems and aesthetic preferences. In the process, the products themselves inevitably lose some of their original cultural identity; they become objects gazed upon, others in the eyes of those individuals with greater purchasing power and international influence. From an historical perspective, the success of the 12 Girls Band represents yet another triumph of colonizing money over colonized entertainers. On the other hand, China continues to experience tumultuous changes that began more than a century ago. Its influence, cultural and economic, is expanding with breathtaking speed. The triumph of the 12 Girls Band is part of that journey and that expanding influence. Hong Kong Baptist University Virginia Tech
Notes 1 Michael Saffle would like to thank Virginia Tech and in particular the College of Liberal Arts and Human Sciences for support that contributed to the completion of this article. Both authors of this article would like to express their gratitude to Professor Jonathan Stock who read and commented on an earlier version of this article.
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2 See http://www.billboard.com/search/?keyword=12+Girls+Band&x=17&y=19#/ album/twelve-girls-band/eastern-energy/643060 (accessed on 11 February 2010). 3 See http://www.billboard.com/search/?keyword=12+Girls+Band&x=17&y=19#/ album/twelve-girls-band/eastern-energy/643060 (accessed on 11 February 2010). 4 See http://www.billboard.com/search/?keyword=12+Girls+Band&x=17&y=19#/ album/12-girls-band/shanghai/957051 (accessed on 11 February 2010). 5 Reshaping traditional music for commercial purpose is characteristic not only of the 21st-century PRC, but of other emerging societies. See Schramm (1995), Rees (1998), and Magowan (2005). 6 According to Agawu (2003), musical works are a form of text, of which the meaning is something woven by performer-composers who conceive and produce the music, by listener-viewers who consume it, and by critics who constitute it as text for the purposes of analysis and interpretation. In the same vein, musical groups can also be treated as a form of text, of which the meaning is constructed intricately just as a musical work. 7 Throughout the present article, Chinese names, terms, and titles are transliterated using Pinyin. Chinese names are presented surname first according to Chinese practice. English translations of titles by the present authors appear in parentheses. Unless otherwise specified, quotations from Chinese sources were translated by the present authors. 8 As of May 7, 2009, the 13 members of the Band were Zhang Kun (ᔉ⧼), Lei Ying (䳋◙), Liao Binqu (ᒪᕀ᳆), Zhou Jiannan (਼عἴ), Ma Jingjing (侀㦕㦕), Zhan Lijun (䁍呫৯), Zhong Bao (ӆᇊ), Zhang Shuang (ᔉ⠑), Yang Songmei (ᵒṙ), Sun Yuan (ᄿၯ), Jiang Jin (㫷⩒), Sun Ting (ᄿ။), and Yin Yan (↋✅). Only 12 girls perform on stage at any one time; the 13th member of the ensemble serves as backup (Xiao and Ye 2005). Significantly, the Band is always promoted as an ensemble instead of a collection of stars, in keeping with the socialist musical tradition of the PRC. In one interview, Wang explained that each Band member willingly accepts her subordination to the ensemble as a whole, especially since hundreds of young women are eager to join the “12 Girls” (Lü 2004, 46). 9 At the time such tactics were unheard of in China, and the overnight success of the 12 Girls Band in Japan shocked the Chinese music industry. See Bu (2005), Chen (2004), and Cheng (2004). 10 For more about Sino-Japanese relationships, see Wang (2005). 11 Glay was organized in 1988 by two high school students, Takuro and Teru; later the band was expanded to include Hisashi and Nobumasa as well as a handful of other performers. The group had its first break in 1993 when the famous drummer and producer Yoshikii, who owns Extasy Records, offered Glay a contract; Rain, the band’s debut album, appeared in 1994 and marked the beginning of the group’s prominent position in the Japanese pop-music scene. Beat Out, the group’s third CD topped the Oricon chart in 1996, one of the many successes the group was to enjoy in the 10 years that followed. In 2002, Glay performed in Beijing to mark the 30th anniversary of renewed Sino-Japanese diplomatic relations. 12 “Romantic Energy” remained on Billboard’s World Music chart for 9 weeks, at one point reaching fifth place. See http://www.billboard.com/search/?keyword= Dunhuang%2C+Twelve+Girls+Band#/album/twelve-girls-band/romantic-energy/ 732627 (accessed on 11 February 2010).
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13 The success of the group’s global market strategy has led to an ownership dispute in the form of a lawsuit filed on July 27, 2004, by Zhang Tiejun against Wang Xiaojing. Zhang accused Wang of plagiarism—claiming that, in 1998, he (Zhang) had written a proposal for organizing a Chinese girls’ band that would perform Chinese instrumental music; and that, in 1999, Wang had approached Zhang, obtained a copy of Zhang’s proposal, modified it, and employed it in organizing his own (Wang’s) ensemble. In November 2004, Zhang lost the lawsuit. See http://youth.cnmdb.com/ent/313319 and http://www .szlawyers.net/printpage.asp?ArticleID=2766 (accessed 27 November 2006). 14 On other occasions, however, Wang has denied any attempt to capitalize on folk or local issues. See Wang (2004), also cited in the text of the present article. 15 Our impressions are based on fan websites. See, for example, http://launch.groups .yahoo.com/group/12girlsband/ and http://blog.sina.com.cn/12girlsband (accessed 11 February 2010). 16 In other respects, however, the 12 Girls Band is unusual, even unique. Bond is small, flashy, and explicitly sexy. Bond girls wear sluttish, crotch-high outfits and grapple with each other in publicity photos; the upper curves in the lower-case letters that spell out “bond” are often superimposed on publicity stills on top of ensemble members’ breasts. In contrast, the 12 Girls Band is a larger organization; its members wear comparatively modest costumes, including full-length, vaguely oriental dresses or knee-length skirts and loosely cut blouses. 17 For more information on patriarchal submission, see Keri McClean (2005). 18 The appeal of the 12 Girls’ look can be documented through fans’ Internet postings. One Internet fan club (go to http://post.baidu.com/f?kz=83683831), for example, maintains a blog that includes phrases such as “how beautiful you are,” “you are so pretty, particularly when you are playing,” and “you are all like flowers.” 19 In 2005, the Band was selected as spokesman for the Brand China Industry Alliance. See http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_4c5f0504010008hd.html (accessed 11 February 2010). 20 A great many early 20th-century Chinese writings deal with the need to improve Chinese music. See, for example, Zhang (2004). 21 Issues pertinent to the notion of “minzuyinyue” are addressed in Yang’s article about the characteristics of Ethnomusicology in the PRC. See Yang (2003). 22 The repertory of the 12 Girls Band includes one so-called minority number: “Alamuhan,” available on both Beautiful Energy and Eastern Energy. Since 1949, the appropriation of minority music by mostly Han composers and performers has flourished throughout the PRC. See Li (2005). 23 Widely accepted as the most prominent erhu performer in the PRC today, Min Huifen studied at the Shanghai Conservatory in the late 1950s. In her opinion, the 12 Girls Band uses Chinese instruments as mere props. See Anonymous (2005). 24 The answers provided by Fang Kun, the leader of the Chinese delegation at Durham, were published in the January 1980 issue of Renmin Yinyue (People’s Music), the PRC’s leading music magazine; later they were translated into English by Keith Pratt and published in Asian Music. See Fang (1981).
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25 An article published on August 6, 2004, in Renmin Ribao (People’s Daily) compared the National Instrumental Music Orchestras to heavy objects “held up by little more than a piece of string.” Of some 80 performances presented in 2005 by the National Music Ensemble of the Song and Dance Troupe of Jiejiang Province, the article explains, more than half were promotional (i.e., appearances at trade fairs and other commercial activities) rather than professional. Private engagements, in fact, now account for 50 percent or more of most state-supported performing organizations’ activities throughout the PRC. Nor has commodification made most Chinese musicians wealthy. The 80-member Shanghai Minzuyuetuan (or National Music Ensemble of Shanghai), one of China’s most prestigious classical ensembles, scrapes by on an annual budget of 5–6 million RMB (less than US$1 million). Hong Kong’s Chinese Orchestra, on the other hand, enjoys an annual budget of HK$50 million, ten times that of its Shanghai counterpart. To survive, the Shanghai ensemble has been forced to hire itself out for fees as low as 10,000 RMB: a pitiful 125 RMB (or US$15), after expenses, for each ensemble member. See Anonymous (2004b). Adding insult to injury, a recent study of musical preferences among PRC, Taiwan, and Hong Kong students has revealed that traditional Chinese music today is less well-respected than Western music among young people and receives less attention in school curricula; furthermore, an overwhelming majority of young Chinese men and women prefer popular music to traditional music. See Ho (2006). 26 For a discussion of music as a force that at once reflects as well as creates culture, see Born (2000). 27 Quoted in http://www.couplescompany.com/Features/CT/MoveMe/2004/twelve Girl.htm (accessed date 11 February 2010). 28 In recent writings on the 12 Girls Band published in the PRC, the nomenclature xinminyue (new national music) is often used. See for instance, Qin (2006) and (Yao) 2006.
References Anon. 2004a
2004b
2004c
“Erhu dashi kuang bian Shi’er yuefang: yishu bu shi baozhang luzhai meinu” (The Erhu Master Severely Criticized the 12 Girls Band: Art Has Nothing to Do with Pretty Girls Packaged in Sexy Clothes). Chengdouribao, Chengdou (September 10), http://ent.sina.com.cn/2004 -09-10/0341500040.html (accessed 11 February 2010). “Minyue: ming ruo qinxian yi panghuang” (National Music: Its Uncertain Life as though Held Up by No More Than a Piece of String). Renminribao (Huadong version), Beijing (August 6), accessed through Wisenews (article no. 200408061450002). “Nuzi shier yuefang xianxiang” (The Phenomenon of the 12 Girls Band), http://gb2.chinabroadcast.cn/1015/2004-1-12/
[email protected] (accessed 11 February 2010).
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2005
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Agawu, Kofi 2003
“Min Huifen zai bian shier yuefang—Wang Xiaojing shierfen bu lijie” (Min Huifen Degraded the 12 Girls Band Again—Wang Xiaojing Was Puzzled). Yangzheng Wanbao, Guangzhou (February 7), http://ent.sina .com.cn/x/2005-02-07/1239651775.html (accessed 11 February 2010). “Erhu yanzoujia Min Huifen: Shi’er yuefang ba minyueqi dang daoj” (The Erhu Performer Min Huifen: The 12 Girls Band Treats National Musical Instruments as Props). Xinxishibao, the PRC (December 1), http://ent .qq.com/a/20061201/000162.htm (accessed 11 February 2010).
“African Music as Text.” Representing African Music. London: Routledge, 97–116. Appadurai, Arjun 1996 Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Born, Georgina 2000 “Music and the Representation/Articulation of Sociocultural Identities.” In Western Music and Its Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music, ed. Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh, 31–7. Berkeley: University of California Press. Broudehoux, Anne-Marie 2004 The Making and Selling of Post-Mao Beijing. New York and London: Routledge. Bu Jian 2005 “Guanyu ‘Nuzi shier yuefang’ de yongtan” (About Praise for the ‘12 Girls Band’). Yishu pinglun (Arts Criticism) 7:12–4. Chen Jie 2004 “12 Girls Major Move or Minor Mode?” China Daily (Beijing), March 17, 13. Cheng Yan 2004 “Chuangwei xie ‘Shi’er yuefang’ su guoji pinpai” (The 12 Girls Band Is an International Brand Name). Diannao zhishi yu jishu 24:38–9. Comeliau, Christian 1997 “The Challenge of Globalization.” Prospects 27(1):29–34. Coonan, Clifford 2004 “China Dolls Take Traditional Music off the Shelf.” Variety 395(11), August 2–8, 7. Fang Kun 1981 “A Discussion on Chinese National Musical Traditions by Fang Kun translated by Keith Pratt.” Asian Music 11(2):1–16. Featherstone, Mike 1993 “Global and Local Cultures.” In Mapping the Futures: Local Cultures, Global Change, ed. Jon Bird, Barry Curtis, Tim Putnam, George Robertson and Lisa Tickner, 169–87. London: Routledge.
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Zhongwai yinyue jiaoliu shi (A Chinese-Foreign Exchange History of Music). Zhangsha: Henan Jiaoyu Chubanshe.
Minzuqiyue gailun (A Survey of National Instrumental Music). Jiangsu: Jiangsu Renmin Chubanshe. Giddens, Anthony 1999 Runaway World. Cambridge: Polity Press. Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri 2000 Empire. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. He Honglu 2003 Zhongguo yinyue tonshi (A General History of Chinese Music). Zhengzhou: Henan Renmin Chubanshe. Ho Wai Chung 2006 “Popular Culture in Mainland Chinese Education.” International Education Journal 7(3):348–63. Jones, Andrew 2001 “Listening to the Chinese Jazz Age.” In Yellow Music, 1–20. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Jones, Stephen 1995 Folk Music of China. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kingan, Karmel 2006 “Perhaps If Yo-Yo Ma Had Bared His Midriff?” National Post (Canada), August 31, B2. Kraus, Richard Curt 1989 Pianos and Politics in China: Middle-Class Ambitions and the Struggle over Western Music. New York: Oxford University Press. Lam, Jackie 2004 “Army of Twelve: The 12 Girls Band Live at Royce Hall.” Asia Pacific Arts (UCLA), August 14, http://www.asiaarts.ucla.edu/article.asp? parentid=13583 (accessed on 11 February 2010). Latham, Kevin 1996 “Cantonese Opera in Hong Kong: An Anthropological Investigation of Cultural Practices of Appreciation and Performance in the Early 1990s.” PhD dissertation, University of London. Leshkowich, Ann Marie, and Carla Jones 2003 “What Happens When Asian Chic Becomes Chic in Asia?” Fashion Theory: The Journal of Dress, Body & Culture 7(3–4):281–301. Li Junli 2005 “Xinminyue de ronghe zhi lu yu dangqian de shenmei queshi” (The Path of Synthesis in New Chinese National Music and the Short Coming of Nowadays Aesthetics). Minzu yishu yanjiu (Studies in National Art) 5:47–51.
110 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Li Yingna 2004
Lü Shetou 2004
“Miaoyin niaoniao chu sizhu, laoshu xinhua fan zhitou—ji ‘Nüzi Shier Yuefang’” (The Beautiful Sound of the Silk and Bamboo, and the New Flowers Blooming on the Branches of the Old Trees—About the 12 Girls Band). Yueqi 3:81–2.
“‘Shi’er Yuefang’ Wang Xiaojing yidianr bu minyue” (The 12 Girls Band— Wang Xiaojing Shows No Trait of National Music). Beijing Jishi 7:44–7. Magowan, Fiona 2005 “Playing with Meaning: Perspectives on Culture, Commodification and Contestation around the Didjeridu.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 35:80–102. McClean, Keri 2005 “Vietnamese Women Performing Artists: Making a Song and Dance of Patriarchal Submission.” In Intercultural Communication and Creative Practice, ed. Laura Lengel, 143–58. Westport, CT: Praeger. Momphard, David 2004 “12 Is the Magic Number.” Taipei Times, June 18, 17. Morley, David, and Kevin Robins 1995 “Techo-Orientalism: Japan Panic.” In Spaces of Identity: Global Media, Electronic Landscapes and Cultural Boundaries, 147–73. London and New York: Routledge. Mulvey, Laura 1989 Visual and Other Pleasures. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Negus, Keith 1999 Music Genres and Corporate Cultures. London and New York: Routledge. Nettl, Bruno 1985 The Western Impact on World Music: Change, Adaptation, and Survival. New York: Schirmer. Qin Yidong 2006 “Xin minyue de yifang lantian—cong nuzi shier yuefang de chenggong shuoqi” (The New National Music’s Blue Sky—Reflecting on the Success of the 12 Girls Band). Gemi-dashijie (Jiangnan yinyue) 2:54. Rees, Helen Margaret 1998 “Authenticity and the Foreign Audience for Traditional Music in Southwest China.” Journal of Musicological Research 17(2):135–61. Said, Edward 1978 Orientalism. New York: Pantheon. Schramm, A. Reyes 1995 “Vietnamese Traditional Music: Variations on a Theme.” NHAC VIET, Journal of Vietnamese Music 4(1):7–24. Schwarcz, Vera 1986 The Chinese Enlightenment: Intellectuals and the Legacy of the May Fourth of 1919. Berkeley: University of California Press.
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Sorce Keller, Marcello 2001 “Why Do We Misunderstand Today the Music of All Times and Places, and Why Do We Enjoy Doing so.” In Essays on Music and Culture in Honor of Herbert Kellman, ed. Barbara Haggh, 567–74. Paris-Tours: Minerve. 2007 “Why Is Music so Ideological, and Why Do Totalitarian States Take It so Seriously? A Personal View from History and the Social Sciences.” Journal of Musicological Research 26:91–122. Stock, Jonathan 1996 Musical Creativity in Twentieth-Century China: Abing, His Music, and Its Changing Meanings. Rochester: University of Rochester Press. Sun Huanying 2004 “Dui ‘meinü zoujia’ pingpan de wuqu” (Misunderstandings in the Critiques of ‘meinüzoujia’ [players of beauty]). Renmin Yinyue 10:44. Tsui Ying-fai 2002 “Ensembles: The Modern Chinese Orchestra.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, ed. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben, 227–32. New York: Routledge. Wallerstein, I. Maurice 1989 The Modern World System III. San Diego: Academic Press. Wallis, Roger, and Krister Malm. 1984 Big Sounds from Small Peoples: The Music Industry in Small Countries. New York: Pendragon. Wang Xiaojing 2004 “Zoushang Gelaimei de lingjiangtai” (On to the Grammy Stage). Shangwu Zhoukan 22:81. Wang Yuhe 2002 Zhongguo jinxiandai yinyueshi (Chinese Contemporary Music History). Beijing: Renmin Yinyue Chubanshe. Wang Zhenping 2005 Ambassadors from the Islands of Immortals: China-Japan Relations in the Han-Tang Period. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Wong, Isabel K. F. 1991 “From Research to Synthesis: Chinese Musicology in the Twentieth Century.” In Comparative Musicology and Anthropology of Music: Essays on the History of Ethnomusicology, ed. Bruno Nettl and Philip Bohlman, 37–55. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 2002 “Nationalism, Westernization and Modernization.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, Vol. 7, East Asia: China, Japan, and Korea, ed. Robert C. Provine, Yosihiko Tokumaru, and J. Lawrence Witzleben, 379–90. New York: Routledge. Xiao Zhiying, and Ye Shuting 2005 “Nüzi Shier Yuefang chengyuan jianjie, gefang pinglun” (A Brief Introduction to the Members of the 12 Girls Band). Beifang Yinyue 6:43.
112 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Xiu Jun, and Jian Jin [1993] 2003 Zhongguo yueji shi (The History of Chinese Geisha). Beijing: Zhongguo Wenlian Chubanshe. Yang Mu 2003 “Ethnomusicology with Chinese Characteristics?—A Critical Commentary.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 35:1–38. Yao Siyi 2006 “Cong nuzi shier yuefang kan zhongguo xinminyue de fazhan” (Contemplating the Development in Chinese New National Music through the 12 Girls Band). Xiaoyuan gesheng 5:51. Yao Zhanxiong 2004 “Nü Shier Yuefang zouhong qishi” (The Implications of the Success of the 12 Girls Band). Zhongwai Wenhua Jiaoliu 5:12–5. Ye Dong 1983 Minzu qiyue de tizai yu xingshi (Genres and Forms of Traditional Chinese Instrumental Music). Shanghai: Shanghai Wenyi Chubanshe. Yin Qingzhen 2005 “Dui xin minyue ‘guoji hua’ xianxiang de sikao” (Reflections on the Internationalization of “New National Music”). Yueqi 4:32–5. Yu Wenbo 2005 “Huashuo ‘Nüzi Shier Yuefang’” (About the “12 Girls Band”). Renmin Yinyue 3:47. Yuan Jingfang 1987 Minzu qiyue (National Instrumental Music). Beijing: Renmin Yinyue Chubanshe. Zhang Jingwei, ed. 2004 Sousuo lishi: Zhongguo jinxiandai yinyue wenlun xuanbian (Searching for History: Selected Writings of Contemporary Chinese Music). Shanghai: Shanghai Yinyue Chubanshe. Zhang Le 2005 “‘Nüzi Shier Yuefang’: kaowen minyue chulu” (“The 12 Girls Band”: Interrogating the Future of National Chinese Music). Jizhe Guancha 1:38–40.
Appropriating the Exotic: Thai Music and the Adoption of Chinese Elements Terry Miller When I arrived in Bangkok in December 1972, to begin dissertation field research, a well-known Thai music professor known for his frankness said to me, “Don’t say that the Thai got this and that from India, China, or anywhere else. The Thai people are quite capable of creating things themselves.” With all due respect for his nativist views, Thai culture has indeed been deeply influenced by foreign cultures, especially India and China. However, the end result of this contact is quintessentially Thai. Never having been colonized and not having experienced conquest since the Burmese invasion of 1767, the Thai have long had a special openness to things foreign. Modern Bangkok appears to be as cosmopolitan as any world city, but one must experience this globalization as the Thai do in order to know that, however international (or Western) a place may seem, it is actually “very Thai.” Philip Cornwel-Smith (2005) suggests that transformation, rather than invention, is the key process that has led to the current state of Thai identity: Making imports Thai is actually an old tradition. While all nationalities absorb outside influences, Thai have retained their distinctiveness and independence despite living at a crossroads of cultures: Chinese, Indian, Western, Japanese, Khmer, Burmese, Malay, and indigenous tribes. The customization of imports is key to that elusive, immutable Thainess, since the essence lies not in invention, but transformation. Anything, given time enough to steep here, can end up very Thai. (11)
Essentially, that has been the process in the relationship between Chinese and Thai cultures. With regard to music I will address not just the broader question of how Chinese culture influenced Thai music, but, specifically, how the segment of the Thai classical repertory called samniang jin (“Chinese accent”) relates to Chinese music. First, what does “Chinese culture” mean in the context of Thailand? Numerous other questions must be addressed too. Who came, when, from where, for what reasons, and what has become of them and their descendants? Is it reasonable to speak of “Chinese-Thai” today, who are they, and how consciously Chinese are they? The answers to many of these questions will depend on who is speaking
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and from what experience. There is no denying that Chinese culture pervades Thai culture. It is obvious to all, yet it is also difficult to quantify precisely. The kind of influence on Thai music discussed here came about after sufficient numbers of Chinese culture bearers migrated to the Kingdom of Siam. Although there were Chinese diplomats and traders in Siam as early as 1314, the formation of Chinese communities came much later (Wyatt 2003, 54). In the late 17th century, a period during which numerous European diplomats, traders, and missionaries visited Siam’s then capital city, Ayuthaya, and wrote books about it, it is estimated that about 3,000 Chinese lived there (Coughlin 1960, 14). A number of writers (among them [Alexandre] le Chevalier de Chaumont, François Timolėon Choisy, Joachim Bouvet, and Guy Tachard) described performances of Chinese theater and puppets at the court seen during their visits. Migration increased dramatically during the first half of the 19th century for a number of reasons, including changes in Thai immigration policy, the development of the rubber and tin industries, the need for cheap labor, and for middlemen to handle trade between Thailand and both China and the West. Until the sack and destruction of Ayuthaya by the Burmese in April 1767, the Siamese kingdoms had been ruled by ethnic Thai kings. Following the fall of Ayuthaya and the resulting chaos throughout the kingdom, a Chinese-Thai general named Taksin (whose father was Chinese) regrouped an army and established a new capital at the Chao Phraya River port of Thonburi late in 1767. Based on Taksin’s allegedly developing insanity, an ethnic Thai general named Chaophraya Chakri overthrew him in 1782 and moved the capital across the river to Bangkok. He came to be called Rama I, the first king in the continuing Chakri dynasty where the current king, Bhumiphol Adulyadej, is Rama IX. Exactly where the earliest Chinese immigrants originated is uncertain, but Choisy, in describing the Chinese theater he was required to attend in the late 17th century, said the Chinese came from “the province of Camtom, and others from the province of Chincheo” (1687, 172–3). It is likely that Camtom refers to Guangdong (formerly Romanized as Canton) and Chincheo to Chaozhou (pronounced Taechiu in dialect), the latter now a district in eastern Guangdong province. If correct, then those early immigrants came from the same areas as the later, and greater, waves in the 19th century. The Chaozhou have long been the largest Chinese community in Thailand. Next largest are the Hakka, also from Guangdong and Fujian provinces, and smaller communities of Hainanese, Cantonese, and Hokkienese (from Fujian). Most Chinese influence on Thai culture, however, is Chaozhou (see Figure 1). Although reflecting the biased viewpoints of old-school Christian missionaries, a collection of descriptive chapters written by American Presbyterians and published as Siam and Laos As Seen by Our American Missionaries (Backus 1884) provides eyewitness accounts of life in late 19th-century Siam. Chapter 6, “The
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Figure 1. Headquarters of the main Chaozhou Association in Bangkok.
Chinese in Siam,” written by Mrs. N. A. McDonald, anecdotally explains how the process of assimilation worked. After exclaiming that “half the population is Chinese,” she writes, “The deck of every steamer and sailing craft from China is swarming with these ubiquitous Celestials [Chinese]” (1884, 145). Through disciplined hard work, many Chinese became highly successful. McDonald continues: Chinese of wealth often become favorites with the rulers and receive titles of nobility, and these noblemen in return present their daughters to their majesties. Thus we find Chinese blood flowing in the veins of the royal family of Siam. . . . Although a Chinaman may have left a wife in his native land, that does not prevent his taking as many others as he can support. (ibid., 146)
McDonald also points out how the Chinese, since arrival, have maintained their distinct regional cultures. “They are very clannish too, the native of each province holding together and working to promote the interests of their own particular clan” (ibid., 148–9). Secret societies and gangs developed stemming from this clannishness. Several writers complained that the Chinese gambled. Writes McDonald, “The Chinese are inveterate gamblers. . . . The gambling establishments are all in the hands of the Chinese. Gambling, like many other things in Siam, is a monopoly” (ibid., 149). The recently late Dr. Dan Bradley, a noted physician who worked tirelessly to better the lives of the Siamese, also railed against Chinese gambling
Figure 2. Chinese one-man shadow theater (from Backus 1884, 191).
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habits. His description also demonstrates the extent to which Chinese music and theater were available (see Figure 2). I have just now returned from exploring a celebrated gambling establishment near my house. It is a floating house occupied by a Chinaman. Chinamen are the mastergamblers of Siam. . . . Just in front is a little recess on a float, which is occupied by the musicians and play-actors. Here you will at one time hear the deafening peals of the gong, the horns through which they speak making unearthly sounds, then the grating notes of their various stringed instruments, then all together with human voices the most unmusical imaginable. . . . Between these play-actors and the gamblers there is a paper screen, with lamplight on the side of the performers, where a man is employed in making shadow puppet-shows for the amusement of the spectators. . . . (Bradley 1884, 233–4)
Bradley was not alone in his low opinion of Chinese music. McDonald, too, was critical in her description. In the cool of the evening the working classes gather in groups round the doors of their houses, talking, laughing and smoking. One of the number is perhaps entertaining the others with music on a little instrument resembling a violin [er hu or touxian]. But there is no music in it. If the reader would like to reproduce the sound, let him try drawing the bow over the violin-strings back and forth in a seesaw manner for an hour or two at a time, and he will have a faint idea of the distracting sounds drawn from the tortured instrument. There is not the slightest approach to melody. (McDonald 1884, 156–7)
During the last quarter of the 20th century, in Thailand the Chinese-Thai in Thailand have rarely been an issue, unlike in Malaysia where anti-Chinese riots broke out in 1969 and where Chinese participation in many aspects of society is controlled by quotas, or in Vietnam, where many of the “boat people” were ethnic Chinese facing renewed oppression. During the 19th century, Chinese immigration to Thailand, while on the increase, brought mostly poor rural people seeking opportunities in Southeast Asia and willing to work nonagricultural jobs in various developing industries, including tin and rubber. Following the 1855 Bowring Treaty between Thailand and Great Britain, which opened up trade with the West, the Chinese gradually moved into positions of middlemen, handling most of Thailand’s export commodities, including rice, tin, rubber, and shellac. After the coup in 1932, which overthrew the absolute monarch and established a military dictatorship in the guise of “democracy,” the new Thai government became increasingly alarmed about the role Chinese played in the Thai economy and their relative lack of integration into Thai society. During the next 20 or more years, the government established numerous new immigration controls, clamped down on or even closed most of the Chinese schools, and, fearing that the Chinese would subvert Thailand through a secret allegiance to
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newly Communist China, caused travel and trade between the two countries to come to a near standstill. The Chinese in Thailand are most prevalent in urban areas because most engage in some kind of business or profession. Understanding that “Chinese-Thai” means many things, it is still fair to say that Thai cities—especially Bangkok—are in essence Chinese cities. But they are not like cities in China or even an overseas Chinese city like Singapore. What visitors perceive as the overall character of Bangkok (or any other Thai city), what they likely think is its “Thainess,” is also fundamentally Chinese. Some areas of the city are more obviously Chinese than others. Bangkok’s “Chinatown” along New Road and Yaowarat Road near the Chao Phraya River in the southwest provides an environment where citizens can live as Chinese rather than Thai, where a surprising number do not even speak Thai. That is not so odd as it may sound. There are also Western areas of the city where the many “ex-pat” farang (Westerners) do not speak Thai and live as Westerners. But in Chinatown, you see more signage in Chinese and hear Chaozhou spoken more than Thai. But Chinese-Thai are not confined to Chinatown. One can never know for sure who is Chinese or to what degree without a substantive discussion. To understand where anyone fits into this system, one must consider several factors. First is language. The scale ranges from people who speak only Chinese (Chaozhou usually, but possibly Cantonese) to people of Chinese descent who speak no Chinese whatsoever. The former tend to live in Chinatown or in certain areas of Thonburi (across the Chao Phraya River) and the latter could live anywhere. In the case of “up-country” cities, if there are Chinatowns, they are not large enough to provide a totally Chinese environment. Second, there are names. Although Chinese-derived people and Chinese languages were suppressed during certain xenophobic periods earlier in the 20th century, all are now free to speak Chinese and display Chinese signs. These are most commonly seen in Chinatown, but one sees them here and there throughout any city but usually with Thai lettering as well. Considering the past suppression of Chinese signage, it seems ironic that at the present it is also fashionable to use a Chinese-looking Thai font on signs and packages that relate in any way to Chinese culture. This is accomplished by writing Thai as if with brush strokes (see Figure 3). Most Chinese-Thai, except recent arrivals and others who choose not to assimilate, also have Thai names. It is usual to place the surname first in Chinese usage, but in Thai the given name precedes the family name. However, individuals in Thailand are addressed by first name (I am “Dr. Terry” in the classroom), and Thai phone books as well as bibliographies are alphabetized by given name rather than family name. Because when Chinese were required to take Thai names, the Thai government banned the taking of existing surnames, and
Figure 3. Thai alphabet written as if in Chinese brush strokes, on the VCD cover of Chaozhou opera performed in Thai.
120 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 virtually all other “auspicious” names had already been taken, many ChineseThai had to create new and longer names, while sometimes incorporating their original surname. Therefore, individuals with very long surnames are assumed to be “Chinese-Thai.” Chinese-Thai businessmen who actively trade with China, however, generally use business cards with Chinese on one side using their Chinese name while the other is in Thai or English. Third, there are many degrees of biological ethnicity. We personally know Thai whose parents were both ethnic Chinese but whose offspring born in Thailand speak no Chinese at all. Thai and Chinese have been intermarrying for generations, and that is what makes defining “Chinese-Thai” so difficult. In fact, defining “Thai” is just as difficult, because many trace their roots to people of Lao, Mon, Khmer, Burmese, or Western descent. A recent Miss Universe was Western-Thai (or Eurasian), and golfer Tiger Woods, whose mother is from northeast Thailand, is considered “Thai” in Thailand. On a personal level, my daughter’s father-in-law is the son of two ethnic Chinese. Although 100 percent Chinese in a biological sense, he speaks no Chinese and understands little. Fourth, there is ethnic consciousness. In doing research on Chinese music in Bangkok, we encountered some individuals who related to us as Chinese rather than Thai, but there were many degrees. One master musician had lived in Bangkok for more than 10 years and almost proudly stated that he spoke no Thai. Another had lived in Bangkok for many years too and spoke Thai, but his accent was so thick that taxi drivers had difficulty understanding him. Many are bilingual, while perhaps the majority speak little or no Chinese but say they understand some. Therefore, being “Chinese-Thai” has no precise meaning and only denotes a range of relationships to China and Chinese culture. This is similar to being “Chinese-American,” which can vary from complete integration with no knowledge of Chinese language or culture to refuge in a “Chinatown” with no knowledge of English or American customs. Chinese-Thai also have a variety of relationships to China. For the vast majority of “integrated” Chinese-Thai, China is a far-off exotic land to which they might venture as tourists. For many in the business community, since about 1980, there has been a rekindled relationship with China. While businessmen from both countries worked together closely before revolution overtook China, that relationship was severed after 1949, but has gradually reestablished itself to the point that travel between Bangkok and Shantou (formerly called Swatow, the major Chaozhou city in China) is as routine as between New York City and London. Until this interchange resumed, Thailand’s Chinese culture reflected only the past, preserving many old practices prevalent during the first half of the 20th century. Now there is a greater awareness of current trends in Chinese culture.
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Religious activity offers a clearer expression of ethnic identity. In Bangkok as well as virtually all provincial cities there are Chinese temples, mostly Mahayana Buddhist but sometimes Daoist. Those who “go to temple” and practice Chinese religious customs are among the most Chinese of Chinese-Thai. But there are also many Chinese-Thai who are Thai (Theravada) Buddhists and practice Buddhism exactly as the ethnic Thai do. Some Thai temples include a Chinese temple within its compound, but most are separate. Around Bangkok there are also numerous Thai temples that include one or more main buildings following the basic Thai layout but covered with Chinese décor, especially designs on the gables or on monuments (chedi) covered with broken Chinese pottery (see Figure 4). Such temples serve a predominantly Chinese-Thai neighborhood and received sizable donations from Thai of Chinese ancestry in whose honor the architect incorporated Chinese design. In addition, certain Chinese practices are commonly encountered in most urban Thai temples, such as shaking tubes of fortune sticks. Additionally, many Bangkok temples, although Thai in every other way, include elaborate, painted wall murals showing scenes of Chinese life in Thailand (see Figure 5). Virtually all homes in Thailand have a small altar. Because Thai Buddhists must elevate the altar, most are mounted on a wall or pedestal. Chinese, on the other hand, place their altars on the floor, usually toward the back of the house or shop, the so-called “kitchen god” altar. The altar type identifies whether the owner considers himself Thai or Chinese-Thai. Nowhere can the ambivalence about ethnicity be seen more clearly than in the altar pictured in Figure 6. Seen in a restaurant in eastern Thailand, the altar’s upper portion is Thai and the lower is Chinese. Just as Chinese-Thai are of mixed heritage, their religious practices may also be mixed. Assessing whether behavior is more Thai or Chinese runs the risk of opening a can of stereotypical worms. In a general way, the apparent behavior of many Chinese-Thai tends to be different from most Thai. Whereas Thai are consciously reserved and jai yen (“cool heart”), some Chinese, especially businessmen who understand that “time is money,” tend to be more definite, frank, and energetic, even to the point of seeming hyperactive. The clearest piece of evidence, however, concerns Thai foot etiquette. In Thai custom musical instruments must be treated with great respect because they have a khwan (a spiritual essence). One must never step over a Thai instrument or use the foot to point to or move one. Putting the foot on an instrument would be a major offense. When Chaozhou musicians play their primary fiddle, the touxian, they use the big toe of the right foot to dampen the snakeskin membrane. Chinese-Thai who are least Thai maintain this practice while assimilated Chinese-Thai place the instrument’s body at their waist, as if playing the Chinese erhu or Thai saw duang.
Figure 4. Buildings at two Thai Buddhist temples in Bangkok with Chinese architectural characteristics.
Figure 5. Two Bangkok temple murals showing Chinese scenes.
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Figure 6. Two-part shop/home altar, Chinese lower and Thai upper. Of the analogies for Chinese influence on Thai music, perhaps food is the clearest. Defining “Chinese” food is less problematic than defining “Thai” food. Especially in the largest cities, there are self-consciously Chinese restaurants, but throughout the cities there are apparently normal restaurants—one might say “Thai” restaurants—which are largely if not entirely Chinese. The former, most often found in malls or around Western-style hotels, can be pan-Chinese while the latter are almost entirely Chaozhou. Because the Chinese became the businessmen of Thailand at virtually all levels, they naturally operated the food stalls and restaurants too. As anyone who has eaten “Chinese food” in the United States and then had it elsewhere (in my case, Britain, Austria, Trinidad, and Korea) knows, Chinese food is chameleonlike in that it is adapted to local tastes. Consequently, some Chinese food in Thailand is (or can be) spicy. When eating informally, Thai patronize everything from noodle carts on the street, food stalls in a market, food courts in a hyper-store or mall, to fancy
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“garden” (outdoor) restaurants and more formal indoor establishments. Most of the menu is Chinese-based food modified over time to suit Thai preferences. Anything with noodles is likely of Chinese derivation, including that icon of “Thai food,” phat thai, so beloved by Westerners. The Thai equivalent to the American hamburger habit is eating large bowls of steaming noodle soup called kuay tio, Chaozhou for noodle soup. The term kuay tio, however, is spoken as Thai words. For example, noodle soup with beef meatballs is kuay tio luk chin neua wua (literally, “noodle soup pieces [meatballs] of cow beef [as opposed to water buffalo beef]”), all but kuay tio being Thai language. That most ubiquitous of Chinese dishes, fried rice, is equally ubiquitous among Thai, called khao phat (literally “fried rice”). When eating food, whether of Chinese or Thai derivation, it is normal to use a large spoon in the right hand and a fork in the left, the latter used to push the food onto the spoon. When eating noodles, however, one normally uses chopsticks. (N.B., some foreigners, thinking that Thai food is “eastern,” erroneously request and receive chopsticks in Thai restaurants outside Thailand.) In short, Chinese food, albeit in forms modified more or less to suit Thai tastes, forms the basis of the Thai diet, especially for on-the-go city people who do not have time for a formal Thai meal. Americans can easily relate to this phenomenon, for Italian food, modified more or less to suit American palates, is as quintessentially American as anything else. When Americans eat pizza or spaghetti, they do not identify the experience as going “ethnic Italian.” Seeing that Chinese culture is deeply embedded in what is called Thai culture, one can fairly ask whether music is so affected too. My thesis is that Thai musicians have, over time, embraced many aspects of Chinese musical culture, but that this influence was, first, initiated by the Thai, and second, is largely limited to the more superficial aspects of Thai music. However, if my assertions of Chinese influence are to be credible, they must remain within the realm of the observable. While there may well be further influences at work, these have been integrated to such a level that they are not readily observable and therefore remain speculative. The discussion will, however, attempt to address both unconscious and conscious indicators of Chinese culture.
Musical Instruments Musical instruments, being objects, lend themselves to such an inquiry. Does the Thai instrumentarium include examples of adoptions/adaptations from China? In certain cases, the answer is clearly “yes,” in others “probably,” and in the rest “uncertain.” Some are obvious. The ever popular Thai dulcimer, khim, was borrowed directly from the Chaozhou, whose dulcimer is called yaoqin; in Mandarin Chinese, the dulcimer is yangqin. In addition to borrowing the “butterfly”
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Figure 7. Old-fashioned Chinese dulcimer (yangqin) (top) and Thai khim (bottom).
shape of the Chaozhou instrument, Thai makers decorate khim in two styles: Chinese or Thai (see Figure 7). Borrowing an instrument is easy. Borrowing a musical style is not. The music that Thai play on the khim is mostly Thai and in Thai tuning, not Chinese. Several modifications make the instrument Thai, including the approximately equidistant, 7-tone tuning, the more flexible beaters, and many of the techniques. When did this occur? None of the sources discussing music examined in a previous study (Miller and Chonpairot 1994), all predating 1932, mention the khim. That does not preclude its existence prior to 1932, but there is no empirical evidence of its use among Thai either. Because it is usually played solo, it lacks membership in any typical Thai ensembles, although it can be added to the khruang sai (stringed ensemble), called khruang sai phasom khim (stringed ensemble plus khim).
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Of the three Thai bowed lutes, two are likely suspects for Chinese origin, the saw duang and saw u (see Figures 8 and 9). Saw refers to any bowed lute while duang denotes the traplike shape of the cylindrical wooden body of the first one. Many Thai musicians explain that the term u (in saw u) is onomatopoetic for the sound of the instrument, a mellow “oo oo oo oo.” While logical, since many Thai instruments have onomatopoetic names, I note that u also sounds suspiciously like the Chinese term for bowed lute, hu. There is also no doubt that the two-stringed fiddles were late additions to the Thai instrumentarium. In my earlier study (Miller and Chonpairot, 1994) of the musical information in Western documents written between 1505 and 1932 by travelers, missionaries, ambassadors, businessmen, and scholars, I found that the first descriptions of two-stringed Thai fiddles do not occur until 1885 following a visit by a Thai troupe of musicians and dancers to England for the London Inventions Exhibition of 1885. Soon thereafter, Alexander J. Ellis published his landmark study of tuning systems (1885), Alfred James Hipkins published an important
Figure 8. Thai saw duang fiddle.
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Figure 9. Thai saw u fiddle. book on musical instruments (1888), and Frederick Verney, Secretary to the Siamese Legation in London, published a pamphlet on Thai instruments (1885). Hipkins and Verney both describe or picture Thai two-stringed fiddles for the first time, though neither connects them to China in any way (see Figure 10). The saw duang closely resembles the Chaozhou touxian (also called erxian and zixian) fiddle, both in design and sound (see Figures 11 and 12). Both have slightly conical wooden bodies with snakeskin resonators, two strings with the bow hairs passing between, and both have exceptionally nasal voices. The differences lie in the slight modifications made by Thai makers, especially the shape and contour of the neck, the shape of the tuning pegs, and in the manner of playing. Chinese play fiddles while seated on chairs and Thai play them seated on the floor, although the Chaozhou fiddle is customarily played with the right toe on the resonator. Further differences stem from playing styles and
Figure 10. (From left to right) khlui flute, saw duang fiddle, saw sam sai fiddle, “Saw Oo,” pi chawa quadruple reed (Hipkins 1888, plate XLII entitled “Saw Chine”).
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Figure 11. Chaozhou Chinese touxian or erxian fiddle in Shantou, China. techniques. Verney includes the saw duang in his ensemble list while Hipkins pictures one. Because no one else had mentioned the saw duang until 1885, there is the implication that it originated sometime during the middle 19th century and had become the leader of the youngest of the Thai ensembles, the khruang sai string group, during this time. While this coincides with a major migration of Chaozhou Chinese and the likelihood that the Thai would have greater exposure to Chinese music, the Chaozhou fiddle must have been known in Thailand as the ensemble leader in Chaozhou opera for perhaps 200 or more years. We can surmise that the process of adapting the Chaozhou fiddle into the Thai saw duang was gradual and perhaps outside the official channels of the court music establishment. Nonetheless, by the time Ellis, Hipkins, and Verney encountered it, the saw duang had become fully and unabashedly Thai.
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Figure 12. Chaozhou Chinese touxian played using toe on resonator. There is, as yet, no general agreement among Thai musicians and scholars that the above scenario is correct. Most Thai musicians insist, as noted earlier, that duang refers to a small animal trap as seen in Figure 13. While these shapes are admittedly the same, I find it more difficult to accept the idea of adapting an animal trap into a fiddle than adapting a Chinese fiddle into a Thai fiddle, especially when there is clear precedent for the latter process. The saw u, having a coconut body covered with a calfskin resonator and also having two strings with the bow hairs between, similarly appears first in Verney and is named in Hipkins as “Saw Oo.” Hipkins, however, pictures two instruments which together he calls “Saw Chine,” both with cylindrical bodies, one like a saw duang, the other larger than that of the saw duang. Normally, the Thai saw u has a coconut body, and while the Chaozhou also have a coconut-bodied fiddle
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Figure 13. Duang trap as seen in museum display.
(see Figure 14) the pahe or fuhe (yehhu in Mandarin), there is also another cylindrical fiddle somewhat larger than the touxian playing a secondary role called tihu (sometimes also erhu or tiqin), which resembles Hipkins’s saw u. If Hipkins’s illustration is correct—and he did not visit Thailand—then Thailand formerly had a now obsolete fiddle larger than the saw duang. Since Hipkins did not speak Thai, someone from the Thai delegation had to have referred to the fiddles in Thai as “Saw Chine.” What we do not know is whether that person was just trying to be helpful or was inadvertently suggesting a Chinese origin from his 1880s perspective. At the same time these two fiddles arose, the term mahori came to denote a much expanded ensemble. The original mahori still seen in early 19th-century
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Figure 14. Chaozhou Chinese pahe coconut fiddle.
temple murals consisted of the saw sam sai three-stringed fiddle, krajappi longnecked lute, khlui flute plus a thon drum, and perhaps a composite clapper (krap phuang). Still led by the old saw sam sai fiddle, the new mahori ensemble added the saw duang and saw u as well as smaller than normal versions of both sizes of xylophones and gong circles. Comparative evidence from Cambodia and Vietnam supports the premise that the two-stringed fiddles had a Chaozhou Chinese origin. Phnom Penh, Saigon (now called Ho Chi Minh City), as well as Vientiane, Laos, had sizable Chinese communities in which the Chaozhou were the majorities. While some remain today in Vietnam, many fled during the war or immigrated later to the West along with those lucky enough to have escaped the murderous Khmer
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Rouge in Cambodia. Southern Vietnamese and Cambodians also developed cylindrical and coconut fiddles analogous to the Thai saw duang and saw u. In Cambodia there are three cylindrical two-stringed fiddles comparable to the Chaozhou touxian: the tror chhe (highest), tror so tauch (middle), and tror so thomm (lowest), while the tror ou with a coconut body is comparable to the Chaozhou pahe. The Vietnamese developed two fiddles, the cylindrical đan nhi or đan co and the coconut-body đan gao or đan ho. Based on circumstantial evidence, then, the Thai fiddles appear to have been adapted from the Chaozhou Chinese fiddles. As with the khim, however, what Thai musicians play on them and how they play are Thai, not Chinese. It also remains true that some Thai do not interpret this evidence as I have. A number of idiophones and membranophones are doubtless of Chinese origin. Drums with tacked heads, especially if played with sticks, are likely candidates. That includes the klawng that, a pair of large drums, and the rammana hand drum, but there are no exact equivalents in China, suggesting that the Thai modified the Chinese models to a great extent. It is also likely that the cymbals used in Thai music (chap lek [small] and chap yai [large]) are Chinese. Indeed, the cymbals still sold in hardware and music stores for use in village long drum (klawng yao) ensembles are either imported from China or made in Thailand by Chinese craftsmen. While bossed gongs would seem to be Southeast Asian, the main Chaozhou gong is also bossed. It is also possible that the Chaozhou gong was adopted from Southeast Asia. While it is not possible to understand everything of the historical process that brought these Chinese instruments into Thai usage, we are likely seeing that process occurring once again. During the past decade the modern Chinese zheng (or guzheng) zither with 21 strings has attained a certain popularity among Thai (not necessarily Chinese-Thai) musicians. We recently met a Thai family purchasing a zheng at Bangkok’s only Chinese instrument store, on Plaeng Nam Road in Bangkok’s “Chinatown,” for their daughter. They wanted her to play it because they liked the sound. But these new players play Thai classical melodies, not Chinese. Most stores stocking compact discs of Thai traditional music today include several releases featuring zheng playing Thai classical melodies. If the zheng continues to catch on, it may take a position similar to that of the khim, as a mainstream solo instrument with limited use in the string ensemble.
Theatrical Genres Chinese theater has a long history in Thailand and may have influenced Thai theater to a limited extent. Most of the French visitors to Ayuthaya in the late 17th century, as guests of the king, were required to attend performances of both Thai and Chinese theater at the court. From their reports of the latter, they
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found the experience excruciating and had little positive to say about it. Pere Bouvet wrote, All these rejoicings were followed by diverse sorts of entertainments, beginning with a kind of Chinese comedy divided by scenes and such as by acts in which different bold and grotesque postures and such leaps and turns of a suppleness that was quite astonishing on the part of some of the actors served as interludes. . . . Finally the scene was closed with a kind of Chinese tragedy which bored the spectators and us in particular, who were obliged to attend all these shows. Mr. Constance [a Greek adviser to the king] having condemned us to remain to the end, and Mr. Ambassador having made us refrain from returning before him. ([1685] 1963, 125–7)
Later writers attest to the continuing existence of Chinese theater, but now as a popular entertainment for the masses. Whether the masses were ChineseThai cannot be determined. William Samuel Waithman Ruschenberger, who visited Siam in 1838, described a daytime visit to a market where there were numerous stages, at least one of which exhibited Chinese puppets ([1838] 1970, 79). Others, such as F. A. Neale, Adolf Bastian, and Anna Harriette Leonowens, also described performances of Chinese theater, both human and puppet. In the 1880s, an anonymous Christian observer noted that Chinese theater was associated with both street festivals and gambling parlors. His chapter includes a sketch of a one-man Chinese shadow puppet theater (Backus 1884, 191) (see Figure 15). While we can understand that the later “masses” on the streets were likely Chinese-Thai at various stages of becoming Thai, it is more difficult to explain why Siamese King Narai of 17th-century Ayuthaya would have patronized Chinese theater to such an extent. Perhaps because Thailand was never colonized or for reasons otherwise difficult to isolate, the Thai are fascinated with foreign things. That statement seems as true today as it was in the 17th century. Circumstantially, the Thai have also happily embraced aspects of Lao music (especially during a “craze” in the 19th century that involved the royal family), Malay music, Javanese music, and Western music. Thai classical composers have created a significant body of compositions in foreign “accents,” called samniang in Thai, including Chinese, a matter to be discussed in the next section. Thailand has no equivalent to Cambodia’s lakhon bassac theater, which is essentially a Cambodian form of Chinese theater created and performed by Chinese-Khmer. The primary Chinese theater in Thailand is Chaozhou opera (chaoju or baizixi), with occasional performances of Cantonese and Hainanese opera as well (see Figure 16). Chaozhou opera is performed primarily at Chinese temples for the chief deity’s birthday for a period of a week once a year. Because the opera is spoken and sung in Chaozhou, people who do not speak Chaozhou (including many Chinese-Thai) cannot understand. In some cases
Figure 15. Three scenes of Chinese performance from the Ramakian (Indian epic, Ramayana) murals at Bangkok’s Wat Phra Kaeo (Temple of the Emerald Buddha) from “Pipek’s Funeral”: (from top to bottom) opera, shadow theater, string puppets.
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Figure 16. Chaozhou opera performance in Thailand. an announcer reads a Thai translation over the opera through a loudspeaker (adding to the cacophony of the event). Ironically, many of the lesser actors and actresses, including the children’s chorus whose singing is one of the distinctive features of Chaozhou opera, are recruited from northeast Thailand from among the Isan-Thai [or Lao] who are not Chinese-Thai in any way. They learn to sing Chaozhou words without actually knowing the language. That other Thai might then translate their singing back to Thai gives one pause. In the early 1990s, a Chaozhou opera director/performer, Professor Zhuang Mei-Long (aka Mui Long Saesung) organized a troupe of Thammasat University students to perform Chaozhou opera sung in Thai. During the political upheaval of 1992, when hundreds (if not more) of protesters were massacred by government security forces, the Thammasat troupe challenged the government by performing Thai-language Chaozhou opera that, by implication, protested against the abuse of power. These performances took place at the Sanam Luang, the “great field” next to the campus and near the former palace where there is a long tradition of protesting against the government. In early 2006, during protests against Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra’s alleged abuse of power and corruption, the troupe performed again, using stories of the fabled and morally upright Judge Pao challenging the villain, called “The Squareface,” an allusion to the prime minister. In Thai culture a “squarefaced” person is considered untrustworthy. These performances, however, consisted only of speech without singing. (See cover of commercially released VCD in Figure 3.) Ironies abound. The troupe masked its criticism
138 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 through the double blind of parody plus a Chinese medium against a politician whose lineage is Chinese-Thai, and whose near namesake (King Taksin) was removed from power in 1782. Indeed, Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra was later removed from power by military coup in September 2006. Is there any influence from Chaozhou opera on Thai theater? It appears possible the opera was the original source of the Chaozhou-influenced instruments, including fiddles and percussion, and later the dulcimer. The Chinese tradition of amateur string chamber ensembles (xianshi) developed much later and has had a limited influence on Thai music in terms of repertory. It is also possible that Chinese opera staging, with its elaborate costumes and backdrops, could have inspired Thai stage designers. Such an argument is more plausible in the case of popular theatrical genres such as likay and lakhon nawk than for classical/court drama, but there is no way to know what was going through the minds of designers. Whatever the case, Chaozhou opera was and continues to be ubiquitous throughout Thailand’s cities, and most Thai have at least seen bits of it.
Musical Repertory The Thai classical tradition is one of compositions, and works created since about 1800 have known composers. Thai composers, however, did not write their works in notation but rather taught them orally to other instrumentalists, primarily their students. A composition is defined by its fundamental structure (called luk khawng) as played on the large gong circle (khawng wong yai), and the other musicians must realize that structure in the idioms (thang) of their respective instruments. The idioms vary according to ensemble, but the tuneful compositions (phleng thang wan [“sweet style”]) are more commonly played by the mahori (ensemble mixing strings and percussion with flute), piphat mai nuam (piphat using soft mallets, coconut fiddle, and flute), and khruang sai (stringed instruments) ensembles than by the main ritual and theatrical ensemble, the piphat mai khaeng (piphat using hard mallets). The vast Thai repertory includes numerous compositions called phleng phasa or literally “language pieces” written and played in various non-Thai “accents” (samniang), including Lao, Khmer, Burmese, Malay, Western, Indian, Vietnamese, and—of interest to this study—Chinese. The titles of many such compositions are preceded with a term that identifies their nationality; the term for Chinese compositions is jin (sometimes Romanized as chin). Such pieces were created for a variety of reasons. Besides spicing up the Thai repertory with earcatching “exotic” pieces, they also serve to highlight Thai musical identity as distinct from the foreign “accents.” Perhaps they could be compared to a Western composer taking a well-known tune and writing variations “in the style of ”
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various historical composers. Many were composed for the theater for scenes featuring foreigners, especially when their armies challenged (unsuccessfully) the Thai army or when foreign places were alluded to. Published in 1961 by the Fine Arts Department in Bangkok, Thai Classical Music, Book I presents 15 compositions, many having foreign accents, in staff notation with commentary. While none of the pieces selected are “Chinese,” the preface, entitled “Foreign Themes in Thai Music,” rationalizes the existence of such works. There are numerous pieces of Thai music which are called by foreign names and which, in turn, may cause the misunderstanding that foreign music has been adopted into Thai music. In fact, those pieces of music were actually composed by Thai musicians, who had given to them the foreign accents and had named them according to the nationality of the music. . . . There are, however, very few pieces of foreign music which have been adopted either wholly or in parts for Thai musical instruments, such as the Chinese piece called “Poy Kang Leng”. . . . Since ancient times, when Sukhothai was the national capital, the Thais have had relations with foreign peoples such as the Chinese and the Khmers. . . . In certain periods, there were foreign mercenaries in the Thai Army, such as the Cham Volunteers, the Malayan Volunteers and the Japanese Volunteers. These foreign peoples naturally brought with them their own musical instruments and their own music, either for the purpose of religious worship or for entertainment. It was also natural for the Thais, as a people, to be interested in the musical themes which were different from what they were accustomed to listen to from day to day. . . . Having grasped the spirit and the themes of the foreign music, Thai musicians began to compose their own music, using the traditional Thai melodies but giving to them the new foreign “accents” or themes, or sometimes introducing short parts from the foreign music into their new compositions. . . . All of these are actually Thai music, composed in foreign themes, in the same manner that an actor sometimes speaks the national language with a foreign accent, when he acts the part of a foreigner. The musical compositions with foreign themes were originally in either two or one variations. They were either performed as a tail piece to some other musical composition or played individually on instruments or sung separately. (Anon. 1961, 23–4)
Compositions in samniang jin (Chinese accent) invoke, often through stereotype, what was familiar to most Thai, Chaozhou and Cantonese music. Although part of the “classical” Thai repertory, foreign accent compositions are considered light entertainment pieces, far removed from the motivically constructed and often extended naphat works associated with ritual and ceremony and played by the piphat ensemble. Many of them are—or started out as—sawng chan pieces, that is, the second or middle “tempo level” based on the pattern of accents articulated by the small bronze cymbals (ching). There are around ten Chinese “accent” compositions, all original and by Thai composers, that are considered basic repertory because they have been extended into thao
140 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 form. A thao is a three-section composition in which the basic sawng chan structure (i.e., the pitches coinciding with the cymbal strikes) is doubled in length through the addition of intervening notes to create sam chan (“third level”) and reduced by half to create chan dio (“first level”). These are played continuously: sam chan, sawng chan, and chan dio. Most such compositions are associated with a known composer, and all thoroughly trained Thai musicians know them. In addition there are a greater number of short Chinese “accent” compositions by Thai composers that are known mostly in sawng chan form. While some can be played independently or grouped as a suite, they are also used as codas (hang khruang) to longer “Chinese” compositions, either singly or as a short suite. These pieces tend to be fast and exciting, a kind of musical dessert after a longer, more serious work. One of the most popular is called Jin Haw-hae or more commonly Jin Rua, the former term allegedly being a Chinese term and the latter meaning “cacophony,” but both in Chinese accent. Cataloguing these pieces is challenging in that they are mostly transmitted orally and often without title. Consequently, one musician might call a given tune by one name, and another by another name. The same title might be linked to more than one piece. In addition, many of the titles are evidently either in phonetic Chinese (as heard by Thai musicians) or pseudo-Chinese and mean nothing to either Thai or Chinese musicians. Similar to the second group are newer compositions that are in whole or in part based on existing Chinese tunes. These too have Chinese names, but it is not clear if they are dialectal names as understood by Thai composers, actual terms in perhaps Chaozhou Chinese, or imaginary titles that sound Chinese. The latter idea is not as strange as it sounds, for one of the best-known pieces in “Western” (farang) accent is entitled Farang I-Haem, with a two-stanza text in gibberish that is allegedly English. Thai musicians have many opportunities to hear Chinese music, especially in Bangkok’s “Chinatown” at Chinese New Year or while shopping. Some is heard live at festivals and at other times blaring from loudspeakers along the streets. The styles heard are varied, from modern pan-Chinese recordings to local styles (mostly Chaozhou and Cantonese) heard live, possibly during a Chinese opera performance. These works come and go and may be known only to one “school” of players. There are clear stylistic differences between Chinese-accent works by Thai composers and adopted/adapted Chinese tunes. Although classified as “Chinese,” the higher class works remain Thai in style and structure. These characteristics include the 123 56 scale/mode with pitch 1 being central, even, symmetrical units that match the cyclic colotomic structure realized on small cymbals (ching) and drums, conjunct melody in undulating contour, and division of the ensemble into two groups that may play antiphonally, overlapping, and even contrapuntally. These “classical” works are obviously not Chinese in origin.
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Chinese compositions, on the other hand, tend to be faster, more tuneful, disjunct through the use of large intervals, and—in the case of Chaozhou-inspired pieces—having syncopation. Although pentatonic, Chinese pieces tend to gravitate between a polarity of 2 pitches a fifth or fourth apart. While newly composed or pan-Chinese music may be pentatonic in tempered tuning, traditional Cantonese and Chaozhou music makes use of modes of 6 or 7 pitches, some clearly outside Western temperament. These untempered pitches are “out of tune” in the same way that certain Thai pitches are “out of tune,” because the Thai tuning system consists of 7 equidistant pitches; Chaozhou tuning is very similar. Some of the shorter Thai compositions do, however, imitate Chinese music in highly stereotypical ways, emphasizing such traits as sudden bursts of short notes, large intervals, syncopation, and a kind of playfulness that may border on parody. These Thai works exhibit, perhaps ironically, a kind of Thai orientalism. The ensemble, usually mahori or khruang sai, is made more Chinese sounding through the use of one or more Chinese percussion instruments. Chinese drums, usually small two-headed wooden drums with tacked heads played with two sticks, can be purchased from one Bangkok shop selling Chaozhou and modern Chinese instruments. Gongs and cymbals can be used along with the usual Thai colotomic percussion, the small ching cymbals and the larger and flatter chap lek cymbals. While a number of the other “foreign accent” compositions have named drum and ching cycles (nathap), specifically for Mon, Burmese, Lao, and Cambodian pieces, there is no formally recognized nathap for Chinese-style works. Instead of the usual “ching chap ching chap” 4-beat ching cycle used in Thai compositions, Chinese pieces use the 4-beat cycle “ching ching chap (hold)” while the drummer is free to create his own patterns, perhaps based on Chinese music he has heard somewhere. In addition, the saw duang fiddle player sometimes imitates the styles and techniques of the Chaozhou touxian or Cantonese erxian (or gaohu). Identifying the original Chinese titles and sources of the borrowed pieces is challenging because one must know regional repertories as well as panChinese post-1950 compositions. Lifetime professional Chinese musician, Mr. Lai Wah-chiu, who is Cantonese but specializes in Chaozhou music, assisted by listening to two Thai-produced compact disc anthologies: (1) Tradition [sic] Music of Thailand, Vol. 29, The Chinese Melodies (Ocm 029) and (2) Chainese [sic] of the Chao Pharya [sic] River, Chainese Manner (G 0542157). Although neither recorded nor notated anthologies indicate composer, some Chineseaccent compositions are closely linked to the nation’s most famous composers: Jin Khim Lek (“Small Dulcimer in Chinese Style”) is jointly by Phra Phradit Phairaw (period of Rama III–Rama V [1824–1910]) and Montri Tramote (1900–1995), and Choet Jin (“action” music for fighting or rapid travel) and Jin
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Kep Bupha are also by Phra Phradit Phairaw. Jin Sae is by Phra Phradit Phairaw. Three others, all short pieces, are by Thailand’s most famous composer, Luang Phradit Phairaw (1881–1954): Jin Rua (1924), Jin Nam Sadet (1930), and Jin Lan Than (1918). The other group, pieces presumed to be of Chinese origin based on their style traits, shows much variety in construction because they derive from several different Chinese traditions. These sources include new compositions created after 1950, widely known arranged folk songs, and two kinds of traditional regional music. While all have titles written in Thai, many of them include words unknown to Thai speakers, possibly from a regional Chinese language (Cantonese and Chaozhou) or some misunderstood terms. Sua Thao is a fairly literal transcription of Xing Fu Nian (“Fortunate New Year”) composed in the late 1950s by northern Chinese composer Liu Ming-yuan but played in Thailand more slowly than the original. Paeh Haiphang is a transcription of a northern Chinese dance tune called Yang Ge (“Rice Seedling Song”), originally a folk song but again played more slowly than the Chinese original. Jin Haw Hae, if not a transcription, is closely styled after Chinese outdoor “Lion Dance” music complete with solo passages for a percussion section led by a large Chinese drum plus cymbals, a small hand-held flat gong, and a larger flat gong. A few compositions derived from the Chaozhou tradition invoke what is the most distinctive feature of their string compositions, a series of highly patterned and named rhythmic variations called chuizou. Those used in the Thai pieces may not last as long as those in Chaozhou practice, but they are obvious enough that listeners familiar with the style will immediately recognize them. This can be heard, for example, in Paeh Hai Phang, a Chaozhou compositon in zhong liu diao (mode). The chuizou heard in this recording, however, are more “in the style of ” Chaozhou patterns because they only partially conform to standard patterns. Most compositions in samniang jin (“Chinese accent”) are clearly identified by the word Jin in the title. Additionally there are Chinese-style compositions that allude to Chinese life through the title but lack the jin identity marker. Beginning students almost universally learn Paeh Sam Chan, a composition by Phra Phradit Phairaw whose title—Paeh—alludes to the activities of an old Chinese man. Sam chan (“third level”) denotes the proportional tempo level expressed in the rate of ching strokes and the parallel cycle of drum strokes. Other compositions in Chinese style but without the jin identifier in the title include Kan Ya Yiam Hong (A Lady Enters the Room), Chom Suan Sawan (Appreciating the Heavenly Garden, composed by Phra Phradit Phairaw), Ah Hia (Big Brother, also by Phra Phradit Phairaw), Ah Nu (Little Brother, literally “dear mouse”), Pae Hai Phang, Ka Kin Nang, and Nan Tang Ko. The latter piece in Chinese refers to the Kingdom of Nanchao (Nan) during the Tang dynasty along with the word for drum (Ko).
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Beyond the classical music tradition is the world of Thai popular music. From the 1940s until at least the 1970s, the most prevalent form of popular song was the luk krung (literally, “city child”). These songs, typically accompanied by a small jazz combo, were essentially Thai imitations of Western popular songs of the 1940s, especially those to which people danced in various ballroom tempos. Challenging the dominance of the urban-derived luk krung, the simpler luk thung (literally “children of the fields”) arose in the 1960s, became prominent in the 1970s, and came to dominate Thai popular music during and after the 1980s. Neither of these genres has a relationship to anything Chinese, but of the alternative pop music styles that developed during the last 20 years, some bear striking resemblances to Chinese pop, especially from Hong Kong and Taiwan. In the 1970s, for example, Hong Kong pop singer Agnes Chan, singing in Cantonese, was “all the rage” in Thailand. Not surprisingly, Thai pop composers began imitating, if not covering, Chinese pop styles and songs. Sorting them out from each other remains to be done.
Conclusions The Thai professor who in 1972 objected to any assertions of foreign roots for Thai culture was reacting with his heart rather than his mind. Anyone who has spent more than a few days in Thailand knows that Thailand and Thai culture are distinctive. What makes Thai culture unique is not its isolation but its absorption of elements from its innumerable contacts with foreign cultures over many centuries, almost none of which were forced. Having resisted colonialism through a succession of agile, progressive monarchs, the Thai people have developed a strong sense of self and confidence. Consequently they have long felt and continue to feel confident enough about their own culture that they can show great curiosity about foreigners and willingly accept those aspects of their cultures which suited them, but always transforming them into something “very Thai.” The Thai people themselves must be defined culturally rather than biologically because “pure Thai ethnicity” is untenable. When the ancestors of the Thai emerged from what is now southwestern China and migrated into the Maekhong and Chao Phraya River valleys, they encountered well-established cultures, especially the Khmer and Mon. They gradually differentiated themselves into various subgroups, the largest being the Siamese, Lao, and Shan. For various reasons, including war, they came into contact with upland peoples, Indians, Vietnamese, Burmese, Malay, Japanese, and Chinese. Later there was extensive contact with Portuguese, French, English, German, Italian, and Americans. Just as there were isolated foreign communities of Japanese and Portuguese in 17thcentury Ayuthaya, there are isolated communities of Westerners, Japanese, and Chinese in Bangkok today.
144 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 The Thai are a tolerant people. Although the Chinese in Thailand were culturally oppressed after 1932 for several decades, they and other foreigners have otherwise been free to establish their own institutions. Consequently there are Roman Catholic and Protestant churches, Vietnamese and Chinese temples, Muslim mosques, and Hindu temples. People of mixed ancestry are considered attractive. Many movie stars and pop singers are Eurasian. Golfer Tiger Woods is revered as a Thai athlete (his mother is from northeast Thailand). Relevant to this study, many Chinese-Thai have now become major figures in Thai political life without any suspicions that they might subvert Thai sovereignty. Just as “everyone is Irish” on St. Patrick’s Day in the United States, perhaps it could be said that “everyone is Chinese” during the Chinese New Year in Thailand. Admittedly, Thai enjoy celebrating other cultures’ holidays as well, including Christmas and Western New Year in addition to their own long list of festivals. During Chinese New Year anyone can watch the colorful Chinese “lion dance” parades through Chinatown or the main markets of up-country towns and cities, celebrate with a big meal, or set off firecrackers. Year round anyone feeling ill can consult a Chinese herbalist or buy traditional remedies at Chinese pharmacies. Anyone can seek to know their fortune with a Chinese fortune teller or by one of the many Chinese practices absorbed into Thai custom. Chinese funerals, with their white-robed Mahayana Buddhist priests chanting in Sino-Sanskrit, Chaozhou instruments and melodies, and the burning of paper gifts for the deceased share the grounds of Thai Buddhist temples with Thai funerals celebrated by saffron-robed monks chanting unaccompanied in Pali followed by cremation. Aspects of Chinese culture are deeply embedded in what we know as Thai culture, and that includes the most traditional forms of Thai music. That fascination with things foreign extends to the arts, including painting, sculpture, cuisine, architecture, dance, and music. For example, Thai painters were able to absorb Western shading and perspective into their wall temple murals in the 19th century. Anyone who has seen the stunning and extensive murals depicting the Thai Ramayana epic at Bangkok’s Wat Phra Kheo (The “Temple of the Emerald Buddha”) instantly recognizes their Thainess, but they also exhibit profound influence from Western painting. If the Thai could successfully blend in aspects of contrasting cultures (e.g., French, American, or Japanese), then absorbing features from a culture with which they have much in common (i.e., Chinese) would be even easier. Although Thailand is often described musically as a “gong-chime” culture, this is truer of the piphat ensemble and its repertory of motivically constructed compositions than of the mahori and khruang sai ensembles, which play tuneful compositions whose sound is dominated by bowed and plucked strings. Chinese music is
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largely a tune-dominated tradition, and both Thai and Chinese musicians realize these tunes through idiomatic, heterophonic performance practices. Beyond that similarity, however, the two traditions have profound differences, but these will be more obvious to insiders than to casual listeners. The Thai instrumentarium likely developed over a long period of time by adding instruments from other cultures near and far, instruments that were evidently seen as attractive. When such instruments were absorbed, in every case they were modified in structure and decoration to express the Thai aesthetic, refretted or retuned to suit Thai sonic ideals, and held according to Thai custom, which is to be seated on the floor or ground. Without attempting a long dissertation citing all the evidence, I summarize that the following instruments possibly came from elsewhere: (1) Ranat ek and ranat thum xylophones with keyboards suspended over boat-shaped resonators most likely from the Mon equivalent and perhaps existing back to the Dvaravadi period (2) Ranat thawng or ranat ek lek and ranat thum lek metallophones were created in the reign of Rama IV. Some say they were inspired by European music boxes with “comb” sound production, others that they were inspired by metallophones from Java (3) Chap yai large cymbals may have existed since the Sukhothai period but could have been of Chinese origin too (4) Taphon mon drum from the Mon (5) Thon “goblet-shaped” drum likely from West Asian sources, for example, the darabuka (6) Klawng khaek and other laced drums from Malaysia or India (7) Klawng yao long drums from the Burmese ozi (8) Pi chawa, pi mon, and other conical double reeds with flared bells from the Mon and from Java (9) Trae farang metal trumpets from Europe, specifically France (10) Phin nam tao and phin phia chest-resonated stick zithers could have originated in Cambodia, since evidence of a Thai origin is unclear (11) Jakhe “crocodile”-shaped floor zither from the Mon (12) Saw duang and saw u two-stringed fiddles may have originated from Chaozhou Chinese sources, but within Thailand this remains in dispute by Thai scholars (13) Khim hammered dulcimer from China Other foreign instruments have been absorbed into traditional contexts without modification. These include the Chinese zheng 21-stringed board zither, Afro-Caribbean conga drums, free-reed pump organ, violin, and electric bass
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guitar. The remaining instruments in common use are assumed to have a Thai origin, but there is no documented history to demonstrate that. Just as the Thai people are a mixture of peoples from many different ethnic groups later joined by a common language and culture, the Thai instrumentarium is a mixture of instruments from many ethnic groups modified physically and aesthetically and recontextualized to express Thai artistic ideals. It is tempting to see the Thai and Chinese as two distinct peoples and cultures. This has remained truer in places like Malaysia, Vietnam, and Indonesia than in Thailand where being Chinese varies on a continuum from unassimilated enclaves to completely assimilated and intermarried families. So much so that it is often difficult to say who in Thailand is Chinese; Chinese-Thai could be at any point on the continuum. Similarly, Thai music has voluntarily absorbed aspects of Chinese music that vary from the obvious and semi-assimilated (e.g., the newly fashionable use of the Chinese zheng zither) to Thai-centric imitations of Chinese music (in the samniang jin compositions), to aspects that seem so thoroughly Thai that alleging a Chinese origin is controversial (e.g., the origin of the two-stringed fiddles). Although many Thai make a distinction between “ethnic Thai” and “Chinese,” the difference is usually less than, for example, the difference between an “ethnic Malay” and Chinese. It appears that “ethnic Thai” simply differentiates Thai without Chinese ancestry from the purely Chinese and Chinese-Thai. Whether Chinese influence is audible in Thai music or not, it is usually there in some form at some level. Because Thailand, unlike, for example, Vietnam, was neither colonized nor forcibly occupied at length by foreign powers, it is difficult to argue that foreign cultures have been imposed on the Thai. At some level individual Thai, acting alone, as a community, or as a government, have allowed foreign cultures to influence Thai culture. Granted, some Thai may not approve of the many foreign features which have been adopted throughout modernized, globalized Thailand, but the ancient tradition of the Thai is to be open to foreign cultures, to select those aspects which are found useful, attractive, or profitable, and to modify them to become—again, in the words of Philip Cornwel-Smith—“very Thai.” Thus, it is not that the Chinese had an influence on the Thai but that the Thai, in their encounter with the Chinese, accepted certain Chinese cultural features, including some from music, that were then incorporated into the broader concept of “Thai culture.” What was absorbed could be expressed in subtle, even hidden, ways or in obvious ways, even to the point of exaggeration and parody. That is why some Thai music that is purportedly Chinese has few obvious Chinese features, while other examples seem as obviously Chinese as “playing on the black keys” orientalism.
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Acknowledgments I wish to thank my longtime Thai research partner Dr. Panya Roongruang, formerly of Kasetsat University, for his valuable input and guidance during the writing of this article. I also wish to acknowledge input from my doctoral student Mr. Lai Wah-Chiu, who assisted me in doing research and in understanding Chaozhou Chinese music in Thailand, in 2002.
References Anon. 1961 Thai Classical Music, Book I. Bangkok: Fine Arts Department. Backus, Mary, ed. 1884 Siam and Laos As Seen by Our American Missionaries. Philadelphia: Presbyterian Board of Missions. Bouvet, Pere [Joachim] [1685] 1963 Voiage de Siam du Pere Bouvet, ed. J. C. Gatty. 2 vols. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Bradley, Dan 1884 “Visit to a Gambling Establishment.” In Siam and Laos As Seen by Our American Missionaries, ed. Mary Backus, 233–5. Philadelphia: Presbyterian Board of Missions. Chaumont, [Alexandre] le Chevalier de 1686 Relation de L’Ambassade de Mr. . . . a la cour du Roy de Siam. Paris: Arnoult Seneuse. Choisy, M. L’Abbė [François Timolėon] 1687 Journal du voyage de Siam fait en 1685 et 1686 par M. l’Abbė de Choisy. Paris: Chez Sebastien. Cornwel-Smith, Philip 2005 Very Thai: Everyday Popular Culture. Bangkok: River Books. Coughlin, Richard J. 1960 Double Identity: The Chinese in Modern Thailand. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press/Oxford University Press. Ellis, Alexander J. 1885 “On the Musical Scales of Various Nations.” Society of Arts Journal 33 (October 30):1102–11. Hipkins, Alfred James 1888 Musical Instruments, Historic, Rare, and Unique. London: Adam. Reprint, London: A. and C. Black, 1921, 1945. McDonald, N. A. 1884 “The Chinese in Siam.” In Siam and Laos As Seen by Our American Missionaries, ed. Mary Backus, 145–61. Philadelphia: Presbyterian Board of Missions.
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Miller, Terry E., and Jarernchai Chonpairot 1994 “A History of Siamese Music Reconstructed from Western Documents, 1505–1932.” Crossroads: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 8(2):1–192. Ruschenberger, William Samuel Waithman [1838] 1970 Narrative of a Voyage around the World, during the years 1835, 1836, and 1837. 2 vols. London: Dawsons of Pall Mall. [Tachard, Guy, S.J.] 1688 A Relation of the Voyage to Siam Performed by Six Jesuits. London: J. Robinson and A. Churchil. Verney, Frederick 1885 Notes on Siamese Musical Instruments. London: Wm. Clowes and Sons. Wyatt, David K. 2003 A Short History of Thailand. 2nd ed. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.
Discography Seree Wangnaitham (National Artist) n.d. Tradition [sic] Music of Thailand, vol. 29, The Chinese Melodies, Ocm 029. Sujit Wongtes (Producer) 1997 Chainese [sic] of the Chao Pharya [sic] River, Chainese Manner. The Historical Recording: Sound of the Land, G 0542157.
Additional Sources Consulted Dhanit Yupho 1971
Thai Musical Instruments. 2nd ed. Trans. David Morton. Bangkok: Department of Fine Arts.
Narong Pitukrat n.d. Saranukrom Phleng Thai [Dictionary of Thai Compositions]. Bangkok: Dr. Sax. Panya Roongruang 1990 Thai Music in Sound. Bangkok: by the author. 2003 Prawat Kan Dontri Thai [History of Thai Music]. 5th ed. Bangkok: Thai Wattana Phanit.
The Third Stream: Oḍiśī Music, Regional Nationalism, and the Concept of “Classical” David Dennen Like the Saraswati River that formed the “triveni” along with the Ganga and the Yamuna, Odissi was a distinct stream of music like the Carnatic and Hindustani. It evolved from the ritualistic music of the Jagannāth temple of Puri, and the 12th century saint-poet Jayadev was a prominent practitioner of it. However, during the time of Mughal and British rules, it was marginalized like the Saraswati River that vanished later. (Oḍiśī vocalist Damodar Hota, quoted in Chakra 2007)
Introduction As India has modernized, detached itself from colonial rule, and become a nation in the modern understanding of the term, Indians have attempted to demarcate for themselves—and for the international community—a set of unique, “national” art traditions. Integral to this identity forming process has been the defining of serious music traditions, and, owing to India’s long interaction with Western cultural concepts, these traditions have been labeled “classical.” Yet India does not represent anything like a homogeneous nation-state; while at times it may appear as a unified political entity, it may also be seen as a collective of many small—mostly linguistically defined—nations1 that now find themselves with a stake in creating a federal-national identity. In such a context the privileging of certain musics as classical, over others that may be labeled folk or regional, can be contentious. The notion of “classical,” in its now worldwide usage, typically implies a certain notion of music as serious, developed, old—as something representative of the finest and most distinctive, or “other,” of a culture. This is not music of the masses, but of an educated elite, often with aristocratic and spiritual overtones. In India there are two widely recognized genres of classical music—musical styles which are representative, to both Indians and foreigners, of music most Indian: Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī2 music. The classicization of musics in India, beginning in the 19th century, was largely a middle- and upper-class Hindu-Brahmin project, and thus a substantial portion of the population was absent from the
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150 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 discussions. The questions of why certain musics were defined as classical in India, what classical means in India, and what this meant for the groups left out of the classicizing process has not begun to be extensively explored by scholars until recently. Some early examples were provided by Neuman (1980) and Powers (1980), but more specific and comprehensive work has been done in the last few years by Bakhle (2005), Subramanian (2006), and Weidman (2006). The canonization of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music has been contested, but with seemingly few effects, since the beginning of the process in the mid19th century; but virtually all ethnomusicological work on art music in India, including the works just cited, focuses on one of the two accepted forms of such music. Still left largely undiscussed are the musics at the borders of these traditions, musics that do not fit so easily into accepted musical categories—musics, for example, that may be considered classical by smaller groups within India, though they are not recognized as such by Indians (and non-Indians) at large. What is the place of such music within the cultural politics of India? The present article is concerned with one such type of music3—Oḍiśī classical music (Oḍiśī saṅgīta), as it is known to its practitioners and audience.4 Outsiders who know of it typically consider it a regional, perhaps folk, music rather than, strictly speaking, a classical music; its adherents, however, adamantly defend it as a third “stream” of Indian classical music, positioning it explicitly in relation to the two more commonly recognized streams of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī. Few scholarly sources exist on this music by non-Oriyas. It receives the briefest of mentions in Powers’s and Katz’s New Grove Dictionary entry on Indian music (2001, 156). The two most substantial nonlocal treatments of it (which are still rather brief) available in English that I am aware of are in Subhadra Chaudhary’s Time Measure and Compositional Types in Indian Music (1997, 276–7, 322–3) and Sukumar Ray’s Music of Eastern India ([1973] 1985). Of the various Orissan Sanskrit treatises from which Oḍiśī music is said to draw its theory, one has been thoroughly translated and commented upon in English (Katz 1987). For the most part, then, the following discussions of the specifics of Oḍiśī music, and of how it is conceptualized by its practitioners and audience, derive mainly from my own experiences in Orissa, as well as from English- and Oriya-language works written by Oriyas. As noted, Oḍiśī music is claimed by many Oriyas to be a third form of Indian classical music. The basis and significance of this claim is to a large extent what this paper is about.5 It should be noted that whether the claims made by Oḍiśī music’s supporters are objectively “true” or not, they have a rhetorical force in an Indian context deriving from the classicist discourses of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music—which in turn derive from colonial cultural discourse. Also, in order to give some idea of Oḍiśī’s musical relation to Hindusthānī and
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Karṇāṭakī music, and because it is so little known by outsiders, I will explain the basics of the Oḍiśī style (as I understand them) and give a brief account of its history. Though the following account is inevitably colored by my particular “outsider” position—and thus my interpretation of the facts of this case may be, at the very least, arguable—it is my hope that this treatment of Oḍiśī music will inspire further investigation among those with an interest in the varied music of India.
The Environment of Oḍiśī Music Orissa (“Oḍiśā” in the local language) exists virtually between regions: it sits defiantly atop the eastern corner of south India yet firmly outside north India’s Delhi—Kolkata—Mumbai triangle; to its east unfolds the Bay of Bengal, and the often overlooked state of Chhattisgarh reclines to the west. About the size of the U.S. state of Georgia (or a bit larger than the country of Nepal), Orissa has had historical ties to both northern and southern India, and—significantly, as will be seen below—it has small Hindi-, Telugu-, and Bengali-speaking populations. Both Aryan and Dravidian influences are noticeable in its culture along with strong tribal influences (both of indigenous and more recently settled tribes); the Oriya language is in fact the result of the interaction of Indo-Aryan, Dravidian, and Munda (Austro-Asiatic) languages (Mahāpātra 2005, 120). While Orissa is overwhelmingly Hindu at present,6 the version of Hinduism practiced here is highly syncretic, with strong Buddhist, Jain, Tantric, and tribal elements. Orissa was under Muslim rule for around 180 years, and some remnants of this interaction are apparent in the culture today as well. There is also a small but significant population of Christians whose roots may be traced to the arrival of British missionaries in the 19th century. The historical experience of Orissa during the last four centuries has been somewhat beleaguered, as the area was divided in various ways by Muslim and British rulers, local religions were denigrated by the Mughals, and the local language was devalued in favor of, variously, Bengali, Hindi, and Telugu. The Oriya people finally achieved a somewhat unified and autonomous state in 1936, and shortly after Indian Independence the state acquired its present form. Bhubaneswar (population around 650,000) is the administrative capital of the state, an urban center surrounded by flat expanses of farmland abutting walls of dense forest. Although Orissa has had several important cultural hubs—most importantly Puri and Cuttack—activity in the performing arts has increasingly been concentrated in the capital. The southern part of the city is the oldest and contains most of its major religious sites. A “modern” cityscape was developed to the north and encompasses wide, modern roads (with countless cramped side
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streets), an administrative sector, a few modern shopping complexes and upscale business hotels, residential neighborhoods, and scattered educational institutions. Bhubaneswar is modernizing but not particularly “Western”-oriented. Few foreigners come here, as it lacks the beaches and religious and sculptural significance of its popular coastal neighbors, Puri and Konarak. Scholars who visit Bhubaneswar are most often interested in the local temple architecture or in studying Oḍiśī dance. Music produced in Orissa is generally divided into categories such as modern (adhunika in Oriya, i.e., secular popular music), film (caḷaccitra gīta), devotional (bhakti gīta), and classical (often labeled Oḍiśī)—with classical also having the subcategory light-classical, which may in practice contain music from the other categories. This is similar, if not precisely parallel, to music categories found throughout India. The first three of these categories are relatively wellrepresented by commercial recordings. Recordings falling in the last category are nearly nonexistent.7 Oḍiśī music is, however, represented in regular, if somewhat rare, live performances. Though not necessarily advertised in a way accessible to foreigners, there are usually several festivals each year—in Orissa and increasingly elsewhere—in which Oḍiśī music plays a significant part.
A Brief History of Music in Orissa Orissa claims some unusually ancient and impressive evidence of its musical traditions, and this evidence is almost always cited by local writers on Oḍiśī music. For example, an inscription in Udayagiri, a complex of caves near Bhubaneswar, dating from the first century BCE, describes various cultural activities, including music and dance performances, under the reign of then-Emperor Khāraveḷa. The Sun Temple in Konarak, from the mid-13th century CE, is famous for its sculptures of dancers and musicians (see Figure 1). In the ancient dramaturgical treatise Nāṭyaśāstra (c. 200 CE) there is mention of an Oḍra-māgadhī style of music (Oḍra is one of the ancient names for the region of Orissa). And from sometime between the ninth and eleventh centuries BCE there is a collection of rāga-based cārya songs (songs used in connection with Buddhist Tantric rituals) found in Nepal, but thought to be composed by poets from eastern India (the poems are in a language related to old Bengali, Oriya, and Assamese) (Pani 2004, 50).8 Likely the most famous musical work to come out of Orissa is the 12th century song-cycle Gītagovinda of the poet Jayadeva, now popular throughout India. Dealing with the relationship between the deity Kṛṣṇa and his consort Rādhā, Jayadeva seems to have specified rāgas and tāḷas for each of the songs, although there is no consensus among scholars today precisely which rāgas and tāḷas are to be used with each song (see Panda 2004, 120–1). This work influenced (and is
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Figure 1. Sculptures of musicians at Konarak. asserted to have influenced) cultural life in Orissa deeply, and it spawned many local Sanskrit and Oriya imitations. There were a number of Sanskrit-language musicological treatises written in the region of Orissa from about the 15th to 18th centuries. The most important are probably the Gītaprakāśa and the Saṅgītanārāyaṇa, which are believed to define the rāgas at the heart of the Oḍiśī system (Pani 2004, 53).9 The earliest of these is the Gītaprakāśa (written prior to 1565 CE) of Kṛṣṇa Dāsa Badajena Mahāpātra. The author was a poet and musician in the court of Gajapati Mukunda Deva (ruled 1559–1568 CE), and may have been associated with Mughal Emperor Ākbar’s court as well—a musician/poet with the name Mahāpattar (Mahāpātra is a common Oriya name) appears in the writings of Ākbar’s chronicler Abul Fazal (Katz 1987, vol. 2, 17). The second important treatise, the Saṅgītanārāyaṇa of Gajapati Nārāyaṇa Deva (c. 1650 CE), is a comprehensive compilation of, and commentary on, a large number of treatises on music available at the time (271). This treatise was widely circulated in Orissa, Andhra, and Bengal (Rath 2006, 31), and was translated into Oriya in the 18th century (Mahāpātra 1982, Section I: 273). Reference might also be made to Orissa’s Oriya-language literary tradition and its māhārī tradition, both of which are intimately tied to the development and maintenance of music traditions in Orissa. Music and literature are closely related forms in this region, and at least since the 16th century (see Mohanty
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2006, 117) much poetry (the main form of literature from the mid-16th to mid19th centuries)—whether narrative or descriptive, secular or devotional—has been set to particular rāgas and tāḷas. The māhārīs—the Oriya term for, and version of, devadāsīs—performed music in and around major temples.10 This included, for example, performances of the Gītagovinda. The māhārīs performed occasionally in public during festivals, but their dance and music mainly found their way into the public sphere by way of goṭipua troupes—groups of boys dressed and performing as māhārīs—that began performing in the early 16th century. The māhārī tradition began falling out of favor while Orissa was under foreign—especially British—rule and mostly disappeared in the 20th century. It was then in the mid-20th century revived as an inspiration for classical Oḍiśī dance. More recently, various public and private institutions have contributed to the sustenance of Oḍiśī music, of which some are the Utkal Sangeet Samaj, founded in 1933, to provide classes in Oḍiśī music and dance; All India Radio began a branch in Cuttack in 1948 which played various types of Oḍiśī classical and folk music;11 Kala Vikash Kendra in Cuttack, a prominent Oḍiśī dance and music school, was founded in 1952; the Orissan branch of the Sangeet Natak Akademi was founded in 1956 in Bhubaneswar and, among other duties, records and archives various kinds of music performances; the Utkal Sangeet Mahavidyalaya (Utkal Music University) was started in the 1960s in Bhubaneswar to teach Indian performing arts, including Oḍiśī; and the Odissi Research Centre in Bhubaneswar was founded in the mid-1980s to teach, promote, and research Oḍiśī music and dance. Though detailing the contributions of relevant individuals falls beyond my present purposes, the names of Bhubaneswar Mishra (d. 1992) and Balakrushna Das (or Dash) (1923–1993) may be mentioned as two particularly important personalities in the recent history of Oḍiśī music. Both were trained in Hindusthānī music as well as Oḍiśī, and—though there is still much history to be unraveled—their activities seem to embody the early steps of Oḍiśī’s classicization. Their music provides a middle ground, of sorts, between the more “folk” sounding varieties of Oḍiśī music and the more “classical” style being popularized today. Furthermore, their students, and the students of their students, make up a significant proportion of current performers.
The Oḍiśī System: Contemporary Practice We now turn to contemporary music. In the following discussion of the Oḍiśī music system I will refer often to the two better-known classical styles of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī. This is not to suggest that certain elements of Oḍiśī music necessarily derive from the Hindusthānī or Karṇāṭakī systems, although it is likely that some do. Given India’s complex and sporadically documented
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history it is not entirely possible to separate out the strands of influence that stretch to and from and across Orissa and the rest of India and its neighbors; nor is it possible to entirely unearth whatever common sources diverse music traditions may have had. Certainly Oriyas have spent considerable energy developing their traditions in various stages of isolation; just as certainly they have at times drawn from a common fund of musical ideas in circulation throughout India, and likely at times they contributed to that fund too. I would only emphasize that it is not the “tools” (i.e., concepts, modes of production and expression, actual implements, etc.) that a culture originates that so much distinguish it as what is done with the tools available to it. The major Indian systems of music are all based on the same fundamental elements: principally, a system of rāgas (the melodic system) and tāḷas (the rhythmic system). Likewise most systems contain some greater or lesser degree of improvisation. The ways in which rāgas are elaborated and tāḷas calculated, and the particular manners of improvisation, combine into distinct musical experiences. A typical performance Even in Orissa, the music’s homeland, public performances of Oḍiśī music are somewhat uncommon.12 Often when it is performed on its own it is as an opening for a dance performance. When concerts are devoted only to music they occur in the context of a festival (meḷa). In this setting a number of performers are onstage for a relatively short time, more or less on an equal footing rather than one main act dominating the stage for an evening. Musical events usually take place in medium-sized auditoriums, of which there are many in Bhubaneswar. Admission, in my experience, is always free. The cost of performing (i.e., renting the venue, paying support staff, etc.) is born by the artists and organizers usually in conjunction with local corporate and governmental sponsors. Before the performances commence a host gives an introductory speech on behalf of the event organizers; following this is an invocation to the presiding deity, Lord Jagannātha (the primary Hindu deity in Orissa), wherein candles are lit at His shrine at the right side of the stage (see Figure 2). Those involved in the invocation—an excellent photo opportunity for all present—are typically eminent musical, cultural, or political personalities in attendance. After the invocation ceremony the performances begin. Generally the first item to be performed for the evening is what might be termed “light-classical”: a group vocal recital of a devotional song or perhaps some selections, by a solo singer, from the Gītagovinda. Then begins the serious, “classical” performances. The format of these performances follows the typical Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī model of “classical–light-classical.” Each performer usually sings two compositions, the total performance time for each individual lasting around 20–30 minutes. The first composition is primarily rāga-based,
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Figure 2. Invocation ceremony of Lord Jagannātha. With microphone is famed singer Raghunath Panigrahi. what is generally known as Oḍiśī rāga saṅgīta or Oḍiśī rāgāṅga prabandha—that is, the performance of a musical composition in which the exposition of a rāga is the primary concern. This is roughly equivalent to khayāl or dhrūpad in the north and kṛti or rāgam-tānam-pallavi in the south, although the Oḍiśī style emphasizes lyrical content more than the northern styles, and usually seems to have more improvisational sections (post-āḷāpa/ālāpaṇa) than kṛti, for example. After this main performance item follow one or two shorter light-classical compositions that can broadly be called devotional songs (bhajana or jaṇāṇa) and which may come from the realm of “applied” music, such as dance and film music.13 Often toward the end of the event will be a solo or group mardaḷa performance, in which one or more percussionists improvise with a tāḷa to the accompaniment of an ostinato harmonium or violin melody. After an individual performs he or she (the solo artist) is “felicitated” (publicly acknowledged) by the organizers—presented with a plaque, trophy, or other memento commemorating his or her participation in the evening’s events. At some point certain cultural luminaries in attendance (but not performing) will be felicitated as well; often they give lengthy speeches—for the most part in Oriya—on relevant subjects, such as the current state of Oḍiśī music or Orissa’s history of performing arts, or on what the speaker might be doing to enhance Orissa’s reputation as a cultural center in India.14 Thus goes the Oḍiśī music event.
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Types of music Several styles of performance can be included under the Oḍiśī rubric. As noted earlier, rāgāṅga prabandha is the most popular today as a main performance item, but there are other classes such as bhāvāṅga and nāṭyāṅga. These categories are not necessarily mutually exclusive, and indeed their basic repertoire is built around the same corpus of classic poetic texts. The demarcations indicate, rather, where the primary emphasis of the performance should lay. In a rāgāṅga performance, for example, the emphasis will be on exploring the particular rāga: there will be more improvisation, melodic variations, tānas, and so on. A bhāvāṅga performance will be more focused on bhava (mood), and the lyrics will be foregrounded. Nāṭyāṅga refers to dance music, and the emphasis is more on tāḷa and chanda (meter). Bhāvāṅga and nāṭyāṅga compositions need not be in a particular rāga and tāḷa, although they very often are. The poetic compositions themselves are also divided into several categories (such as campū, cautiśā, and chānda), each with their own methods of performance. Instrumentation Like the main northern and southern classical formats, Oḍiśī rāga music performance is centered on a solo musician, which in Oḍiśī music means a solo vocalist. There is not, generally speaking, a solo instrumental genre.15 The predominant quality of voice is strong, clear, slightly nasal, and full-throated, although a wide variety of singing styles can be heard. The drone is provided by a tampūra or its electronic version. The voice is accompanied melodically by a harmonium and often by a violin as well—it is interesting to note that the ensemble often combines the harmonium prevalent in north India with the violin prevalent in south India. The rhythmic-percussive accompaniment is provided by the mardaḷa (see Figure 3), a type of two-headed barrel drum similar to the pakhāwaj or mṛdangam, and is the most distinguishing element of Oḍiśī music after the voice. Often included as well are mañjira or gini (small cymbals), which mark the outline of the tāḷa. In dance and light-classical ensembles sitār and flute are also typically included. Repertoire The repertoire of Oḍiśī music is mostly drawn from a large corpus of lyrical compositions written from the 17th century to the first decades of the 20th.16 These works deal primarily with the theme of love and the variety of emotions deriving from its experience (joy, longing, excitement, anger, jealousy, etc.). Often the poems use the activities of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa as their narrative basis, and were usually set by their authors to specific rāgas and tāḷas, which may not always be adhered to in actual performance.
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Figure 3. Guru Kalandi Charana Parida playing the mardaḷa.
The rāgas and tāḷas used in Oḍiśī music come from a variety of sources. Some, as far as can be ascertained, are local to Orissa; some were likely acquired at various times through interaction with other Indian music traditions. Interestingly, many popular rāgas in Orissa are those that are prevalent in both the northern and southern traditions (see Figure 4). Note that Oḍiśī rāgas often maintain names similar to south Indian rāgas, leading to the inaccurate characterization
Oḍiśī
Hindusthānī
Karṇāṭakī
Cakrabāka (aka Dhani)
Ahīr Bhairav
Cakravākam
Dhanāśrī
Bhīmpalāsi
Devagāndhāri or Ābheri
Kirabāṇi
Kīrvāni
Kīravāni
Mohana
Bhūpālī
Mohana
Figure 4. Some Oḍiśī rāgas and their Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī relatives
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of Oḍiśī music as Karṇāṭakī rāgas performed in a Hindusthānī style. The tāḷas of Oḍiśī are a rather unique tradition of their own: the most common is ekatāḷi, a 4-beat pattern similar in its use to Hindusthānī’s tīntāl or Karṇāṭakī’s āditāḷa; but also common are the 6-beat khemaṭā, 7-beat tripuṭā, and 10-beat jhampā. Musical structure of Oḍiśī rāga saṅgīta According to Keshab Chandra Raut, the rāgāṅga method is the most “classical” way of performing Oḍiśī music (Raut 1997, 147).17 And indeed this form, also known as a rāgāṅga prabandha performance, or rāga saṅgīta, is the most popular in classical concerts. Because of its distinguished status as representative of what is most “classical,” some time should be spent in its consideration. This genre of Oḍiśī music shares many basic structural features with the main Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī genres and, based on recorded evidence, one may surmise it developed into its present form in the last 30 years or so.18 It is not, however, considered so much a new form of music as, rather, a musical form reclaimed and restored from history. The songs around which these performances are structured are taken from a kind of poetry known generally as caupadī, which are set, usually by the original authors, to a particular rāga and tāḷa; the performers are expected to strictly adhere to the rules of that rāga and tāḷa. While in the wider scheme of Oḍiśī music this form is considered to be most focused on rāga, it is only relatively so; the text is—in theory at least—given equal importance (cf. Das 2004, 35). The performance begins with an āḷāpa that usually lasts around five minutes at the longest. The performance of āḷāpa in Oḍiśī music conforms generally to the method used in other classical genres, moving from low register to high and from a low density of pitches to a higher density. The Oḍiśī āḷāpa does not begin as slowly and meditatively as the Hindusthānī variety, however, and may almost immediately utilize a variety of gamakas (ornaments) and tānas (fast melodic runs). The violinist or harmonium player will mimic the vocalist during this section, but, aside from occasional filling-in while the singer takes a short break, is not allotted a solo section of his or her own. The vocalist typically uses ākāra (vocalizing with the sound “ā”), nom-tom (the singing of nonlexical syllables), or bolāḷāpa (called pada binyāsa in Oḍiśī music theory; that is, improvising with phrases from the song text). After the āḷāpa the performance of the actual song begins. The vocalist sings through the various sections of the song, which may be several, repeating each line numerous times and varying the melody using bolbāṇṭ or boltān (known also as types of pada binyāsa). After spending some time on the text, tānas using solfège syllables (sā, ri, gā, etc.) or ākāra will be performed. Between sections there is usually an instrumental break in which the melodic accompanist repeats the basic composition melody as an interlude but does not improvise.
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Many compositions also have a section known as paḍi, which is considered by musicians to be one of the unique aspects of Oḍiśī music. Not all Oḍiśī compositions have this section,19 but it is an effective way of heightening tension: the paḍi is performed at about twice the speed of the rest of the composition with the mardaḷa playing a much higher-density rhythmic pattern. One of the most distinctive aspects of Oḍiśī music is its style of ornamentation. Several types of gamaka are used, and the importance of these in Oḍiśī music is such that there are relatively few standing notes. Most tones are modulated by the singer in various ways: by attacking them from the note above or below in a slight jerking motion (āhata), by gliding between notes (ḍhalu), melisma (āmbreḍita), and applying vibrato (āndolita). These ornaments are found in other types of music as well, but they are performed here in a distinctive manner with the use of āhata being perhaps predominant. Oḍiśī rāga music is generally performed at a relaxed tempo,20 which gives the singer time to explore these ornaments over the syncopated rhythms of the mardaḷa. The sonic effect of this is a sort of melodic undulating and cascading. This has been a rather superficial sketch of Oḍiśī music, but hopefully it offers some sense of the music’s sound and context. Now we turn—fittingly perhaps, as no Oḍiśī concert would be complete without a defense of Oḍiśī’s classicalness—to the concept of “classical” itself.
“Classicist Discourse” in India The concept of “classical” as understood by most of the world today is a fairly recent invention, having evolved in the West during the 18th and 19th centuries and transported to—and internalized by—other cultures often through processes related to colonialism.21 Thus, despite India’s rich musicological heritage, there was, prior to the late 19th century, no equivalent indigenous term. The ancient Sanskrit music theorists did divide music into different categories: there was a distinction, for example, between mārga and deśī music, but for most of those terms’ histories they did not refer to a classical/folk or classical/popular dichotomy, though they are sometimes used that way today. The former term usually referred to music used in religious rituals and the latter to music as an everyday, nonsacred practice (e.g., entertainment).22 More recent terms that hew more closely to a familiar classical/folk dichotomy are śāstrīya saṅgīt (“scientific,” codified music based on extensive written theory, i.e., “classical music”) and lok saṅgīt (folk/tribal music). The history of these terms is less clear than that of mārga and deśī—whether, and to what extent, the śāstrīya/lok distinction existed prior to 19th- and 20th-century cultural debates is open to question.23 What Allen calls the “classicist discourse” of India (1998, 23) has its beginnings in the colonial period, along with a burgeoning nationalist discourse. To be sure this discourse built upon an earlier indigenous musicological foundation,
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but it was mostly developed in the terms of Western-educated theorists. Consequently, as Weidman notes, discussions of Indian music, along with the music itself, “are neither properly Western nor Indian, but specifically colonial in the sense that they position the West and India in relation to each other” (2006, 9). Janaki Bakhle (2005) has discussed the role of colonialism and Indian nationalism in north Indian music; Lakshmi Subramanian (2006) and Amanda Weidman have done likewise for south Indian music. The following discussion, based on these writers’ critiques of India’s classicist movements, is undertaken in order to see what light it can shed on the situation in Orissa. It is not the only possible, or necessarily the most complete, account of the movements under question, but I feel these classicist critiques have much to offer in this situation as heuristic devices. The birth of Indian “classical music” It was not until well into British rule that there was felt to be a need to protect India’s rich musical heritage and to put forth some manner of a national, “classical” music. Not coincidentally the earliest modern writings on music reform and theory come from the same period during which the national independence movements were taking their first steps in the last quarter of the 19th century; and a major factor in both the nationalist and classicizing movements was a growing Western-educated middle class during the late 19th century. Partly in response to newly available Orientalist critiques of Indian music (Subramanian 2006, 56), this group was increasingly cognizant of its cultural heritage and how this heritage was viewed by Europeans. Subramanian writes, As beneficiaries of colonial education and patronage, the urban middle-class developed a new mode of reflecting on culture and its consumption, partly as a selfreflexive exercise. Without for a moment discounting the deep personal engagement that many of them had as listeners and connoisseurs, there was a new compulsion to validate their cultural heritage. (ibid., 67)
In the field of music this “compulsion” manifested itself in, for example, the creation of listener appreciation societies, reforms in music education, the development of systems of notation, and, in the north, attempts to reclaim a “Hindu” music from its Muslim practitioners. In north India these types of activities were spearheaded by scholars and musicians such as Vishnu Narayan Bhatkhande (1860–1936) and Vishnu Digambar Paluskar (1872–1931), and in south India by those like Chinnaswamy Mudaliar (d. 1901) and P. Sambamoorthy (1901–1973). By the beginning of the 20th century the modern conceptions of Indian music had formed or were well into the process of forming. Important landmarks in the institutionalization of music in southern India include the forming of a branch of the Gayan Samaj, a music appreciation society,
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in Madras in 1883 (Weidman 2006, 194); and the forming of the Madras Music Academy in 1928, born out of the previous year’s Indian National Congress session in Madras (Subramanian 2006, 70). The Madras Music Academy in particular had a pivotal role in standardizing Karṇāṭakī music and music pedagogy, constructing its history, and defining its place within the larger culture. The case of Hindusthānī music was complicated by its demographics. In southern India the emerging Western-educated elites and the Karṇāṭakī musicians were both Hindu, often upper-caste Brahmins. In the north however, while the emerging middle-class audiences were Hindu, most musicians—certainly most high-profile musicians—were Muslim. Hence, while south Indian Karṇāṭakī music was seen as a model by Bhatkhande for the reform of Hindusthānī music because of its “impeccable system” (Bakhle 2005, 105), it was also considered by many to be—since at least the time of C. R. Day’s influential The Music and Musical Instruments of Southern India and the Deccan in 1891—a tradition of greater “purity” in contradistinction to the northern system, “tainted” by Islamic influence (Subramanian 2006, 13; also see Neuman 1985, 99). It is interesting to note that in fact both musical systems were considered, at the beginnings of the classicist movements, to be in states of neglect. Subramanian quotes a newspaper article from the 1920s: “Is it not the duty of every true lover of Karṇāṭakī Music to strive to rescue it from its present neglected state and to develop it on the right lines so as to preserve ancient Indian music in its pure and pristine form and in all its glory for the benefit of posterity?” (2006, 78). In the north “illiterate” and “secretive” Muslim musicians were perceived as impeding Hindusthānī music’s classicization. One of many examples noted by Bakhle: “The argument that music was in the hands of people who were liable to destroy it by their negligence—Muslim musicians who performed it for the dissolute entertainment of indolent princely state rulers—was expressed on a number of occasions in the [Marathi nationalist newspaper] Keshari” (2005, 148). “Classical,” as it applied to music, was defined similarly in each case. For Hindusthānī theorists such as Bhatkhande, “classicization meant at least two things: system, order, discipline, and theory, on the one hand, and antiquity of national origin, on the other” (Bakhle 2005, 124); Indian music “needed a demonstrable and linked history, one with a few key texts that explained foundational rules, theories, and performance practices” (98). Similarly in the south, [w]hat mattered was the need to establish an identifiable standard for the art form that would not only pass western scrutiny but one that would reinforce the essence of Indian culture. It was here that the idea of the classical as a validating category became so important. The idea of the classical had multiple connotations of antiquity, lineage, textual rigour, and above all, resonated with the essential spirituality of India’s tradition. (Subramanian 2006, 17)
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In both cases notation—an important marker of art music in the West—came to be seen as crucial for Indian music’s classicization. One of the organizers of the third All India Music Conference (attended by both northern and southern musicians and connoisseurs) in 1919 stated, “. . . if we want our music to take its proper place in the musical world of today, we must standardize our notation and engraft on our ancient system the scientific method of the west” (quoted in Subramanian 2006, 76). In the later part of the 19th century there had been publications of Indian compositions in Western notation, but now in the early years of the 20th century Paluskar, Bhatkhande, and others worked to develop systems of notation more suited to Indian music (Bakhle 2005, 67–8, 190–1). This tied in to ideas of modern music pedagogy, and both Paluskar and Bhatkhande founded music schools; Paluskar in particular was quite successful in this area—he began his first music school, the Gandharva Mahavidyalaya, in 1901, in Lahore (ibid., 148) and went on to found many similar institutions in other parts of India. The classicization of music in north and south India thus followed similar trajectories: an emerging, Western-educated middle class becoming aware of themselves as part of a “nation” with a distinctive culture; a belief among those elite classes that a part of their culture—in this case music—needed to be reclaimed, revitalized, and brought into line with modern (i.e., colonial) conceptions of a sophisticated, “Indian” expression; and finally institutionalization and standardization. In the following section I argue that the modern history of Oḍiśī music has followed a similar path, with the significant difference that this history can be seen as a reaction not just to Western and colonial cultural discourse, but to the Indian-classicist discourse that derives from them.
Oḍiśī as a Classical Music The case for Oḍiśī as a form of classical music—usually termed śāstrīya saṅgīta in Oriya24—is made variously but bluntly. Jiwan Pani, for example, makes the argument thusly: If any regional style of music of this country claims a distinctive and shastric [i.e., classical] system, then it has to satisfy the following points: (a) The tradition is more than one century old. (b) The system is based on one or more written shastras. (c) There are a number of ragas at the core of the system even if the number is less than one hundred, and (d) The ragas at the core of the system and those borrowed from other systems are delineated in a distinctive style. (2004, 49)
164 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 He then proceeds to demonstrate how Oḍiśī music satisfies these requirements. This argument is made almost verbatim by Gopinath Mohanty (2007). Ramhari Das argues that classical status has three requirements: Any music which is considered to be śāstric is seen to have three aspects. One is tradition, or the music’s development in an unobstructed stream. Another is codification, or the use of musical rules or grammar. And finally and most importantly is application, or a distinctive manner of performance.25 (2004, 20)
He goes on to explain how Oḍiśī music, despite commonly held beliefs, satisfies these requirements. And finally, a more general comparative statement in which we see similar values at work: Odissi music is a lot more lyrical as compared to Hindistani or Carnatic. Just like these two forms, it has its typical feel, its unique identity. It is raga-based and very old. . . . There is huge evidence in our rock edicts to support the ancient origins of Odissi classical music . . . (Saṅgīta Gosain, quoted in Tandon 2007)
The larger argument for Oḍiśī music as a classical music thus has three components which I should like to evaluate: the argument of antiquity, the argument of systematicness, and the argument of distinctiveness. The first two arguments can all be traced back to earlier cultural debates in India over Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music, where the antiquity and systematicness (or “scientificness”) of these musics needed to be defended (or even invented) in relation to a Western classical music model. In the case of Oḍiśī music, however, it is Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music that provide the model. To explore this situation further: Based on historical evidence (discussed earlier), the existence of advanced musical traditions in Orissa in the ancient period is fairly easy to accept. However, the relation of those traditions to contemporary Oḍiśī musical practice is not at all obvious. This is, of course, true of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music as well: Bhatkhande was uncomfortable positing a linked history greater than 200 years (from the late 19th century) for Hindusthānī music (Bakhle 2005, 98, 115); Jairazbhoy suggested the roots of modern, classical Indian music date to the 16th century ([1975] 2007, 222); and Harold S. Powers and Jonathan Katz, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, also traced some elements of modern performance practice to the 16th century, while admitting that a connection does not become certain until the mid-19th century (2001, 155). Contemporary Oḍiśī music theory, or at least some important aspects of it, can tentatively be traced to the 17th century when the Saṅgītanārāyaṇa was written;26 the work is claimed by its author to be based partly on regional musical practice (see Katz 1987, vol. 1, 170; vol. 2, 63). Regarding this treatise Jiwan Pani writes that the Saṅgītanārāyaṇa, along with the earlier Gītaprakāśa, contains
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the “definitions of the rāgas that formed the core of the [Oḍiśī] system” (2004, 53); K. N. Mahapatra notes that “scholars interested in the birth and growth of ‘Oḍiśī’ music may study this work critically to their advantage” (1982, Section I: 273); and Sukumar Ray writes, “It is held that the system of Odisi music is more or less available in the principles explained in Sangeetanarayana . . . ” ([1973] 1985, 142). In actuality, however, this treatise contains only partial descriptions of rāgas, and so connecting the text to the current incarnations of Oḍiśī rāgas is quite speculative. The tāḷa descriptions, on the other hand, are more detailed and, on a superficial evaluation at least, bear a significant relation to current Oḍiśī tāḷas. The Saṅgītanārāyaṇa also seems to give exceptional emphasis to the song text—a common strain in Orissan musicological treatises (Katz 1987, vol. 2, 19) and very much a part of modern Oḍiśī theory. The third component of the Oḍiśī classicist argument—the argument of distinctiveness—is more unique and would not have figured into the Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī discussions in the same way: the distinction between Indian music and Western music seemed self-evident to all concerned as, for the most part, was the distinction between Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī musics themselves. Yet in Oḍiśī classicist discourse there evidently is a need to defend Oḍiśī music’s uniqueness, not in relation to Western music but in relation to other types of Indian (classical) music. Presumably this arises from the occasional characterization (or dismissal) of the music as a derivative of Hindusthānī or Karṇāṭakī music, or as some kind of fusion of the two. So is Oḍiśī music distinct from the other styles? Given the almost overwhelming diversity each system encompasses, and the lack of an accepted standard for determining “distinctiveness,” any answer to this question is suspect. Whether or not Oḍiśī is “objectively” heard as a unique style will depend on the subjectivity (the biases, cultural competence, etc.) of the listener; it may also hinge on which type of Oḍiśī music is taken to be the “real” Oḍiśī music, still a topic of contention in Orissa.27 Further, it may be noted that, different though they may be, Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music are not mutually unintelligible—there is a long history of rāga-exchange between systems, a probably equally long history of collaborations between northern and southern musicians, many listeners who enjoy both styles, and a number of musicians who actually perform in both styles. To my ears, Oḍiśī music is about as similar to Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music as those styles are to each other.28 In addition, as with listeners and musicians in India generally, Oriyas appreciate many kinds of music, and many Oḍiśī musicians are able to perform at least one of the other “classical” styles. In this context any answer to the question of distinctiveness will probably tell us more about the listener than about the music itself. To draw one final parallel with previous classicist movements, there is also the sense among Oḍiśī supporters that the music is in a state of neglect, usually
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outwardly directed, and even corruption. Accusations of corruption, however, tend to be inwardly directed, at the very musicians who practice it. Singer and music scholar Damodar Hota, for example, complains that “perverse forms of Hindustani and Carnatic rāgas are being represented as Odissi music” (quoted in Rajan 2009); and Jiwan Pani charges that some musicians are “even going to the extent of borrowing certain cheap and glamorous elements from film music” (2004, 56). Such comments—while advocating for the sustained “purity” of the Oḍiśī tradition—display again the desire to position Oḍiśī music in relation to what it is not to be, that is, Hindusthānī, Karṇāṭakī, or popular music. From a larger perspective, by making these multiple arguments Oḍiśī music’s advocates can be seen to both reinforce and challenge the classicization of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music. The advocates of Oḍiśī assume a priori the legitimacy of the classical status of the two major musical systems and the criteria (whatever it may be) used to define that status; but they also throw into question the ability and appropriateness of those systems to represent or index the Indian nation musically. Turino has written that nationalism “involves the fashioning of a somewhat distinctive cultural unit within an overall framework of similarity” (2000, 217). A parallel process can be seen in play regarding the similarly cosmopolitan concept of “classical” in India. As discussed earlier, the conceptions of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī musics as national, classical musics evolved in relation and often opposition to Western colonialist discourse on the subject. Similarly, in the cultural discourse of Orissa, Oḍiśī music is defined in relation and opposition to Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music: Oḍiśī music discourse seeks to position the music as a “somewhat distinctive unit” within the “overall framework” of Indian classical music. Of course it cannot be seen to be too similar to either of the dominant traditions or it will be subsumed by them; but neither can its difference be too forcefully asserted or it will continue to stand outside the classical framework.29 Ultimately, however, the question of whether Oḍiśī music is similar and different enough cannot be answered by purely musical considerations; the musical question is itself part of a larger question of identity that needs to be addressed. Regional identity In light of the historical evidence, it would seem that some manner of systematic music theory in Orissa, with distinct regional characteristics, dates from about the same time as that of the other “classical” systems, although the attempted classicization of the actual music started significantly later. It also seems fairly clear that, for many listeners (myself included), Oḍiśī is a distinctive style of music within what could currently be considered the general musical and contextual format of Indian classical music. Although these
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points may still be contested, perhaps the most relevant aspect of the debate over Oḍiśī music as a classical music is that which emerges through the investigation of the engagement of India’s regional nationalisms with pan-Indian nationalism. Indian historians have recognized that, since colonial times, there have been two coexistent types of “nationalism” in India—viz., the various nationalisms based on regional-linguistic identifications and nationalism based on a panIndian identification. These nationalisms have been given various terminologies (see Nag 1993, 1521), but here the terms “regional nationalism” and “pan-Indian nationalism” shall be used. These two forces, which emerged more or less concurrently, are by no means mutually exclusive; indeed, early nationalists found no contradiction between the two (Guha 1984, 46). This is not to say, however, that the two movements never conflict—there is the potential for pan-Indian nationalism to become overbearing and aggressive and for regional nationalism to become chauvinistic and even secessionist (53). A balance must constantly be sought, and it is useful to acknowledge the tension between the parts and the whole of India and to inquire into the processes of attempted compromise and resolution. With this in mind, the tension between the social-cultural region of Orissa and that of India in toto needs to be explored further. The identity (national, social, cultural) of an individual or group is likely to be ambivalent and dependent on context. The relationship of Oriyas30—like the relationships of many of India’s regional-linguistic groups—to the federalnation of India, as the arbiter of a dominant culture and central government, has been troubled. Oriyas are supportive of the idea of India in general, and many Oriyas were involved in the Indian Independence movement. But Orissa is a poor state, one that has not historically received much aid or interest from the central government. In addition, the culture of Orissa is often overshadowed by that of neighboring West Bengal—Kolkata being one of the primary cultural centers of India. Regarding music, then, it is not uncommon to see such statements as these: As for Odissi music, there is a systematic conspiracy to relegate the singers to the background. . . . There is no genuine concern for Odissi music. (Sikandar Alam n.d.)31 Odissi musical tradition remains an obscurity. Traced back to the second century when the then ruler of Orissa (Kalinga) patronized the art form, it never really could muster the attention it deserved. . . . [W]hile Odissi dance found a winning patronage . . . Odissi music kept languishing on the fringes. (Tandon 2007) Music Syllabi across the country teach two systems of music: Hindustani and Carnatic. They usually miss the third, a music system that has distinctive features of its own and lies between the two. (Mohanty 2007, 108)
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Kāḷīcaraṇa Paṭṭanāyak, a poet, dramatist, and cultural revivalist took on the argument that Oḍiśī music is merely a regional music; I paraphrase him as follows: Hindusthānī music is performed in India’s western region, Karṇāṭakī in India’s southern region—these are two Indian regions, are they not? But if these are the only regions of India, is Orissa then exterior to the country? In this argument Orissa must also be a region of India. If it is true that in the western and southern regions Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music are performed, what sense is there in denigrating Oḍiśī music as only a regional music? (1997, 89)
From such statements we can begin to detect a particular viewpoint. The first component of this is—as previously discussed—the belief that Oḍiśī music is an ancient and distinct classical system, comparable to the Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī systems. The second significant aspect, intertwined with the first, is a sense of unfair neglect. This is an attitude rooted in Oriya nationalism, and for a better understanding of the situation we must look at the origins of nationalism in Orissa. In the early 19th century the British began taking over the administration of the areas that would become Orissa, binding them variously to the Bengal, Madras, and Central Provinces. One consequence of this was that Oriya-speakers became minorities of three different provinces. For Oriyas this was not a beneficial development. In the case of the substantial Oriya-speaking region attached to Bengal, . . . the Oriyas were excluded from all administrative posts which were now filled up by outsiders and mostly by Bengalis because of their knowledge in English. This resulted not only in an influx of Bengalis to Orissa but became ultimately responsible for a serious attempt by the Bengalis to make their language the medium of instruction in the educational institutions of Orissa and [the] virtual extinction of the Oriya language. . . . The administrative officers, mostly being outsiders, had practically no sympathy for the inhabitants of Orissa. . . . The Oriyas were harassed both by the officers and clerks. (Kabi 1997, 47)
Things continued in this direction until the great Orissa famine of 1865–1866.32 When the British, who previously had paid little attention to Orissa, eventually learned of the extent of the suffering they became sympathetic toward the region. As a result Orissa gained several new Western-style educational institutions into which Oriya students were recruited. Unfortunately, however, the teachers qualified to instruct in these institutions were Bengalis who rankled at having to teach Oriya-speaking students; this difficulty was compounded by the fact that there were few Oriya-language textbooks. Thus it came to seem to many Bengalis that eliminating, or at least modifying, the Oriya language (e.g., having it written in Bengali script) would be the best solution. The seeming condescension
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and arrogance of the Bengalis toward Oriyas (see Bailey 1998, 34) eventually sparked a full-fledged language-centered controversy, with Bengalis arguing for the superiority of the Bengali language and educated Oriyas intent on defending their mother tongue. P. K. Mishra writes of this period: These writings and debates [over language] caused acute tension in the public life of Orissa. But one most significant outcome and beneficial aspect of this language controversy was the emergence of a strong race consciousness among the Oriyas. It created an unprecedented awakening in the dormant mind making them aware of their backwardness, sufferings and humiliation. That Orissa possessed a glorious history and cultural heritage, that their language and literature had [a] rich legacy, that Orissa should be for the Oriya-speaking people, and [that] they alone should get employment in the Government—these feelings created a sort of vigorous national awakening in their mind. . . . The threat to their language and culture brought forth in them an unprecedented sense of unity and determinism. (Mishra 1997b, 193)
With the aid of certain sympathetic British officials and naturalized elite Bengalis, Oriyas achieved some success in asserting the legitimacy of their native language. Numerous printing presses were started to print Oriya-language newspapers and books, and there was a flowering of internal interest in Oriya culture. Similar struggles took place elsewhere in Orissa where Hindi or Telugu were the administrative languages. These battles and the resultant cultural developments went a long way toward creating a sort of “imagined community” (see Anderson 1991) of Oriya speakers, a community of people who may not have directly known one another but who were connected nevertheless by a common language. Few bonds among people are more fundamental and powerful than their belief in their ability to communicate with each other in a common tongue; this period marks the beginning of that belief on a “national” level in Orissa and consequently of Oriya nationalism. Beyond the regional? Later on this language-based nationalism—the sense that Oriyas, as a language group, are distinct from but equal to Bengali- and Hindi-speakers and others—was transferred to other cultural realms, notably dance. It is unclear to me why precisely dance, and not music, became so much the focus of postIndependence Oriya cultural revivalists (or classicists). But the drive to have Oḍiśī dance recognized as classical was clearly successful. This may have had to do in part with the fact that near the time of Indian Independence there were already four recognized classical dance forms.33 These styles—Bharatanāṭyam from Tamil Nadu, Manipuri from Manipur, Kathak from northern India, and Kathakaḷi from Kerala—were region-based, had long histories, and in most cases
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conformed in theory to certain rules of performance laid out in ancient treatises such as the Nāṭyaśāstra. Within this heterogeneity of styles it would become possible to fashion a space for Oḍiśī dance. Although the origins of Indian dance styles are tied to particular geographic areas, the classicization of certain styles has allowed many of them to be dispersed throughout India, and no single dance form has come to exemplify the concept of classical dance in the context of India. Indeed, the national Sangeet Natak Akademi now recognizes eight separate classical dance forms, having added traditions from Assam, Andhra Pradesh, and again Kerala. While there may be difficulties associated with asserting the classical status of another dance form, there is apparently still space on the map for alternatives to present themselves. In dance the regional can be classical, and the classical often becomes national (in the pan-Indian sense); thus a Delhi-ite or Bengali can study Oḍiśī dance or Bharatanāṭyam as a hobby and feel connected to the wider sphere of pan-Indian culture. In music the situation is rather different. Because of the pre-Independence efforts of scholars and musicians in north and south India there came to be prominent two forms of classical Indian music: a northern style with major centers in Delhi, Bombay, Kolkata, Banaras, Lucknow, and Baroda; and a southern style centered mainly in Madras but which had other important centers in Mysore and Hyderabad. Given the preexisting linguistic-cultural-geographic distinctions between northern and southern India—a distinction reified under the British, if not long before—the gradual mapping of music cultures onto this bifurcated geographic space came to be seen as natural and incontestable (to the detriment of Kāḷīcaraṇa Paṭṭanāyak’s argument). In the sphere of art music, Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music now occupy all available space. For another form of music to be claimed as classical in this context thus seems reflexively unnecessary and challenges the underlying framework of India’s musical geography: where exactly is the third space in a north-south divide? As a consequence of this, and contrary to the situation in dance, in music the regional is only regional, and it is quite doubtful whether a non-Oriya Indian could study Oḍiśī music and feel a connection with the larger nation of India.34 The present push for the classical status of Oḍiśī music has at least one indirect precursor in the Tamil Isai Iyakkam—or movement for Tamil music—which formed in the 1930s. This movement, at least in the descriptions supplied by Lakshmi Subramanian (2006, 153–67) and Amanda Weidman (2006, 150–91), did not really propose a separate, independent classical tradition as the advocates of Oḍiśī do, but rather attempted to redefine Karṇāṭakī music, rooting it more firmly in Tamil’s own unique language and music traditions. The movement, which on a large scale appears to have been unsuccessful, advocated a greater use of Tamil-language compositions by performers and the popularization of
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ancient Tamil styles. Subramanian writes tellingly of the ultimately disappointing outcome of this movement:35 This failure had as much to do with a limited conceptual framework that eventually deferred to the norms of the nationalist paradigm and the categories of classicism it imposed, as it had to do with the fact that at no time did the Tamil Isai confer on classical music the central role in the articulation of an expressive space for Dravidian identity that the brahmin elite of Madras city gave to it for themselves. (2006, 166)
Sadly, this could be equally applicable, with some changes in regional terminology, to the present inability of Oḍiśī music to find a wider audience.
Conclusion The assertions by Oriyas of Oḍiśī’s classical status have been fueled by the tension between Oriya regional nationalism and pan-Indian nationalism—by the belief that there is an Oriya national culture that is distinctive and highly evolved, but which has not gotten fair recognition from the rest of the country of which Orissa is firmly and proudly a part. But will Oḍiśī music ever attain official classical status? If there had been a strong movement behind Oḍiśī music, similar to and concurrent with that behind Oḍiśī dance’s classicization—when India was still a new country attempting to define its national identity in the eyes of the world—it might very well have been successful.36 But at this point, sixty years post-Independence and fifty years after Oḍiśī dance was recognized as classical, convincing non-Oriyas of the need for another classical music may prove an insurmountable obstacle. India has an astounding number of distinct cultures vying for attention; unless Oḍiśī music can be made the repository—the articulated “expressive space”—for more than an elite Oriya identity—through which it may be able to carve out a third space on the map for itself—its prospects as a player on the pan-Indian cultural stage seem dim. A more interesting question might be: Would the conference of classical status on Oḍiśī be an overall benefit to the music and the musicians? Certainly some degree of prestige, perhaps even some economic benefits, might accrue with classical recognition. But there is also a danger here. As Purnima Shah (2002) has argued with regards to dance, classicization—while perhaps raising the prestige of the more recent dance additions—has necessitated stylistic compromises and led to a “museumized” treatment of the traditions: the road to classicization, in other words, can also lead to homogenization and a discouragement of innovation. Though more work yet needs to be done, there is strong evidence that Oḍiśī music and its performance practice have indeed been altered to align more closely to the established styles of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī. Whether these alterations will ultimately be seen as a kind of innovation or as homogenization is perhaps a matter of perspective.
172 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Despite the dangers, and regardless of whether the Oḍiśī music movement is successful in its aim of official recognition, the movement already seems to be having positive effects. By means of festivals in major cities throughout India— where music performances are often paired with performances of the more recognizable and popular Oḍiśī dance—Oḍiśī music now appears to have greater visibility within India than ever before, and the ears of a sympathetic press. One optimistic prediction of the outcome of this trend might be that it will demonstrate that in music the regional can be, if not classical, then at least more than regional. But whether or not the music is able to find a new stature or larger audience, I feel it is proper finally to recognize—along with its practitioners—that Oḍiśī music is a unique and powerful form of expression. Whether or not one labels the style “classical,” for now it continues to be played and developed. Who can know what lies ahead? Surely the dedicated musicians of Orissa will continue their work rehydrating the riverbed of the Saraswati, so that a third stream may finally take its place in the musical geography of modern India.37
Notes 1 In the sense of “an imagined political community” (Anderson 1991, 6). In India the colonial encounter was the major impetus inspiring the “imagining” of these smaller nations and of the nation of India as a whole. 2 In this paper, for the most part, I am transliterating music terms as they are usually spelled in the Oriya language: for example, Karṇāṭakī instead of Carnatic or Karṇāṭak; and āḷāpa instead of ālāp, and so on. Aside from some proper place, people, and language names—which tend to have standard Romanized spellings—I have tried to transliterate Indian words using standard Indic diacritics. 3 One other case known to me is that of sufīānā mauṣiqī or sufyāna kalam (i.e., Kashmiri classical music; see Raja [2005, 315] and Pacholczyk [1978, 1980]). There are likely others. 4 In 2007–2008, I spent nine months in India, mostly in Bhubaneswar, Orissa, studying Hindusthānī and Oḍiśī music. For contributing to the success of this experience, I must express my gratitude to my guru, Professor Mohini Mohan Patnaik, for his seemingly limitless energy and patience; to Sean Williams of The Evergreen State College for guiding me through this project; to Ratna Roy, also of Evergreen, for providing me with contacts in Orissa; to the Jessica Kelso Foundation for financial support; and to the musicians of the Odissi Research Centre for their welcome. I must also thank the many readers, anonymous and otherwise, who have commented on versions of this paper. 5 The prospect of evaluating the arguments about Oḍiśī music is, to a degree, personally unsettling. I do love this music and have a great respect and fondness for many of its practitioners; for my own purposes and enjoyment I have an investment in whether or not it is taken seriously—calling an art form “classical” tends to promote seriousness in our appreciation of it. However, as an ethnomusicologist I am not so much interested in whether a type of music is labeled one way or another, but why one type is labeled the
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way it is. I don’t intend to advocate for or against one particular label, but rather to explore a group’s beliefs regarding the music it calls its own. 6 In the 1981 census, 95.42 percent of the population reported as Hindu, 1.82 percent as Christian, 1.60 percent as Muslim, 0.05 percent as Sikh, 0.03 percent as Buddhist, and 0.03 percent as Jain (Mahāpātra 2005, 25). These numbers have probably not changed greatly. 7 At one concert I attended the governor of Orissa made a speech during which he complained of not being able to find any recordings of Oḍiśī music; a member of the Odissi Research Centre promptly presented him with a stack of their own CDs (not generally available outside of that institution). 8 For a more detailed account of cārya songs, see Widdess (1992). 9 The only treatise from Orissa to my knowledge to have been translated is the Saṅgītanārāyaṇa. The musicological portions of this have been translated and critiqued by Jonathan Katz (1987), and there is a critical edition of the full Saṅgītanārāyaṇa, translated by Mandakranta Bose, under preparation. 10 See Marglin (1985) for a detailed discussion of the devadāsī tradition in Orissa. 11 See Vasudev (2005) (particularly chapter 2) for a depiction of AIR Cuttack in the late-1950s. 12 Relative, that is, to Oḍiśī dance performances or to the regularity of Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī performances in major north and south Indian cities. On the other hand, Oḍiśī music performances in Bhubaneswar were, in my experience, more common than Hindusthānī or Karṇāṭakī performances there. 13 Many of Orissa’s celebrated classical composers/musicians also worked in the Oriya film industry. 14 I am not fluent in Oriya; my understanding here is based on my perception of the tone of the speeches, my comprehension of various phrases spoken, audience comments, and my reading of various articles written by, or about, the speakers at these events. And on occasion there were speeches in English, which I took to be at least roughly representative of what would be spoken of in Oriya. 15 My own guru in Orissa, the flutist Mohini Mohan Patnaik—who is known mostly as a Hindusthānī soloist—is the only musician I have ever seen or heard about performing Oḍiśī as a solo instrumental form. The music of his performances in this style was patterned essentially after vocal music compositions, similar to what is done in Karṇāṭakī instrumental music. 16 Some of the more popular poets are Kavi Samrāṭ Upendra Bhañja (1670–1720), Banamāḷī Dāsa (18th century), Kavisūrya Baḷadeva Ratha (1779?–1840?), Gopāḷakṛṣṇa Paṭṭanāyak (1784–1862), Lokanatha Paṭṭanāyak (1898–1965), and Kavicandra Kāḷīcaraṇa Paṭṭanāyak (1898–1978). 17 “Śāstrīyatā dṛṣṭikoṇaru bicarā kale Oḍiśī rāgāṅga Oḍiśī saṅgīta paddhatira sarbaśreṣṭha paryāya.” 18 Gopal Chandra Panda’s manual, Oḍiśī Saṅgīta Mañjarī of 1982, contains notated examples of Oḍiśī compositions as well as notated examples of āḷāpas and tānas. I have not yet found definitive (recorded or written) samples of these typical Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī elements in Oḍiśī music before then, but there is still much evidence to be
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evaluated. It is worth noting that there is evidence of a structural element called “āḷāpa” much earlier in regional music history, though it is difficult to ascertain its properties (see Katz 1987, vol. 2, 134, 138; Das 2004, 42). 19 Oḍiśī compositions in fact are sometimes divided into two categories: those with paḍi (sapaḍi) and those without (apaḍi) (Das 2004, 34). 20 A phase often heard in connection with Oḍiśī music is “na druta, na bilambita (neither fast nor slow).” 21 For more on the evolution of folk/classical distinctions see Gelbart (2007). 22 See Babiracki (1991, 70–1); Rowell (1992, 12); and Allen (1998, 24–5) for discussions on the various usages of these terms. 23 The folk/classical distinction, though now very common in Indian music discourse, is not universally accepted (e.g., Lath 1988). 24 The term uccāṅga saṅgīta is sometimes also used; this might be roughly translated as “art music.” 25 “Kauṇsi saṅgītara śāstrīya maryādāku swīkṛti debā pūrbaru mukhyataḥ tinigoṭi diga prati dṛṣṭi diājāe. Goṭie helā paramparā bā uccāṅga saṅgīta carccāra eka abyāhata prabāha. Anyaṭi helā prabidhi bā sāṅgītika nīti niyama bā byākaraṇa ebaṅ śeṣaṭi tathā atyanta gurutwapūrṇṇa diga helā prayoga bā kriyāgata baiśiṣṭya.” 26 There were in fact many music treatises written in Orissa, from around the 15th or 16th century CE to the 19th, most of which remain unpublished and untranslated. The Saṅgītanārāyaṇa is so far the most well-known and discussed Orissan work. See Hota (1977) for a list of others. 27 The musical form as I have outlined it above represents what I take to be the mainstream. 28 While working on my own analyses I am often struck both by how similar in some ways this music is to Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī music, and also how in other ways it is so different. 29 Of course, the music itself must be “fashioned,” perhaps in a kind of dialectical process, to fit into this “framework of similarity.” Precisely how Oḍiśī music has been affected by classicist discourse is a fascinating question that still needs a great deal more research. Preliminarily, I suspect that this has involved the “modernizing” of performance contexts and an increased emphasis on certain improvisational techniques and structural elements such as āḷāpa. 30 As opposed to the Orissan government. I should also note that it is problematic to speak of Oriyas “in general” since the nationalist and classicizing movements in India were primarily of the middle classes and were closely tied to a capitalist ideology. Other groups, in Orissa as elsewhere, such as those that may fall under the heading of “subaltern”—though they also participated in nationalist movements—have had very different sorts of relations with the dominant power structures of India. 31 It is difficult to tell, however, whether his ire is directed at the state or central government, or both. 32 The following account of language and nationalism in Orissa is based on Mishra (1997a, 207–23; 1997b, 191–206); Boulton (2003, 73–97); and Mohanty (1982).
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33 The institution that determines the official status of performing art forms is the national Sangeet Natak Akademi in Delhi. The criteria it uses remain mysterious. 34 Nor do I know of any non-Oriyas studying Oḍiśī music. As an illustration of this situation, at the time of this writing the website Art India (http://www.artindia.net/), which maintains information on Indian performing arts teachers and teaching institutions, has listings for eleven types of dance but only two types of music, Hindusthānī and Karṇāṭakī. 35 Other scholars, however, have had different opinions on the success of the movement (cf. Viswanathan and Allen 2004, 19–21). 36 And if it had been successful, one may speculate, might there now be even more styles of classical Indian music recognized? 37 Those interested in hearing Oḍiśī music may try OdiaMusic.com, http://www.odiamusic .com/ and the Orissa section of Music India OnLine, http://www.musicindiaonline.com/. A few of the major artists are (with variations in spelling) Balakrushna Das, Raghunath Panigrahi, Bhubaneswari Mishra, Gopal Chandra Panda, and Damodar Hota. Most online recordings, however, are of the chānda, cautiśā, or devotional styles, which seem to be more popular among a larger segment of the population. At the time of this writing very few examples of music with the precise morphology of what I most often heard in “classical” concerts—or read about in various Oriya-language treatises—are available online. Please contact me if you wish to hear more representative samples.
References Alam, Sikandar (n.d.) “Untrained Music-Makers Keep Oriya Films Music from Reaching the Top.” Interview with Saswat Paṭṭanāyak. Hindustan Times. Scanned article archived at http://www.egojournal.com/saswat-articles/ interview_singer.jpg (accessed April 15, 2008). Allen, Matthew Harp 1998 “Tales Tunes Tell: Deepening the Dialogue between ‘Classical’ and ‘Non-Classical’ in the Music of India.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 30:22–52. Anderson, Benedict 1991 Imagined Communities. Rev. ed. London: Verso. Babiracki, Carol M. 1991 “Tribal Music in the Study of Great and Little Traditions of Indian Music.” In Comparative Musicology and Anthropology of Music: Essays on the History of Ethnomusicology, ed. Bruno Nettl and Philip V. Bohlman, 69–90. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bailey, Frederick George 1998 The Need for Enemies: A Bestiary of Political Forms. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
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Bakhle, Janaki 2005 Two Men and Music: Nationalism in the Making of an Indian Classical Tradition. New Delhi: Permanent Black. Boulton, John 2003 Essays on Oriya Literature. Jagatsinghpur, Orissa: Prafulla. Chakra, Shyamhari 2007 “In a League of Its Own.” The Hindu (online ed.), November 2, http:// www.hindu.com/fr/2007/11/02/stories/2007110250480200.htm (accessed July 10, 2009). Chaudhary, Subhadra 1997 Time Measure and Compositional Types in Indian Music: A Historical and Analytical Study of Tāḷa, Chanda and Nibaddha Musical Forms. Trans. Hema Ramanathan. New Delhi: Aditya Prakashan. Das, Ramhari 2004 Oḍiśī Saṅgīta Paramparā and Prayoga (The Tradition and Performance of Oḍiśī Music). Bhubaneswar, Orissa: Kaiśikī Prakāśanī. Gelbart, Matthew 2007 The Invention of “Folk Music” and “Art Music”: Emerging Categories from Ossian to Wagner. New York: Cambridge University Press. Guha, Amalendu 1984 “Nationalism: Pan-Indian and Regional in a Historical Perspective.” Social Scientist 12(2):42–65. Hota, Damodar 1977 “Orissi as a Form of Indian Classical Music.” In Sidelights on History and Culture of Orissa, ed. Manmath Nath Das, 766–82. Cuttack: Vidyapuri. Jairazbhoy, Nazir Ali [1975] 2007 “Music.” In A Cultural History of India, ed. Arthur Llewellyn Basham, 212–42. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Kabi, Debabandya 1997 “British Conquest of Orissa.” In Comprehensive History and Culture of Orissa, vol. 1.1, ed. P. K. Mishra, 34–49. New Delhi: Kaveri Books. Katz, Jonathan B. 1987 “The Musicological Portions of the Saṅgītanārāyaṇa: A Critical Edition and Commentary.” 2 vols. DPhil thesis, University of Oxford. Lath, Mukund 1988 “Folk and Classical Music: A Dichotomy That Does Not Quite Work in India.” Sangeet Natak 88:44–6. Mahāpātra, Kedarnath N. 1982 “Saṅgīta Nayaranam by Gajapati Nārāyaṇa Deva.” In The Orissa Historical Research Journal: Special Volume, ed. H. K. Mahtab, Section I: 265–74. Bhubaneswar, Orissa: Orissa State Museum. Mahāpātra, Lakshman Kumar 2005 People and Cultural Traditions of Orissa: Civilization, Society and Worldview. Cuttack, Orissa: New Age Publications.
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Marglin, Frederique A. 1985 Wives of the God-King. New York: Oxford University Press. Mishra, P. K., ed. 1997 Comprehensive History and Culture of Orissa. 2 vols. New Delhi: Kaveri Books. Mishra, P. K. 1997a “Language Agitation in the 19th Century.” In Comprehensive History and Culture of Orissa, vol. 1.2, ed. P. K. Mishra, 207–23. New Delhi: Kaveri Books. 1997b “Political Awakening in the 19th Century.” In Comprehensive History and Culture of Orissa, vol. 1.2, ed. P. K. Mishra, 190–206. New Delhi: Kaveri Books. Mohanty, Gopinath 2007 “Odissi: The Classical Music.” Orissa Review, August, 108–10. Mohanty, Jatindra Mohan 2006 History of Oriya Literature. Bhubaneswar, Orissa: Vidya. Mohanty, Nivedita 1982 Oriya Nationalism: Quest for a United Orissa, 1866–1936. New Delhi: Manohar. Nag, Sajal 1993 “Multiplication of Nations? Political Economy of Sub-Nationalism in India.” Economic and Political Weekly 28(29/30):1521–32. Neuman, Daniel M. 1980 The Life of Music in North India: The Organization of an Artistic Tradition. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. 1985 “Indian Music as a Cultural System.” Asian Music 17(1):98–113. Pacholczyk, Jozef 1978 “Sufyāna Kalam, the Classical Music of Kashmir.” Asian Music 10(1):1–16. 1980 “The Status of Sufyana Kalam in Kashmir.” Asian Music 12(1):159–63. Panda, Gopal Chandra 1982 Oḍiśī Saṅgīta Mañjarī (The Bud of Oḍiśī Music). Bhubaneswar, Orissa: Smt. Bhagabati Panda. Panda, Raghunath 2004 Orissa’s Contribution to Sanskrit Lyrics. Delhi: Abhijeet Publications. Pani, Jiwan 2004 Back to the Roots: Essays on Performing Arts of India. New Delhi: Manohar. Paṭṭanāyak, Kāḷīcaraṇa 1997 “Mo Dṛṣṭire Oḍiśī Saṅgīta” (My View of Oḍiśī Music). In Āma Sāṁskṛtika Paramparāre: Oḍiśī Saṅgīta (In Our Cultural Tradition: Oḍiśī Music), comp. Brajamohan Mohanty, 89–94. Cuttack, Orissa: Utkaḷ Pāthak Saṁsad and Orissa Book Store (1997 is the compilation date; the article was presumably written before the author’s death in 1978).
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Powers, Harold S. 1980 “Classical Music, Cultural Roots, and Colonial Rule: An Indic Musicologist Looks at the Muslim World.” Asian Music 12(1):5–39. Powers, Harold S., and Jonathan Katz 2001 “India: History of Classical Music.” In The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie, 155–70. London: Macmillan. Raja, Deepak 2005 Hindustani Music: A Tradition in Transition. New Delhi: D. K. Printworld. Rajan, Anjana 2009 “Dissenting Note.” The Hindu (online ed.), April 24, http://www.hindu. com/fr/2009/04/24/stories/2009042450100200.htm (accessed July 10, 2009). Rath, Banamali 1997 “Development of Oriya Literature A.D. 1434 to 1803.” In Comprehensive History and Culture of Orissa, vol. 2.2, ed. P. K. Mishra, 531–52. New Delhi: Kaveri Books. Rath, Jayanti 2006 “Sanskrit Scholars of Orissa.” Orissa Review, April, 27–37. Raut, Keshab Chandra 1997 “Oḍiśī Saṅgīta Gāyanara Swatantra Paddhati” (The Independent Method of Oḍiśī Music Singing). In Āma Sāṅskṛtika Paramparāre: Oḍiśī Saṅgīta (In Our Cultural Tradition: Oḍiśī Music), comp. Brajamohan Mohanty, 146–9. Cuttack, Orissa: Utkaḷ Pāthak Saṁsad and Orissa Book Store. Ray, Sukumar [1973] 1985 Music of Eastern India. Rev. ed. Calcutta: Firma K.L.M. Private Limited. Rowell, Lewis 1992 Music and Musical Thought in Early India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Shah, Purnima 2002 “State Patronage in India: Appropriation of the ‘Regional’ and ‘National.’” Dance Chronicle 25(1):125–41. Subramanian, Lakshmi 2006 From the Tanjore Court to the Madras Music Academy: A Social History of Music in South India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Tandon, Aditi 2007 “Reviving Odissi Musical Tradition.” Chandigarh Tribune (online ed.), February 21, http://www.tribuneindia.com/2007/20070221/cth2 .htm#12 (accessed July 10, 2009). Turino, Thomas 2000 Nationalists, Cosmopolitans, and Popular Music in Zimbabwe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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Vasudev, Uma 2005 Hariprasad Chaurasia: Romance of the Bamboo Reed. Gurgaon, Haryana: Shubhi Publications. Viswanathan, T., and Matthew Harp Allen 2004 Music in South India. New York: Oxford University Press. Weidman, Amanda J. 2006 Singing the Classical, Voicing the Modern: The Postcolonial Politics of Music in South India. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Widdess, Richard 1992 “Buddhist Dhrupad? Cārya in Nepal.” Dhrupad Annual (Banaras) VII:85–105, http://web.ukonline.co.uk/richard.widdess/articles.html (accessed July 10, 2009)
Radhika Mohan Maitra: His Life and Times Kalyan Mukherjea Radhika Mohan Maitra (pronounced and often spelled Moitra, 1917–1981), popularly known as Radhubabu, was one of the finest sarod players of his generation. Perhaps more interestingly, he lived through a period of unprecedented change both in Indian society and Hindustani music. Hindustani music, its social status, and its manner of propagation altered enormously during Radhubabu’s lifetime. These changes affected not only his career, but also how the general public and the community of musicians perceived one another. This biographical essay attempts to convey an impression of the spirit of the times in which Radhubabu developed as a musician; many small anecdotes, though not essential to an account of Radhubabu’s life, have been recounted since they throw light upon an era of which hardly any trace remains.
The Early Years The appellation “Radhubabu” comes from “Radhu,” a diminutive form for “Radhika,” and the honorific suffix “babu,” which is something like the Japanese “san” or Hindustani “ji.” Since the use of “babu” while referring to a young boy or teenager is somewhat ridiculous, in describing Radhubabu’s early years I have preferred to use his name. Radhika Mohan was the eldest son of Rai Bahadur Brajendra Mohan Maitra, the zamîndâr (feudal administrator) of a large estate whose main center was the town of Rajshahi (presently located in Bangladesh, across the Indian border from Maldah in Bengal, India). The zamîndârs lived on the income accruing from the taxes they collected from their estates, this right having been granted them in the late 18th century by the East India Company, the first British colonial administrators of India. The zamîndârs were often addressed as “raja” or “maharaja,” depending on the size and prosperity of their estate. They lived with as many of the trappings of royalty as they fancied and could afford. Thus, zamîndârs who enjoyed music often employed masters of Hindustani classical music as court musicians. Indeed, they were largely responsible, through their patronage, for the preservation of Hindustani classical music after royal patronage at the Mughal court declined during and after the reign of Aurangzeb (d. 1707). One of the court musicians in Rajshahi during the 1920s and 1930s was the sarod player Ustad Mohammed Amir Khan of Shahjahanpur, © 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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who was Radhika Mohan’s first teacher. (This Amir Khan was himself the son of Abdullah Khan, disciple and adopted son of Murad Ali Khan, who was the uncle of Hafiz Ali Khan, father of famed present-day sarod player Amjad Ali Khan.) Another musician who had a profound influence on Radhika Mohan during his early years was the great sitar player Ustad Inayat Hussain Khan (d. 1938), whose son Vilayat Khan (d. 2004) was a dominant figure in the Hindustani music scene in the latter half of the 20th century. Inayat Khan was the court musician at the estate of Gauripur, the seat of the Raychaudhuri family, whose current head was a great patron of music and friend of the senior Maitra. In fact, not only were the two patrons friends, but Amir Khan and Inayat Khan had a warm personal relationship. According to Radhubabu, Inayat Khan would in private refer to Amir Khan as châchâmiyân or uncle. In addition, Radhika Mohan’s mother, Binapani, had learned the sitar from Inayat Khan. It was fairly common for one or more members of the patron’s family to become students of the musician-in-residence; generally these “noble disciples” did not exert themselves strenuously to master the music, although some exceptions did occur. For instance, Birendra Kishore Raychaudhuri of Gauripur was a sursringâr player who was greatly respected, even by professional musicians, for his musical knowledge and virtuosity. A younger cousin of the senior Maitra used to take lessons from Amir Khan, but hardly ever exerted himself and was making little progress when the young Radhika Mohan got fascinated with the instrument and, whenever the opportunity arose, tried to imitate the lessons his elder cousin neglected to practice. One day Amir Khan saw the small boy trying to play the sarod and approached the senior Maitra with the proposal that Radhika Mohan become his disciple. The senior Maitra was not too keen about this, but Amir Khan was greatly respected in the Maitra household and his requests could not be summarily rejected. So after extracting a promise from the ustad that the youngster’s studies would not be compromised by his music lessons, Brajendra Mohan gave in, and Radhika Mohan started formal lessons from Amir Khan in 1928. Since the teacher and student were more or less under the same roof, lessons were delivered orally by singing and later by exhortations to imitate what the ustad played. Radhubabu, in later years, followed the same method with his own disciples, except that the newer generation of learners had to copy down notations of the “lesson of the week,” so that a fading of memory would not hamper all progress for a whole week. The relationship between Amir Khan and Radhika Mohan must have been somewhat unusual: Radhika Mohan addressed his teacher as “ustad” and Amir Khan, when teaching him, would address him as beta (son), but if Radhika Mohan made a request, Amir Khan would start his response with huzoor (sir), as befitted an employee speaking to his feudal master! Amir Khan’s hunch that
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Radhika Mohan possessed a certain natural musical talent was soon vindicated when Radhika Mohan began to make rapid progress. On one occasion when Inayat Khan had come to perform at a concert in Rajshahi, he heard Radhika Mohan and, as a gesture of his appreciation of the young boy’s talent, sought Amir Khan’s permission to teach Radhika Mohan a few of his choice compositions. Many generations of Radhubabu’s students have learned some of these bandishes (compositions) from the notations made by Radhika Mohan in his voluminous ledger books in which he kept records of his lessons. This warm relationship between Amir Khan and Inayat Khan was carried over into the next generation, as Radhubabu and Vilayat Khan were close friends. There were other musical stimuli that Radhika Mohan experienced. Because of Brajendra Mohan’s interest, many concerts were held in Rajshahi, and musicians, both professional and scholarly amateurs, were frequent visitors. From one person from the latter category, Shree Bhagavan Sen, a disciple of Swami Vivekananda, Radhika Mohan received his first lessons in dhrupad singing and playing the pakhâwaj. It should be mentioned that although the court musicians were employees of the zamîndârs, Amir Khan was not always in Rajshahi nor Inayat Khan in Gauripur. They had the freedom to go and play concerts at other “courts” or in metropolitan cities, and Amir Khan would go every year to Calcutta for several months on end. During these visits he gave concerts and taught a large number of students, at least one of whom, Timir Baran, later achieved popularity as a composer and concert musician. During his visit to Calcutta in 1934, Amir Khan fell ill and passed away. Radhika Mohan, who had just matriculated from high school, rushed over to Calcutta upon hearing that his ustad was ailing, but by the time he arrived, the ustad had already been buried. More heartbreakingly for Radhika Mohan, the ustad’s instrument, which had belonged to the 19th-century sarodiya Murad Ali Khan (Amir Khan’s grandfather) had disappeared! It would be many years before Radhubabu would recover this ancient and beautiful instrument. One of his most distinguished disciples, Buddhadev Dasgupta, played on this instrument for the first 6 years of his musical career. When Amir Khan passed away, Radhika Mohan faced the difficult decision of how to further his musical education and training. The two great contemporary masters of the sarod lived far away in Central India. Although both of them had met Radhika Mohan during their visits to Rajshahi, neither had heard him play the sarod. As far as they were concerned Radhika Mohan was just the eldest son of the zamîndâr of Rajshahi. When Radhika Mohan visited them individually, expressing a desire to become a disciple, they treated him very graciously; they addressed him as “Radhubabu” in deference to his feudal status, but neither seemed to be interested in teaching him. One of them suggested that Radhubabu learn from a Calcutta-based student of his, since this would obviate
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the necessity of long journeys. The other maestro told him that he first needed to have an accurate idea of the annual income of the Rajshahi estate so that an appropriate scale of nazrâna (remuneration) could be determined. The young Radhubabu was no fool and simply made polite noises and left. After coming back to Calcutta, for he had now joined Presidency College, he sought the advice of many people and finally decided to become a disciple of Mohammed Dabir Khan, a veena player of the Seniya gharâna (school) who was a direct descendant of Tansen, the court musician in Akbar’s durbar. Radhubabu studied âlâp, dhrupad, dhamâr and, later, the technique of sursringâr from Dabir Khan for more than twelve years. Radhubabu’s musical career now began to develop in unexpected ways, quite independently of his formal tâlîm (training) under Dabir Khan, simply because he was now living in a major metropolitan city. It might be useful at this point to pause and give a brief thumbnail sketch of the ambience of Hindustani music in Calcutta at this time.
Calcutta in the 1930s Calcutta was culturally and intellectually a vibrant city. Rabindranath Tagore and Chandrasekhara Venkata Raman, the first two Indian Nobel laureates, had been based in Calcutta, and the intelligentsia had become aware of the enormous possibilities that would open up upon doing work that met the highest international standards. However, Hindustani music was not yet regarded as “high art,” perhaps because of its association with the decadent lifestyle of the last Nawab of Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah, who lived on the outskirts of the city in the last years of his life. Cultivation of classical music was confined to the mansions of the landed gentry (zamîndârs like the Tagores) and the newly rich business houses (like the Mallicks of “Marble Palace” fame). What music flourished outside these aristocratic premises was scattered in enclaves of Muslim neighborhoods like Matia Burj, where the musicians who were part of Wajid Ali Shah’s entourage had taken up lodgings after the Nawab’s death in 1887. Amir Khan would stay in such a neighborhood during his visits to Calcutta. Most importantly, the middle classes did not in any significant fashion involve themselves with Hindustani music. The case of D. T. Joshi, a young boy from an upper-middle-class family, who was to become a close friend of Radhubabu, illustrates the situation poignantly. Joshi got interested in music because he used to go past a sitar-maker’s shop on his way to and from school. He started learning sitar from the only teacher who was available—the owner of the shop. One day he was introduced by his sitar-maker-cum-teacher to a man who the sitar maker said was the best sitarist alive. The young boy Joshi innocently asked this gentleman if he could play jhâlâ, a technique the shopkeeper refused to teach
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him! The gentleman smiled and invited Joshi to come to a concert he was giving that evening. “Joshiji” would later say that his whole life changed when he heard Inayat Khan that evening. Joshiji went on to become one of the most favored and distinguished students of Inayat Khan (who appreciated that Joshiji, from the reformist Brahma Samaj sect, would accept snacks at his house, while his other Hindu students would politely decline for fear of polluting themselves). I have recounted this incident to bring home the point that classical music was an esoteric and “forbidden art.” In Calcutta at that time a college student from an upper-middle-class family could order books from Heffer’s of Cambridge or Blackwell’s of Oxford, but could find a good sitar teacher only through the unlikeliest of coincidences. Radhubabu’s first concert in Calcutta also is illustrative of the ambience in which Hindustani music was practiced in those days. Radhubabu had been invited by a member of the famous Ganguly family to play in an evening concert where two other Ganguly family members, Shyam (on the sarod) and Hirendranath (on the tabla), would be performing. When the concert ended and Radhubabu was about to leave the venue, he was greeted loudly by a fellow who looked like a ruffian, but who congratulated him for playing a concert worthy of a disciple of Ustad Amir Khan. The man explained that when Amir Khan came to Calcutta, he lived in the same neighborhood, and that he regarded Amir Khan “like my own ustad.” So he had brought along his “comrades” to make sure that Radhubabu was not heckled by the followers of a rival sarod maestro from whom Shyam Ganguly was then learning! It is my conviction that this encounter made a very deep and negative impression upon the young Radhubabu. He never quite overcame his distaste for the concert scene in Calcutta and much preferred the more scholarly and genteel Marathi Brahmin audiences he encountered in Maharashtra. Radhubabu’s musical horizons were widening all the time. He recorded a few short pieces for the Megaphone Company of India in 1936; these 78 RPM recordings show that already he was trying to break new ground as far as the idiom of the sarod was concerned. (Two of these recordings can be heard on the Internet; see the Appendix.) Features like tâns modeled upon khyâl, which he would not have learned from Dabir Khan, were showing brief glimpses. Clearly the more eclectic variety of music he was now hearing was influencing him. Soon he started broadcasting over the newly established Calcutta station of the All India Radio, and people in other places started taking notice. Apparently the great Allauddin Khan once called his son Ali Akbar and daughter Annapurna over to the radio and chided them with words to the effect, “See how a zamîndâr’s son plays diri-diri [a typical set of sarod strokes]; surely you ought to be much better than him!” The two maestros who had turned him away started to send outfeelers to Radhubabu that all he needed to do now is come and get a “final
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coat of polish,” as both of them were more than eager to have him in their stable of disciples. In 1937, Radhubabu decided to enter a music competition sponsored by the All India Music Conference of Allahabad. Not only was he judged the best sarod player, but the best competitor in all sections and invited to give a recital during the Conference. In fact he got further exposure when Allauddin Khan, who was scheduled to play with his son Ali Akbar Khan, asked Radhubabu to accompany him since Ali Akbar was indisposed. In those days the musicians who participated in this Conference were housed in large and elaborately furnished tents by the riverside: one tent to each artist and throughout the day musicians would visit one another chatting, gossiping, and interacting cordially. So Radhubabu became known to almost all the contemporary music stalwarts not just as the son of a zamîndâr, but as a talented young sarod player who could hold his own among professional musicians. Radhubabu had arrived (see Figure 1)!
Figure 1. Radhika Mohan Maitra early in his career.
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Radhubabu in His Prime In 1939, Radhubabu was studying for a Master’s degree in Philosophy at Calcutta University and also enrolled in the University College of Law preparing for a Bachelor’s degree in Law. He was living in Calcutta in a modest lodging house for men. This was because Brajendra Mohan stubbornly refused to acquire property in Calcutta for fear that his children would lose touch with Rajshahi, leading to the neglect of the estate, particularly the temple of the family deity. Radhubabu would return to Rajshahi whenever the University was in recess and for special occasions, most notably, the annual meeting of the Aashaaray Club, an informal gathering of friends of the Maitra family who celebrated the onset of the monsoons in the month of Âshâr (the middle of June) by holding a musical soiree, generally lasting all night, for which only the very distinguished of musicians would be invited to perform. Around this time he went through an unusually fecund period of “composing activity.” Many of his best bandishes stem from the years 1939 to 1942. Some of them soon entered the corpus of what are called purânî chîz or anonymous “traditional items.” One of the reasons for this misconception (apart from the quality of the compositions) was that many of them were played in concerts by Vilayat Khan. It is worth pointing out that usually Hindustani musicians play compositions from other gharânas only if the compositions are 75 to 100 years old. But Radhubabu and Vilayat Khan had come to an agreement that they would freely perform bandishes from one another’s repertoire.
Radhubabu as a Teacher Because Radhubabu’s social credentials were impeccable, he began to attract a large number of students from genteel Bengali families, some of them chronologically many years his senior. One such “older student,” the late Anil Roy Chaudhuri, became a self-appointed amanuensis and started making notations of Radhubabu’s compositions, and later extended this to notating the traditional bandishes of Amir Khan and what Radhubabu would consider appropriate embellishments (tâns) for these bandishes. These notations, preserved in huge ledger books, were to become the basis of Radhubabu’s method of teaching his disciples. Once the new student had learned how to hold and tune the instrument and to play the basic scales, each lesson would begin with Radhubabu asking the student to copy from the appropriate ledger the bandish of a particular râg and some tâns which he would specify by their number in the ledger. After the lesson had been copied Radhubabu would show the student how to execute the various musical phrases, if necessary, by playing them himself. This might sound like an assembly-line approach to teaching what is an “ancient musical tradition,” but it was an extremely effective method. In mastering these rote exercises, his students would not only develop technical skills but also subliminally acquire
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“good musical taste.” This perhaps accounts for the fact that Radhubabu produced dozens of sitar and sarod students who, even if they were not brilliant concert performers, were capable of giving a satisfactory rendering of a basic corpus of 30 or 40 râgs and, most importantly, were capable of imparting their own knowledge and skills to a new generation of students.
Radhubabu and Calcutta in the 1940s In the late 1930s and early 1940s, Hindustani music was entering a “golden age.” In 1939, the organizers of the All Bengal Music Conference faced a peculiar dilemma: a sârangi player who regularly accompanied the great thumri and ghazal singer Begum Akhtar requested an hour or so of time to present his own vocal recital! He claimed to be descended from a legendary 19th-century vocalist who had never given public concerts in Calcutta. After some hesitation, they gave him a slot during a usually sparsely attended afternoon session and were rewarded by a magnificent rendering of râg Shuddh Sârang; this was the first public concert given by Bade Ghulam Ali Khan! In 1940, Ravi Shankar gave his first concert in Calcutta, soon to be followed by Ali Akbar Khan and Vilayat Khan. The emergence of these four “debutantes” marked the beginning of a new era. Let us return to Radhubabu’s story. After completing his education Radhubabu returned to Rajshahi and took up a position as Lecturer in the Philosophy Department of Rajshahi College. Lecturing, however, was not his cup of tea. Perhaps to alleviate the boredom of life in Rajshahi, Radhubabu decided to contest the municipal elections in Rajshahi as a candidate of the Congress party. He won the election easily, but more importantly, this foray into politics led to the acquisition of his most illustrious disciple. In 1942, a new civil servant, P. M. Dasgupta had come to Rajshahi to oversee the administration on behalf of the government. This new officer was an amateur musician and wished to get to know Radhubabu. However, being a civil servant of the British administration he felt it would not be proper for him to visit the local zamîndâr; after all, part of his job was to oversee the activities of the feudal tax collector. Through an intermediary, he sent invitations to Radhubabu to visit his home and play, but Radhubabu, being a Congress party supporter, refused to visit a “British agent.” However, during the election campaign, the proprietor of a business enterprise, who could influence a large number of employees, agreed to bring a substantial block of votes to Radhubabu if Radhubabu would help him get an extra quota of sugar (this was during World War II, and sugar was rigidly rationed). So Radhubabu agreed to visit the government official and play for him. Not only did the official grant the quota of sugar Radhubabu was looking for, but Dasgupta became a close friend and his son Buddhadev became a disciple in 1943. Since it was difficult to get hold of a new sarod in Rajshahi, Radhubabu
188 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 loaned this new student the sarod that had belonged to Amir Khan. It was only 6 years later when Buddhadev started his training as an engineer that he acquired his own instrument and returned the ancient heirloom to Radhubabu. In July 1944, Radhubabu married Lalita Chaudhuri, a lady from the “royal family” of Sushang. The occasion was marked by great festivities in Rajshahi. A significant little incident bears mention. In Bengal weddings are always associated with shehnai: usually, at the entrance of the house a small raised platform (the nahobat) is constructed where a team of shehnai players sits and for each stage of the proceedings renders appropriate râgs. Of course, such an arrangement had been made in the Rajshahi palace, but to the consternation of the Maitra household, Ustad Bismillah Khan, who had been invited to participate at a soirée due to be held later, insisted on ascending the platform to do the “shehnai players’ job”! He even paid off the local musician who had been hired to play the shehnai, saying that for the occasion of his friend’s wedding he would not concede the right to perform nahobat to anyone else! Sadly this was the last great festive occasion celebrated in Rajshahi: three years later with Independence (referred to in Bengal as Partition) the entire fabric of Radhubabu’s life was torn apart.
Radhubabu Turns Professional After Partition Radhubabu moved to Calcutta: he realized that there was no future for him in Rajshahi even though his father, Brajendra Mohan, clung to his life in the old estate there. Because no property had been acquired in Calcutta, Radhubabu faced the prospect of life without the support of his ancestral riches. He started practicing law in the courts in Calcutta as an advocate. His degree in law entitled him to do this, but interlocutory practice was an activity he disliked even more than teaching at Rajshahi College. Gradually he realized that the only course open to him was to become a professional musician, and, for the first time, he began to charge fees for teaching music and performing in concerts. The instinct of being a patron, however, did not go away completely. With his friend the great tabla player Jnan (Gyan) Prakash Ghosh, he started a music club where members paid a monthly fee and could attend concerts held at Jnan Prakash’s home in an atmosphere that approximated the ambience of a zamîndâr’s music room. Because the organizers were respected musicians and most of the audience true aficionados, most performers would rise to great heights in the concerts they gave at the Jhankar Music Circle. This institution survived almost unchanged until the middle of the 1960s but, thereafter, changed character when a more “forward-looking” management took over the running of the club. Such an organization cannot exist in the present day, since monthly subscriptions of a few dozen music lovers will not suffice to cover the fees of even a moderately rated professional musician.
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In the 1950s, Hindustani Music received a new impetus from an unlikely source—the Government of India. After India’s first general elections in 1952, the Cabinet minister in charge of Information and Broadcasting was a music lover and Sanskrit scholar, B. V. Keskar. He had a somewhat grandiose vision of making classical music the choice of the masses and Sanskrit a language that everyone in India would use. He started a new initiative of special broadcasts of classical music over All India Radio, including the weekly Saturday night National Programme of Music and annual Radio Sangeet Sammelans (Music Conferences) held in various centers around India. Although most of Keskar’s other ideas, like the banning of Bollywood music and the harmonium from All India Radio, have been discontinued, the National Programmes and Radio Sangeet Sammelans have endured. In particular, the National Programmes played a very important role by bringing almost instant national recognition to several fine musicians who, while highly regarded in their own regions, were not known to the public all over India. Among the musicians who benefited from such exposure were Radhubabu and a host of Marathi musicians such as singer/violinist Gajanan Rao Joshi. Within 6 months of Radhubabu’s first National Programme he was invited to perform in Bombay, Amravati, Nagpur (in Maharashtra), and in places like Indore and Gwalior in Madhya Pradesh. Such invitations continued almost throughout his professional career, and as has been explained, Radhubabu felt more at ease among the audiences in Western India and probably gave a better account of himself at such venues. There was a tradition in Maharashtra of listening to a single artist for a whole night. As the performer for the soirée would sit down, the senior members of the audience would declare, “We will only go after listening to Bhairavi,” meaning that he was obliged to play until early the next morning, when Bhairavi could finally be rendered. To lessen the burden of playing all night, on these journeys Radhubabu often took with him young disciples like Buddhadev Dasgupta, sitarist Arun Chatterjee, or myself. He also on a few occasions took with him young promising tabla players like Shankar Ghosh and Shyamal Bose as accompanists. Thus, not only did Radhubabu make his own music known but also gave currency to the “Calcutta style” of tabla playing. This style came to dominate the music scene in the 1960s and 1970s because both Ali Akbar Khan and Ravi Shankar used representatives of this style for accompanists in many of their recordings and concert tours.
The Years of Decline By the late 1950s, Radhubabu had become an established figure in the Hindustani music scene; he was making concert appearances all over India and had a very large coterie of students. He had gotten over the trauma of Partition and was
190 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 living a comfortable upper-middle-class existence, seemingly content with his life. His parents, for the most part, lived with him, though Brajendra Mohan kept going back to Rajshahi in order to continue a legal battle seeking compensation from the Pakistani authorities for the estate he had lost. An indication of Radhubabu’s satisfaction with his life during the 1950s is that for the first time he, the arch-traditionalist, created new râgs and even a new instrument. The first of these râgs, “Lalitamanjari” (dedicated to his wife), was perhaps the finest of his creations. The singer Pandit Chinmoy Lahiri adopted this râg, contracting the name to “Lalita” (not to be confused with Lalit). Lahiri’s disciple, Parween Sultana, recorded this in one of her early LPs and thus preserved it for posterity. I mention a few more of his melodic creations, most of which are named after his close friends. • “Madanmanjari,” named after Dr. A. V. Madangopal, an eminent ophthalmologist of Amravati. • “Chandra Malhâr,” created in honor of Dr. S. R. Chandra, who will appear in our story a little later and somewhat untypically. • “Shâhi Kânada,” created for a recital in the court of the late King Zahir Shah of Afghanistan. Starting in the early 1960s, Radhubabu turned his attention to the design of instruments. He modified a sarod, replacing the skin covering of the body by a thin piece of wood, replacing the knife-bridge of the sarod with a wider, graded javâri, as in a sitar, and christening it the “mohan veena.” In 1960, he devoted half of an All India Radio National Programme to this instrument, playing an âlâp and a short gat in Miân Malhâr. This was appropriate since the mohan veena sounded very much like a sursringâr, an instrument reserved for playing âlâp only. Why did Radhubabu create this new instrument? Perhaps he felt somewhat guilty that he never gave recitals on the sursringâr in spite of having learned it from Dabir Khan and owning a beautiful instrument which had reputedly belonged to the great Ustad Mohammad Khan. He did design a few other instruments, but these were not as successful as his experiment with the mohan veena. Radhubabu’s cup seemed to be overflowing when he bought a comfortable house in Jadavpur, one of the southern suburbs of Calcutta. For a person who “owned” an estate of several thousand square kilometers, the necessity of having to live in rented premises must have been difficult, to say the least. However, a few perceptive observers noticed an undercurrent of dissatisfaction. Radhubabu may have preferred music making to lecturing in Rajshahi College or practicing law as a means of making a living, but he never felt comfortable in his new position of a “peddler” of an art of which he had been a patron. This discomfort
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strongly influenced his attitudes toward the music world and led to a gradual deterioration of his “market appeal.” He never approached any of the organizers in Calcutta to ask them to feature him in concerts they arranged and, indeed, was often hostile toward them when they met him to negotiate terms. Further, he never learned the artifices of playing to the galleries. If asked in concerts to play in a lighter vein (thumris or dhuns), he would acquiesce, but on such occasions gave the impression of being bored. This was particularly true when he was playing in Calcutta, his home base. As a result, though his appeal remained strong in Northern and Western India, his appearances in Calcutta became less frequent. Though he never mentioned any such feelings, the fact that during the busy “music conference season” in Calcutta he would perform only occasionally must have been galling. A steep decline began when one afternoon while on his way to teach a student, his car was hit by a truck and Radhubabu suffered substantial injuries, including broken ribs, a fractured collar bone, and a dislocated shoulder. Fortunately one of the best orthopedic surgeons in India, the late Dr. S. R. Chandra, was a personal friend, and he received first-rate care and made a complete recovery in about six months. But the accident meant that he had to forego all concert engagements, particularly those out of town. So music organizers all over India got to know that Radhubabu had suffered grievous injuries, but not that he had recovered completely! Radhubabu prepared very carefully for the first concert he broadcasted after his accident. It was a truly memorable performance: Shankar Ghosh recounted that he listened to the late-night rendering of râg Chhâyâ Bihâg in the company of Ali Akbar Khan, who remarked that he had not heard Radhubabu in such a lyrical mood for a very long time! Radhubabu was hoping that the Radio Sangeet Sammelan concert in November of 1962 would help restore his national reputation anew, but the entire series of concerts was canceled when the Sino-Indian border dispute led to a short but disastrous war in October. Naturally 1963 and 1964 were somewhat lean years. Another setback came when the Radio Sangeet Sammelan was canceled in 1965 because of the Indo-Pakistan war. His concert appearances dropped sharply from this point. During this time there were other disappointments: one of his senior disciples, Nemai Chand Dhar, passed away at an early age. I myself, another one of his favorite disciples, went abroad to pursue an academic career. My own style was perhaps closest to his, and Radhubabu’s mother often mistook my playing for her son’s. So while Radhubabu was happy about my scholastic achievements, he was sorry to see me go away. In 1967, his mother, to whom he was very close, died and perhaps his most loving and stern critic was no more. By this time the first generation of bureaucrats who had controlled All India Radio and had brought Radhubabu into the limelight were being replaced by new faces, and Radhubabu, of course, made little effort to cultivate a personal relationship with
192 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 these new “baboos.” As a result his National Programme broadcasts declined in frequency and his market shrank even further. By the early 1970s, Radhubabu had become somewhat bitter about the small measure of recognition he was receiving. Even the prestigious Sangeet Natak Akademi award in 1972 failed to revive his spirits substantially. Early in 1973, his wife, who had been ailing from a cardiac problem for many years, finally passed away. This was followed by the untimely death of his dear friend (and my father), Justice A. K. Mukherjea. At that time Radhubabu wrote to my mother that he felt alone in the world and no longer felt enthused about music. In 1976, to the astonishment of everyone present, just after finishing a concert in Calcutta, Radhubabu announced that he was retiring from the professional arena. He then proceeded to unwrap a package from which appeared a set of printed sheets that he distributed to the audience. In these sheets was an explanation, using wittily composed rhymed quatrains, of the conditions under which he would perform in the future. He explained that he would stop all broadcasting activities and would only play in small private gatherings of those who were interested in his music. Some months later when he was asked to explain the reasons behind his retirement, he said that he no longer felt like continuing with the rigorous schedule of riyâz (practice) that is essential to maintain one’s skill levels. He said that this was particularly so since there were anyway few takers for his austere variety of music. Retirement turned out to be a disastrous error of judgment for two contradictory reasons. Radhubabu, who was famously disinterested in “pleasing mass audiences,” had nevertheless become addicted to the attention he received as a performer and soon began to crave this “high.” As a result he went back on his promise not to give public concerts. Whenever requested by individuals, like Amjad Ali Khan, for whom he had a particular fondness, he would oblige. But he was no longer the technical virtuoso he once had been and these reappearances did little to enhance his reputation. On the other hand, when he played for the smaller audiences he had in mind in his retirement statement, he showed a far mellower aspect of his musical personality; most listeners felt that if he had adopted such an approach during his professional heyday, he would probably never have experienced the feeling of neglect that led to his retirement. Ironically the people of Calcutta at last woke up to the fact that a remarkable musical personality had been living in their midst. The matinee idol of Bengal, the late Uttam Kumar, organized a civic reception for him and many other organizations honored him for his contributions to music in Bengal. But it was a bit too late to stem the rot. During the last years of his life he was lonely and depressed. Some of his senior disciples had moved away from him, and others, while still faithful, were making a living outside Calcutta. His daughters had married and were far away; most of his close friends had passed away or
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were themselves too frail to come and visit him. In July of 1981, a small cyst was detected on his lower back, and though Dr. Chandra, who removed it surgically, repeatedly told him that the growth was benign, Radhubabu became convinced that his “time was up.” One morning in the first week of September, his brother found him lying bleeding and unconscious at the door connecting his bedroom and bathroom. He had evidently taken a fall during the night and suffered a concussion. A scan revealed serious hemorrhaging in the brain. He was operated upon but although he recovered consciousness and was soon speaking coherently, his condition slowly deteriorated and he passed away on October 15, 1981. The neurosurgeon who had treated Radhubabu ruefully told Radhubabu’s daughter that his patient would certainly have survived had he not lost the will to live.
Acknowledgments This essay is based upon my recollection of conversations with Radhubabu and some of his closest friends. I have checked the biographical details with Radhubabu’s daughter, Ms. Sudeshna Bagchibut; of course, any errors are solely my responsibility. My disciple and friend Peter Manuel helped format this essay for publication.
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Appendix: Some Aspects of the Music of Radhika Mohan Maitra By Kalyan Mukherjea (with Peter Manuel) Radhika Mohan Maitra had imbibed a vast store of music from his three main teachers: Amir Khan, Inayat Khan, and Dabir Khan. These maestros represented three different and important streams of musical traditions: the rabâbi style of Murad Ali Khan, the Imdad Khani tradition of sitar, and the Seniya tradition of bîn playing and dhrupad singing. Two other musicians whose influence he freely acknowledged were Hafiz Ali Khan (father of the present-day sarodiya, Amjad Ali Khan) and the vocalist Fayyaz Khan of the Agra gharâna. From these major streams of musical thought, coupled with Radhubabu’s analytical temperament, what emerged were the beginnings of the contemporary style of sarod playing. This has found its greatest artistic expression in the music of Ali Akbar Khan and its greatest technical perfection in the playing of Amjad Ali Khan (see Figure 2). Unfortunately, none of Radhubabu’s recordings is commercially available, although two short recordings made in 1936, of râgs Todi and Kâfi, can presently be heard at these websites: http://www.itcsra.org/audio/instrumental/sarod/ radhikamohanmoitra_todi.ram, and http://www.itcsra.org/audio/instrumental/ sarod/radhikamohanmoitra_kafi.ram. The piece in Kâfî, especially the treatment of the upper tetrachord, is fairly obviously inspired by the thumri style renditions of this râg in the upper tetrachord. Listeners will note in the Todi the presence of single-note ekhâra tâns, which were generally uncharacteristic of sarod playing at that time. Another important new feature in Radhubabu’s music, and audible on these recordings, was the use of mînd to approximate the vocal melismas typical of the khyâl style. Further hints of Radhubabu’s style can be gleaned from the playing of his students Buddhadev Dasgupta and Kalyan Mukherjea, both of whom, among other things, further developed the technique of ekhâra tâns. Kalyan Mukherjea’s CD on the India Archive label (IAM CD 1062) presents Shuddh Kalyân and Shukla Bilâval, one of the many râgs in Radhubabu’s repertoire that are now seldom heard. Buddhadev Dasgupta devotes his entire CD on the same label (IAM CD 1038) to a rendering of Chhâyâ, an otherwise obscure râg that was a chestnut of Radhubabu’s. Readers may also visit the website http://www.myspace.com/sarodarnab, in which Arnab Chakrabarty, another fine exponent of Radhubabu’s style, performs some gats and rote pedagogical tâns of Radhubabu, as taught to him by Mukherjea. One feature of Radhubabu’s music that sadly is lost is the vast repertoire of râgs that he regularly performed. Radhubabu represented the most rigorous sort of râg erudition in an age before cassette culture and the vogue of learning
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Figure 2. Genealogy of Radhika Mohan Maitra and related sarod players.
primarily from “Ustad TDK Khan.” In particular, he was a great exponent of the Bilâval group of râgs—a group notorious for having many râgs that are distinguished from one another by very subtle shades of emphasis involving a few notes. The various private recordings still available include such variations as Alhaiya Bilâval, Devgirî Bilâval, Shukla Bilâval, Nat Bilâval, and Hamîr Bilâval. Other lesser-known ragas that Radhubabu played with great verve include Chhâya, Chhâyanat, Chhâya-bihâg, Sûr Mallâr, Nat Bilâwal, Pânchmukhi Bhairav, Shuddh Nat, Basanti Kalyân, Harsringâr, Zila, Sâzgiri, Huseni Kânada, Bhairav Bahâr, Shyâm Kedâr, Bibhâs of Bilâwal thât, and Malhar family râgs like Surdâsi, Dhuliya, and Rupamanjari. He had taught much of this vast repertoire to his senior students, who have kept up the tradition to the best of their abilities. Although Hindustani music has remained vital in many ways over the last
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Figure 3. Gat in râg Desh, tîntâl.
half century, the shrinking of repertoire represented by the near disappearance of these and other râgs constitutes a lamentable impoverishment. Besides these scholarly features, Radhubabu was a very prolific composer of bandishes, several of which were played by sarod and sitar players from other gharânas. Many of his gats are tuneful and unique, while often containing artful syncopations. Three of these are shown in Figures 3–5. The first (see Figure 3), an extended gat in râg Desh in tîntâl, comprises a sthâî of two cycles and an antara of essentially three and a half cycles. Like many of Radhubabu’s gats in tîntâl, it illustrates his fondness for syncopated passages suggesting triple meter,
Figure 4. Gat in râg Todi, tîntâl.
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Figure 5. Gat in râg Tilak Kâmod, jhaptâl. which then resolve artfully to the sam or downbeat. In this case the syncopation comes in the penultimate line, where four 3–beat phrases duplicated in different octaves segue smoothly to a cadential ascent to the high tonic, followed by the return to the sthâî. The second gat (see Figure 4), in rag Mian ki Todi, comprises a sthâî spanning three cycles. (In performance, the mukhra or opening phrase of the sthâî could simply be repeated.) This bandish is rendered as Kalyan Mukherjea learned it in the early 1960s. It differs slightly from Radhubabu’s 1936 aforementioned recording, and Manuel had been taught yet another version by Nikhil Banerjee, who cited what he taught as a good example of Gujri Todi. We mention these variants as a pointer to how oral traditions evolve through the passage of time— even in the hands of a single musician. Ternary syncopation again appears, here in the four 3–beat phrases following the first sam (in the top line). The mukhra itself is in conventional instrumental “tantrakari” style. (While the G [or pancham] in the last line identifies the rag as Mian ki Todi, the gat could also be rendered as Gujri Todi by omitting that note, as was taught to Manuel. In the recording of this gat on the website cited above, the pancham is only hinted at in the gat and appears only once in the subsequent improvisations.) The third gat is in rag Tilak Kâmod (see Figure 5), in medium-tempo jhaptâl (10 beats).
Book Reviews
Music and Society in South Asia: Perspectives from Japan. Senri Ethnological Studies 71. Yoshitaka Terada, editor. Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 2008. 281 pp. As the field of ethnomusicology has blossomed within Japan over the last several decades, South Asian music has emerged as among the most popular nonindigenous areas of research. This is perhaps unsurprising, given the important place of South Asian music in the writings of the influential ethnomusicologist Fumio Koizumi (1927–1983), who inspired or oversaw much of the research collected in this volume. Music and Society in South Asia: Perspectives from Japan represents the first opportunity for English-language scholars to appreciate the work of their Japanese colleagues, several of whom have been conducting research in South Asia for over three decades. Yoshitaka Terada must be commended for organizing the inter-university study group (2000–2002) out of which the papers in this volume were selected, and for assembling a volume that offers a broad range of topics and approaches. One of Terada’s primary objectives for the study group (and one that he self-reflexively connected to his U.S.–based training in ethnomusicology) was to encourage anthropological and musicological exchanges among Japanese scholars. Sadly, few of the articles achieve a synthesis in this regard; most continue to follow clearly delineated disciplinary pathways, favoring purely text-centered, context-centered, or performance-centered approaches. Nonetheless, specialists in many areas will find something of value here, as there is a near-equal representation of art, devotional, mass-mediated, and localized musical systems coming from North and South India. The first of four sections in this volume, entitled “Song Texts,” begins with Shibuya Toshio’s article “Popular Music and Social Changes in Sri Lanka.” Shibuya traces the influence of two popular music genres—Baile, an amalgamation of east African, colonial Portuguese, and indigenous working-class influences, and Saralagee, a 20th-century, middle-class product combining Western pop and Indian classical music influences—on Sri Lankan nationalist politics over the latter half of the 20th century. Shibuya offers translations of representative songs and short biographies of some of the most influential recording artists since the 1970s. While the connections between singers and the complex political environment of Sri Lanka is made clear, the ways in which these particular © 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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songs have been used as political weapons is not explored, weakening his claim that certain songs have “agitated insurrections” and “caused unprecedented repercussion of the loss of thousands of human lives” (34). Yuko Yagi’s short article, “Women, Abuse Songs and Erotic Dances: Marriage Ceremonies in Northern India,” examines abuse songs performed at Yadav wedding rituals in Azamgarh, western Uttar Pradesh. Yagi provides an overview of the ceremonies and translates several song texts, but makes little attempt to understand local interpretations of the songs’ meanings. For example, during the byah portion of the wedding, when the bridegroom’s party visits the bride’s village, the bridegroom is given a plate of khicri (rice and daal mixture); if he is not satisfied with the dahej (dowry), he may eat slowly and deliberately. While he is eating, the bride’s female relatives sing songs extolling him to eat quickly and ridiculing him for his demands. For Yagi, these songs effect a temporary reversal of status between wife-givers and wife-takers (42); it is just as likely, however, that these songs reinforce status differences between the families by publicly revealing the often contentious negotiation of dowry items. The “erotic dancing” promised in the title is neither described nor analyzed. Yagi moves too quickly from data to generalizations, leaving the reader guessing at the layers of meaning underlying these ritualized performances. Missing in each of these first two articles, as Terada notes in the Introduction, is a consideration of musical sound as a semiotic medium over and above song texts. The second section, “Religion and Music,” contains the most original and substantial research in the volume. Masataka Suzuki’s “Bhuta and Daiva: Changing Cosmology of Rituals and Narratives in Karnataka” offers more ethnographic detail on sociocultural, historical, performative, ritual-cosmological, and political issues than one finds in many full-length monographs. Suzuki explores the hierarchical positions and shifts in status among sacred beings (Deva, Daiva, Bhuta, Preta) and human beings (especially middle-caste Patri and lower-caste Pambada). Using paddanas (trance-inducing narrative invocations) as a primary source of information, Suzuki summarizes the popular epic of Ullalthi and the Ajwar brothers. His interpretation of this epic insightfully weaves together geographic and social-historical knowledge of the region, revealing “a fluid complex of Jain, Hindu, and folk beliefs.” Finally, he provides a detailed description of the ritual performances that take place around the Balthila harvest festivals, patronized by the Prabhu family, descendants of Konkani migrants to the region. Despite the richness of the material, there were several drawbacks: the complete neglect of sound, the sheer density of the information presented, and the overuse of indigenous terminology, making the prose rather difficult to follow in some places. Takako Tanaka’s “The Samaj-gayan Tradition: Transmitting a Musico-Religious System in North India,” introduces the four sects that currently maintain this
200 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 antiphonal, congregational practice of devotional singing in the Braj region of North India: the Haridas sect, the Nimbarka sect, the Radhavallabha sect, and the Caitanya (or Gaudiya) sect. Tanaka analyzes Samaj-gayan performances at the Bhattji temple of the Caitanya sect in Vrindaban, describing the relationship of the song repertoire to the ritual calendar, to Krishna’s life narratives, to the physical temple space, and to the printed anthologies of texts. The emphasis of the musical analysis is on understanding the complex form of these renditions: using a series of charts, Tanaka demonstrates the chainlike (srinkhla) sequences of verses and melodies, lines and stanzas, slow and fast sections, and call-andresponse parts (mukhiya/jhela). She concludes that “this is far from improvisation,” and that the notated verses are “recomposed into a totally new composition of Krishna lilas,” but her explanation overlooks the improvisatory aspects that inform other aspects of performance (e.g., phrase repetitions between mukhiya and jhela, melodic and rhythmic variations). Takako Inoue’s “Between Art and Religion: Bhagavata Mela in Thanjavur” is a richly detailed ethnography of this Telugu dance-drama tradition performed exclusively by bhagavatas, or Brahmin male actors. After discussing the written history of this art form and its relationship to neighboring dance-drama traditions in Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, Inoue summarizes the central ritual narrative of Narasimha, the man-lion avatar of Vishnu. With impressive detail, Inoue explores the history of patronage and performance practice in each of the three villages where Bhagavata Mela is currently presented: Melattur, Saliyamangalam, and Tepperumanallur. Although a treatment of musical elements is (once again) lacking, numerous photographs and descriptive prose demonstrate the variety of performance strategies employed by different, and in some cases, competing, drama troupes. In the conclusion, Inoue offers several reasons for the late 19th and early 20th-century decline of Bhagavata Mela: the decline of Nayaka and Maratha patrons, the rise of Tamil-language art forms, the resistance to allowing non-bhagavatas to perform, and the ideological association of Bhagavata Mela with religious performance distinct from artistic performance. From this reader’s perspective, an even more interesting question, but one that receives less attention in this article, is how and why these three village communities have come to function as nodes in the late 20th-century revival of this tradition. The third section of the volume deals with “Classical Music Traditions.” Yuko Matoba’s “Flexibility in Karnatic Music: A Comparative Analysis of Maha Ganapatim” sets up the challenging task of accounting for variation and flexibility in Karnataka music by comparing ten interpretations of Muttuswamy Dikshitar’s well-known kriti performed by ten different vocalists and instrumentalists. Matoba very usefully takes apart the kriti phrase by phrase, presenting the ten versions in sargam notation on tables, and thereby exposing both the
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subtle and not-so-subtle discrepancies in gamaka (embellishment) and rhythmic and melodic phrasing. Unfortunately, no interpretation of these discrepancies follows. Matoba simply calls attention to the use of sangatis, rather than noting how some sections of the composition are more or less flexibly rendered than others, or how different phrasings relate to the technical capabilities of a given performer’s instrument, or to their specific lineage and personal style. In a later section, she compares three different versions of Maha Ganapatim played by S. Shashank, yet here too an adequate interpretation of the discrepancies between performances is lacking. (One wishes, at the very least, that the author had asked Shashank why he introduced variations at particular places.) Confusingly, a discussion of the structure of Nata ragam is offered after the exposition of all of these kriti variations. Six printed and handwritten notations of this kriti are collected from the interpreters and offered in the appendix; unfortunately, these are compared neither to each other, nor to the interpretations in any meaningful way. Ultimately one is left feeling exasperated with this article precisely because it offers so many innovative methodologies for approaching the issue of musical flexibility, but fails to follow through with analysis. Masakazu Tamori’s “The Transformation of Sarod Gharana: Transmitting Musical Property in Hindustani Music” is a study of kinship patterns and gurudisciple relations within and between the Lucknow and Shajahanpur sarod gharanas. The beginning and end of the article rehash arguments discussed elsewhere by Joan Erdman, Daniel Neuman, Naomi Owens, James Kippen, and Allyn Miner regarding the social organization of Hindustani musicians and the demise of the gharana system in the postindependence period. According to Tamori, these scholars’ earlier studies “do not reveal how the gharanas were formed through the combination of marriage relationships and masterdisciple relationship, and also how their musical properties were maintained and transmitted” (170), a claim that some of these authors might dispute (e.g., see Neuman 1980, 96–103). Tamori’s study is nevertheless valuable for showing that each of these gharanas was composed of two branches related through patrilineal cross-cousin marriage, wherein both brides and “musical property” consistently flowed from one branch to the other. Tamori also demonstrates that the relationship between the two gharanas was maintained through matrilineal crosscousin marriage (with brides and musical property transferred from Lucknow to Shajahanpur), allowing for “a wider social union” (194). Tamori provides little information about the “musical property” transmitted through these marriage alliances except to say that they consisted of compositions (bandish). Nevertheless, her analysis of social relations is clearly based on extensive interviews with both gharanedars and a cross-section of disciples, and her findings should be of considerable interest to Hindustani music historians.
202 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Yoshitaka Terada’s article, “Tamil Isai as a Challenge to Brahmanical Music Culture in South India,” resembles some of his earlier scholarship (e.g 2000) in examining discourses of decline and social mobility between upper- and lower-caste musician communities. He provides an overview of Tamil Isai (Tamil Music), a longstanding political and cultural movement to combat the perceived denigration of Tamil-language music and the discrimination of non-Brahman performers. Terada summarizes the responses of various Brahman musicians to this movement, and describes several radical Dalit groups that have emerged to confront what they see to be the assimilationist approach of the Tamil Isai leadership. Terada insightfully calls attention to the fact that many South Indian Brahmans feel disenfranchised in contemporary society, and that classical music and dance represent a last bastion of Brahmanical dominance. He concludes by highlighting the complicity of many non-Indian scholars in constructing the hegemonic narrative of the glorious Brahmanical past of Karnataka music, noting that most foreign scholars have tended to associate with institutions with internalized Brahman perspectives, like the Music Academy and Madras University. The final section of the volume, “Theater, Cinema, and Dance Sculpture,” is also the weakest. While these subjects would seemingly offer ample opportunity to discuss musical relationships across artistic media, there is once again no discussion of musical sound whatsoever, and one wonders why these articles were included at all. Yoshio Sugimoto’s “‘Boys Be Ambitious’: Popular Theatre, Popular Cinema, and Tamil Nationalism” travels a well-worn path of discussing the decline of “classical Hindu theater” during the period of Mughal dominance, followed by the introduction of Parsi theater in 19th-century Bombay and Pune, leading to the formation of a distinctively “hybrid” 20th-century Indian popular theater. No original research is evident, with the author drawing heavily upon the arguments of Baskaran (1981) to describe the overlapping functions of the stage and the cinema in the early 20th-century Tamil Nadu. He elaborates at some length upon the role of Boys’ Companies, which became the training ground for many politicians in Tamil Nadu, including N. S. Krishnan, Kamala Hassan, M. G. Ramachandran, M. K. Radha, P. U. Chinnappa, and Karunanidhi. Tamaki Matsuoka has worked as a film promoter in Japan for over twentyfive years, and her article, “Asia to Watch, Asia to Present: The Promotion of Asian/Indian Cinema in Japan,” is a mostly personal reflection on the reception of Indian films (and particularly the 1998 film Muthu) in Japan. She notes that the export of predominantly art films from India shaped Japanese prejudicial attitudes toward India as an essentially backward and poor country. Rather shockingly, Matsuoka concludes the article by reprimanding the “outmoded business manners of Indians,” arguing that “we should urge the Indian film industry to update its way of business.”
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Lastly, Yuko Fukuroi’s “Dancing Images in the Gopuras: A New Perspective on Dance Sculptures in South Indian Temples” proposes an “art-historical approach” to dance sculpture research as a more holistic alternative to the “iconographic symbolism” approach of Ananda Coomaraswamy, and the “dancing postures” approach of V. N. Naidu, S. Naidu, and V. R. Pantulu. Fukuroi compares the iconography on elevated tower-gates (gopura) from three late Chola period (11th to 12th centuries) temples. The bulk of his analysis consists of tables enumerating the different dance postures (karanas) used on temple sculptures. Based on the significance of gopuras as passageways between the divine and mundane realms, and based on the frequent use of salabhanjika figures representing fertility, Fukuroi concludes that the dance sculptures “remind us of the concept of creation” (274). While environmental factors certainly ought to play a role in our interpretation of artistic expression, this reader was left wondering why the author had not combined his “art-historical” approach with the aforementioned approaches; why not, for example, interpret the iconographic evidence of dance postures in relation to what we know of music and dance movements from the medieval period, or to contemporary performance practice? It is tempting to look for a national approach to ethnomusicological scholarship in a collection such as this. Terada himself asks whether there are any “unique features that may be common to those of us in Japan who are interested in South Asian performing arts”—but ultimately leaves the question open-ended (12). The variety of scholarly backgrounds, subject matter, methodologies, and quality in the work compiled precludes any easy generalizations, and yet this reader was struck by an overall attention to ethnographic detail, by the considerable fieldwork experience of most contributors, by the tightly circumscribed scope of the analyses (offering few comparative or self-reflexive insights), and by an avoidance of interdisciplinary, broadly theoretical discourse. Stefan Fiol
University of Cincinnati
References Baskaran, S. Theodore 1981 The Message Bearers: The Nationalist Politics and the Entertainment Media in South India, 1880–1945. Madras: Cre-A. Neuman, Daniel 1980 The Life of Music in North India: The Organization of an Artistic Tradition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Terada, Yoshitaka 2000 “T. N. Rajarattinam Pillai and Caste Rivalry in South Indian Classical Music.” Ethnomusicology 44(3): 460–90.
204 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 Intimate Heritage: Creating Uyghur Muqam Song in Xinjiang. Nathan Light. Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology/Halle Studies in the Anthropology of Eurasia, vol. 19. Chris Hann, Richard Rottenburg, and Burkhard Schnepel, general editors. Berlin: Lit Verlag Dr. W. Hopf, 2008. Distributed in the USA by Transaction Publishers (
[email protected]). 334 pp. Nathan Light’s Intimate Heritage: Creating Uyghur Muqam Song in Xinjiang is a dense and learned book that draws on the author’s fieldwork in Xinjiang in the early 1990s, as well as on a broad knowledge of source materials and scholarly literature in a host of languages. The title of the book notwithstanding, Light’s focus is not song per se, but the poetic texts of the Uyghur muqam songs. Light examines in detail the crucial role of song lyrics in the canonization of Uyghur muqam that has been ongoing in Chinese Xinjiang since the 1950s. As such, Light’s study complements the excellent, recently published work of Rachel Harris, whose book, The Making of a Musical Canon in Chinese Central Asia: The Uyghur Twelve Muqam, focuses on the musical forms themselves (2008). After a schematic overview of the Uyghur muqam’s historical roots and present-day performance tradition, Light proceeds to his analysis of the texts, beginning with a fine historical account of what he calls “the poetics and politics of literary Sufism.” Light’s point here is that the poets who forged the Central Asian Islamic tradition a half millennium ago and contributed to it in the ensuing centuries reveal a great deal about the cultural politics of their own time through their choice of style and syntax, language and lexicon, rhythm and meter, imagery and script. This discussion prepares the ground for Light’s central conceit: that the present-day project of textual modification and canonization in the Uyghur muqam is at root a response to an epic mismatch between the literary cosmopolitanism cum spirituality of the Central Asian poetic tradition’s progenitors and the cultural requisites of Uyghur nationhood and secular ethnicity in contemporary Xinjiang. Intimate Heritage: Creating Uyghur Muqam Song in Xinjiang takes readers inside the process through which Uyghur scholars, musicians, and politicians adapted the sprawling muqam tradition, with its diverse regional variants, Sufi-inspired texts, and intimate, improvisatory performance style to serve as an enduring public symbol of Uyghur identity. Light reports on the social and political context in which the new muqam canon has emerged and, through an in-depth portrait of one musician caught in the middle of the transformation of the muqam—an astute and articulate tradition-bearer named Ömär Akhun—brings an abstract social process into sharp focus at the level of individual practice. Custom remodeling of the past aimed at legitimating or aggrandizing presentday national, regional, or ethnic identities is of course not restricted to the
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Uyghurs. Across the Chinese border, in the post-Soviet Central Asian “stans,” cultural strategists and scholars in the employ of national ministries of culture and state research institutes burnish monuments of both tangible and intangible cultural heritage to serve as appropriate symbols of nationhood. In doing so, they face essentially the same challenge as their Uyghur counterparts: filtering and recasting the complex genealogies and cosmopolitanism of their ancestors to fit the Procrustean bed of present-day mono-ethnic national cultures. It’s easy enough to dismiss the canonizing process Light describes as a benighted consequence of politically motivated censorship and unsavory nationalism. But if you’ve ever studied the lyrics to classical Central Asian art songs, you understand the problem of trying to render them comprehensible to contemporary listeners who can’t understand macaronic couplets filled with Arabic and Persian words that are often implicated in sophisticated puns and tropes. Even singers, when pressed, turn out not always to understand the meaning of the lyrics they’re singing or, for that matter, the titles of the songs. Whatever bowdlerizing of erotic imagery and sanitizing of spiritual content may have occurred as a result of the editorial process, one could argue that it made the Uyghur literary legacy more accessible to present-day performers and audiences. Light details the complexity of the muqam text editors’ task as they tried to address the priorities of different constituencies: politicians interested in muqam as a symbol of Uyghur ethnicity; literary scholars and musicians intent on preserving authentic versions of songs; and of course Uyghur listeners themselves—presumably interested in understanding the lyrics they’re listening to. In the context of current events in Xinjiang, and the tense relations between the region’s Han Chinese majority and Uyghur minority, Light’s conclusion may seem surprising. He reports: “The Chinese state was barely present in discussions among [muqam text] editors, and although Han Chinese cultural history stimulated efforts to narrate a longer Uyghur musical history, it did not lead to anxiety over cultural influence . . . ” For better or worse, creating a canonical version of Uyghur muqam texts seems to have been essentially a Uyghur affair. For its part, Intimate Heritage doesn’t go in for bashing the Han or the machinations of the policymakers who have shaped Uyghur expressive culture within the Chinese state. And Light withholds moral judgment on the work of the Uyghur canonizers. Rather, as he states in his conclusion, he has used his analysis of muqam transformation to follow “the work of cultural power, not through criticism but by understanding its local concepts, practices and motivations.” While Light’s detailed analyses of poetic texts, interwoven with snippets of exegesis and commentary by muqam master Ömär Akhun, may at times seem plodding, they collectively provide a superb account of just these concepts, practices, and motivations. In doing so, they also cast light on the processes by
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which contemporary muqam canonizers not only culled, altered, and adapted historical texts, but transformed traditional approaches to performing and apprehending them. Theodore Levin
Dartmouth College
Reference Harris, Rachel 2008 The Making of a Musical Canon in Chinese Central Asia: The Uyghur Twelve Muqam. Burlington, VT: Ashgate.
Chinese Street Opera in Singapore. Tong Soon Lee. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009. 218 pp. Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan. Nancy Guy. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005. 230 pp. There can never be too many books on Chinese opera, a genre that has been celebrated and mourned over its cycles of decline and resurgence across various parts of the world, even as it continues to spawn newer manifestations within and without China. Two tomes, both published within the last five years, chart separate histories of the form in Chinese communities beyond the Mainland, attesting to the scene’s deeply varied and changing nature. Nancy Guy’s seven-chapter volume and Tong Soon Lee’s more recent six-part ethnography together present engaging and complementary takes on the practice in Taiwan and Singapore. As pieces of careful and cogently argued research, they provide valuable documentation of the diasporic practice beyond China and Hong Kong, and—read in sequence or simultaneously—cross-fertilize each other theoretically and ethnographically. Exploring nationalist impacts on performing traditions, both books ask important questions of the relationship between culture and policymaking in the predominance of Mainland-derived mandates on cultural flows. To be sure, both books stand firmly on their own merits. Lee’s highly accessible, slightly shorter volume is a valuable example of a musical ethnography on Singapore—a subject in itself being rare enough in occurrence. In six well-defined and straightforward chapters sandwiched by an Introduction and a Conclusion, Lee sets out his fundamental premise that the scene is divided between increasingly sidelined professional groups (street opera acts ostensibly staged for the gods but attended by a nonpaying public) and high-profile amateur acts (who, ironically, perform mainly in ticketed events at theaters).
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which contemporary muqam canonizers not only culled, altered, and adapted historical texts, but transformed traditional approaches to performing and apprehending them. Theodore Levin
Dartmouth College
Reference Harris, Rachel 2008 The Making of a Musical Canon in Chinese Central Asia: The Uyghur Twelve Muqam. Burlington, VT: Ashgate.
Chinese Street Opera in Singapore. Tong Soon Lee. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009. 218 pp. Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan. Nancy Guy. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005. 230 pp. There can never be too many books on Chinese opera, a genre that has been celebrated and mourned over its cycles of decline and resurgence across various parts of the world, even as it continues to spawn newer manifestations within and without China. Two tomes, both published within the last five years, chart separate histories of the form in Chinese communities beyond the Mainland, attesting to the scene’s deeply varied and changing nature. Nancy Guy’s seven-chapter volume and Tong Soon Lee’s more recent six-part ethnography together present engaging and complementary takes on the practice in Taiwan and Singapore. As pieces of careful and cogently argued research, they provide valuable documentation of the diasporic practice beyond China and Hong Kong, and—read in sequence or simultaneously—cross-fertilize each other theoretically and ethnographically. Exploring nationalist impacts on performing traditions, both books ask important questions of the relationship between culture and policymaking in the predominance of Mainland-derived mandates on cultural flows. To be sure, both books stand firmly on their own merits. Lee’s highly accessible, slightly shorter volume is a valuable example of a musical ethnography on Singapore—a subject in itself being rare enough in occurrence. In six well-defined and straightforward chapters sandwiched by an Introduction and a Conclusion, Lee sets out his fundamental premise that the scene is divided between increasingly sidelined professional groups (street opera acts ostensibly staged for the gods but attended by a nonpaying public) and high-profile amateur acts (who, ironically, perform mainly in ticketed events at theaters).
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The former are largely supported by religious organizations, street opera buffs, plus small- and big-time Chinese businessmen looking to contribute—in a very public way—to the community while receiving ritual blessings in the process. The latter category, mostly registered as nonprofit organizations, receive funding from state organizations in their personification of the Confucian ideal of amateurism, while striving to remake the idea of cultural authenticity for tourists and potentially culturally atrophied Singaporeans. Lee (163) maintains, “The concept of national culture in Singapore is ‘dictated by those who do participate successfully,’ not unlike the ‘Big Men’ theory in organizational studies (Hendry 1999, 567). Indeed, the art-culture system in Singapore defines the middle-and upper-class habitus exemplified in the amateur opera organization, whose members, through their practice of ‘positive’ social ideals, continue to perpetuate the system. In this way, culture becomes a form of proprietary knowledge, externalized through socialization among a select group. Amateur Chinese opera troupes are able to align their ideology, structure, and practices to that of the state’s framework for cultural nationalism, thus constructing a ‘trope of amateurism’ that defines an aesthetic vocabulary. In contrast, professional opera troupes do not practice such cultural tropes nor do they perform according to the aesthetics of the amateurs in their everyday practices. They are thus relegated to the outside of the conceptual boundaries of the art-culture system. Viewed this way, the management of culture is predisposed to accentuate issues of social status and power (Fournier and Grey 2000, 9).” In the Introduction and chapter 1, Lee sets out a nomenclatural background to the subject at stake. He offers methodical summaries on the unique politics of being Chinese in multicultural and postcolonial Singapore, a useful introduction to Confucian philosophy and practice, and a meticulously researched history of the early Chinese opera scene. While this cross-sectional view informs well upon the telescoped context of his larger arguments on nationalism to come, one could have wished for a slightly more located contextualization of the Chinese opera scene (ultimately a marginalized and small, if socially significant one) in the specific mosaic of music practice and consumption in contemporary Singapore (of which Western and Chinese pop play influential parts). This tiny oversight is more than compensated for, however, in chapter 2, where a rich and detailed ethnography of street opera companies in Singapore is embarked upon. Moving across dialect groups, performance genres, contexts, ritual plays, stage setup, audience-performer interactions, training processes, and musical instruments (including too-short nuggets on new instruments such as the electric guitar), Lee paints charming and atmospheric vignettes. These are lovingly illustrated with photographs and/or timely, humorous anecdotes— peopled not only by performers but also by the colorful likes of “Auntie Ng”
208 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 (a redoubtable source of insider gossip), ergutuan (bossy female squadrons), and dedicated fans known as shayu (sharks) who “cross oceans” (guohai) in pursuit of their favorite troupes around the island. Moving away from the street in chapter 3 to the opera-chorus clubs and theatrical performances of clan associations, Lee subsequently attempts a closer examination of the Confucian amateur ideal of excellence-seeking in selfedification. This he sees as a form of political ventriloquism for corresponding meritocratic-elitist national ideologies, extrapolating their implications on social organization in small communities and—more disturbingly—the politicized appropriation of Chinese opera by amateur groups in a larger Singaporean landscape troped by the myth of “Asian values.” Teasing out rhetorics of national ideology versus community practice, Lee presents in chapters 4 and 5 newer contexts for the performances of street opera (in heavily sponsored and reinstated temple festivals) as well as amateur opera (in tourist performances at remodeled historic sites). Invoking different perspectives on ritual revival and the issue of cultural authenticity and representation, he then moves on to a persuasive exposition (chapter 6) of Chinese opera’s elevation unto a bourgeois “art form,” a development that is surely underscored by postcolonial reconstructions of class and culture, if Lee does not actually flag the latter notion in a concerted way. A closer consideration of Lee’s polarized reading of the amateur versus professional divide can be made here: this concerns increasingly blurred distinctions between the two fields today. My own observation of the same subject in more recent years has shown that while the notion of profit making appears to be a determining factor, increasing members of street opera groups have taken on part-time and nonopera related jobs (in the wake of declining performances, reasons for which Lee briefly supplies), even as amateur organizations have turned “professional,” either through the upgrading of existing members to full-time status, or through hiring overseas performers as guest stars. More important is the emic notion of perceived disparities in aesthetic value judgments on either side of the divide, which Lee tantalizingly hints at but does not address directly. Informal discussions within various Singaporean opera communities, for example, have yielded colorful views on “better” or “worse” performing standards lobbied at both categories: How is a “good” or “bad” performance “measured,” for example? Are there more commonalities than differences to be found between opera practiced in the streets vis-à-vis the theater, in terms of vocal style, gesture, and melodic ornamentation, and so on? Perhaps an additionally reinforcing way of locating Lee’s street-versus-theater divide here might be across dialect groups, where higher-profile and bourgeois emphasis on Beijing and Cantonese opera (vis-à-vis Hokkien, Teochew, and Hainanese street theater) might play an important role, due to the relative
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dominance of both forms in a larger, globalized context. Beijing opera is projected as a perfected refinement of the genre and circulated as lingua franca within China and the West; Cantonese opera is in turn buoyed by a healthy starmaking industry in Hong Kong: could these factors have had bigger repercussions on Singaporean culture policymakers, practitioners as well as consumers? At the risk of nitpicking, in this sense Lee’s otherwise worthy and convincing ethnography could have benefited from a more rigorous discussion of dislocated and diasporic links between street and theater groups to former homeland communities in Fujian, Chaozhou, Guangdong, Hainan, Beijing, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. We know, at least, that foreign guest stars are frequently brought in for performances. By extension, the ritually competitive and increasingly cross-referenced aesthetics found in genres foreign to Chinese opera such as getai (emerging from the pop-cultural circuit), and corresponding claims to Singaporean authenticity on the grounds of cultural nostalgia, could also have been explored. Where the focus of Lee’s research in Chinese opera outside China has primarily concerned intrastate politics within Singapore, Nancy Guy’s earlier book on a subgenre of the same form in another diasporic context addresses the obverse side of the same coin: cross-state (or cross-strait) politics. In seven chapters, the tome comprises a water-tight exposition of Peking opera—a somewhat archaic term the author justifiably defends—practiced in Taiwan. Setting the scene in light of the form’s various origins in the Mainland, she describes the genre’s diasporic survival as an ideologically privileged and ultimately counterintuitive development under an anti-communist Nationalist regime. Chapters 1–4 are deeply intertwined and primarily theoretical and/or historical. The author begins by tracking the import of the genre into Taiwan, and its patronage within the island from the late 19th century—through Japanese colonization and the military-troupe era of Nationalist martial law—to contemporary times. This is followed by a rigorous examination of Nationalist agenda in promoting Peking opera as part of domestic and foreign policy, reifying post-1949 and elitist circumscriptions of culture as symbolic acts of colonizing the native Taiwanese, while at the same time wielding Peking opera overseas—projected as “preserved” and “authentic”—as a weapon of cultural diplomacy. In the name of contextualization, substantial segments in the book are devoted to accounts of cross-Strait relations and cultural politics originating from China: the May 4th Movement, Mao’s Yan’an forums, and the carefully strategized American tours of opera performer Mei Lanfang. While much of this information is easily available elsewhere, Guy marshals the facts into a riveting backdrop against her fundamental interrogation of how the dynamics of representing Chinese culture (and by extension the political claiming of it) have
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evolved over time. As she tells, official prescriptions and proscriptions of Peking opera within China have impacted upon corresponding state mandates on the form-in-exile in Taiwan, particularly in the contest for cultural authenticity during the Cultural Revolution. More significantly, Guy also examines the chain of domino effects on grassroots Taiwanese resistance activities and the emergence of competing Taiwanese indigenous forms such as gezaixi. Following the end of martial law in 1987, Peking opera has more recently undergone democratization alongside the rehabilitation of native Taiwanese culture. Here, Guy ultimately envisions Peking opera as in a state of dismantling and decline. She writes, “Peking opera has been inescapably affected by transfers of power, shifts in ideology, and related changes in Taiwan’s political economy. It has always had a symbolic presence, standing for something other than or in addition to, itself. . . . The changing meanings of Peking opera (e.g., as a tie to the Chinese motherland under Japanese colonialism; as a symbol of the totalitarian regime under Nationalist rule) illuminate what is perhaps this study’s most important lesson: Taiwanese people have never fully succumbed to oppression or coercion” (164). The language used throughout is passionate and unyielding, no doubt a function of Guy’s not-unfounded fear for the form’s demise. Before reaching this conclusion, however, she probes the parallel and changing practices of the form in China and Taiwan during eras of “no contact,” and the consequences of cultural reunification on troupes and performers (chapters 5 and 6). Here is where the relentless flow of argument segues into deeply human anecdotes of how, for example, an old fiddle player is painfully berated by junior members of his socio-musical hierarchy as he struggles to read cipher notation and adjust to new, Beijing-developed florid melodic styles. The story serves as a focal point for larger questions at stake: Is there a cultural home for Peking opera? Has the official promotion of the genre in the artificial context of Taiwan, lacking “not only a body of veteran text writers but also a large audience,” been tantamount to a kiss of death? Has Peking opera become a victim of its own globalized appeal? Can new reference frames exist for the genre in Taiwan, away from the taint of inferiority as a result of perpetual comparison to China? Perhaps it is in an attempt at answering the last question that some reconsideration of Guy’s politics can be made. Unremitting as her arguments come, they paint a picture of a practice in crisis, hamstrung by external hegemonic factors. Yet it would also have been interesting, for the sake of alternative perspective, to access the scene not so much from a masterful and macro “helicopter” view of power politics, than through the mindset of ground-level practitioners or audiences engaged in the proactive (as opposed to reactionary) creation of socio-musical meanings in micro-musical life. In the same vein, the book’s other wise informative appendix on Peking opera and music could also have
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been organically incorporated into earlier sections, allowing for breathing (and listening) space in otherwise compelling and manipulated onslaughts of political analysis. Like Lee’s thoughtful examination of larger social forces at play in a musical world, Guy raises important issues not only of Chinese opera, but also of the ageold debate over the relationship between art and politics. This is where the two books cross-reference each other (beyond the obvious intersection of Chinese opera outside China): If state support can be too much of a good thing, when can it also be too little of a bad thing? The street opera troupes in Singapore described by Lee might appear sidelined by national ideology, but prefer to run their own matters in-house on account of “face” (Chong 2003) despite the prospect of declining audiences (my own attendance of recent street outings in 2009 paint a less rosy picture than Lee’s boisterous scenes described of an earlier decade). And even as Guy heralds doomsday predictions upon Peking opera in Taiwan, recent upheavals on the island following the return of the Nationalist Party precipitated by the dramatic rise and fall of the Democratic Progressive Party have surely impacted upon the governance and practice of the art form in yet newer manifestations. Perhaps the lesson to be learned here lies in the delicate balance of power and polemics that exists between government intervention (or support) and community/artist reaction and resistance. In view of this, both monographs by Lee and Guy not only serve the scholarly and opera community, but also provide applied ethnomusicologists and cultural policymakers with essential reading in their damning implications on cultural preservation and governance. There is just one final, small request to be made on behalf of the music lover: After more than 200 pages each of thrilling academic and literary expositions on Chinese opera, perhaps an accompanying CD or DVD illustrating the various theorizations and ethnographies might be in order? Shzr Ee Tan
Royal Holloway
References Chong, Terence 2003 “Chinese Opera in Singapore: Negotiating Globalisation, Consumerism and National Culture.” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 34(3):449–71. Fournier, Valerie and Chris Grey 2000 “At the Critical Moment: Conditions and Prospects for Critical Management Studies.” Human Relations 53(1):7–32. Hendry, John 1999 “Cultural Theory and Contemporary Management Organization.” Human Relations 52(5):557–77.
Audio Recording Reviews
Anăk Čư ˘ Čhiăng: The Original People of Vietnam’s Central Highlands. Montagnard Culture Group—2280900028, 2006. One CD. 43 minutes. Produced by Kay Reibold with booklet containing lyrics, translations, and an introduction by Gerald C. Hickey. “When I grew up in Vietnam, I never heard the word Montagnard or Dega. The first time I heard it [Montagnard] was here in the US when I came in 1996. In Vietnam, lots of younger generations do not even know the term Montagnard. I bet my dad knew the word Montagnard but he was afraid to tell me about it.” (Lap M. Siu, coauthor of this review)
We envisioned and performed this recording review as dialogic, a kind of collaborative recording review, but instead of “reading alongside” each other, we are “listening alongside”’ each other (Lassiter 2005). This means that we are listening through two different filters and with two different experiential frames. The goal of bringing these together is to demonstrate a more richly layered interpretation of musical expression. As Aubert (2007) points out clearly in The Music of the Other: New Challenges for Ethnomusicology in a Global Age, this CD focuses on the problem of identity. How is Montagnard-American identity expressed musically? In opposition to the transnational recording Bamboo on the Mountains, in which Khummu identity is the focus, in Anăk Čư˘ Čhiăng: The Original People of Vietnam’s Central Highlands, an identity that has not been fully realized is being developed and represented. This is due largely to the nature of the Montagnard community in the Carolinas. In the Carolinas, the Jarai, Ede, Bahnar, Koho, Mnong and a few other tribal groups coexist and are actively determining their socioeconomic, political, and cultural futures as Montagnard Americans. In Vietnam, each ethnolinguistic group lived separately from the others, with only limited interactions between the various groups; and, so, Anăk Čư ˘ Čhiăng represents a musical and cultural expression of the genesis of Montagnard American identity. That newly found unity in America is, in part, the result of the experiences of the former FULRO (United Front for the Liberation of Oppressed Races) leaders who have pushed for all of the Montagnards to become united. Anăk Čư˘ Čhiăng: The Original People of Vietnam’s Central Highlands consists of 12 tracks and is packaged with an attractive liner booklet of 44 pages, which © 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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includes mostly color photographs. The photographs—of performers, places, and instruments—provide a visual representation of the Montagnard Diaspora. The introduction provided by Gerald Hickey is retrospective—describing what life used to be like in the Montagnard world. While it could be said that an introduction which addressed the cultural transformation from Montagnard to Montagnard American, and its expressions in the cultural and social lives of those living in the United States would be preferable, the Montagnard American view of the introduction is different. The introduction inscribes the feelings that the music evokes for Montagnard Americans—namely, longing for homelands, villages, and the ways of life back in the Central Highlands. The opening track is a performance on the trưng—a traditional Jarai ideophone. Trưng is often seen as a cultural emblem of the Jarai people. “When I was talking to Hip [Ksor] about trưng, I could hear the tone of his voice was changing. He [HK] started to sing unaccompanied, ‘Ôh mơak biă mă laih anŭn hơmâo mơnuih dôˇ pơ hơma.’ ‘Oh how happy it makes me to know that there is another person staying at his farm.’ ” (Lap M. Siu)
The socioeconomic policies of the Vietnamese government during the 1980s rapidly changed the cultural component of Jarai horticultural practices. This change also impacted the role of the trưng in Jarai social life in the Central Highlands. In the Central Highlands, Jarai trưng had several local functions. Trưng functioned as a metacommunicative device to let other farmers know that you are staying in your fields and that they can come and visit you. The melodies of the trưng also served to scare away birds and animals that might destroy the crops. Trưng also functioned as a means of entertainment since farmers spent many lonely days alone in temporary houses on their farm plots, away from their families. Christianized Jarai villages in Vietnam rarely hear trưng music played, and many Montagnards have heard far more trưng in the United States than they ever heard in Vietnam. Most of this has been in the context of cultural performances where Montagnard culture is being enacted for the consumption of Americans, Montagnard and others. Track 2 is a fine example of the creativity that characterizes the refugee musical experience. The Jarai composer Dock R’mah expresses his feelings of longing for his homeland in the Central Highlands. For Montagnards, the lyrics elicit a local homesickness for particular places in the Central Highlands, and not a transnational homesickness for Vietnam in general. In the style of traditional compositions, he refers to geographical landmarks in the region such as Pleiku and Ban Me Thuot. The song text is Ede, although Dock R’mah is ethnically Jarai. It is important for listeners to know that the instrument that the performer plays in this piece is the gong, not the trưng as presented in the liner notes. The gong
214 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 is a chordophone that is shared by the Jarai, Ede, and Bahnar groups (Thanh 1997, 14–5). A performance of Ede ae rei, the genre of “sung poetry” that is found throughout Southeast Asian societies, is found on the fourth track. The structure of the performance consists of an instrumental introduction played on the đing năm followed by the sung poetry, and then closed by an instrumental coda, once again on the đing năm. The text of ae rei are not in vernacular Ede, but instead, a chanted, verbally artistic form of the language. The special grammar that is employed in ae rei is only intelligible to trained performers. For the untrained, the beauty lies in the construction of rhymed, linking phrases that weave a complex sonic texture. Track 8 presents two other selections of sung poetry from Ede: klei duê and klei kưt genres are performed with instrumental punctuations by đing buôt. Track 6 is a modern Montagnard American composition for gong. Although the gong is traditionally thought of and classified by ethnomusicologists as a Jarai instrument, the text of this composition is sung in Ede. The mixing of elements—text, instruments, and styles—marks Montagnard American musical expression. In Jarai villages in Vietnam, gong are played by young men to attract the attention of young women, and improvisation is a feature of this genre. Mnông Preh musical expression is represented on track 7. The listener can discern that the melody of this Mnông Preh tune is quite different from the Ede, Jarai, Bahnar, or Koho tunes that are on the disc. The Mnông Preh are an Austroasiatic group and represent a small minority within the Montagnard American community in North Carolina. Although the text of the song is in Mnông, it has been represented in Ede in the liner booklet. Since the Mnông language has its own writing system, there was no need to convert the Mnông sung text into written Ede. As different Montagnard groups vie for power in the new Montagnard American sociopolitical landscape, the developing hierarchies are manifested in ways such as this. Ede is rapidly becoming the de facto official language of the Montagnard American community in North Carolina, especially among the former FULRO leaders who have assumed positions of authority within the community. Overall, this CD is a tremendous addition to the collection of Montagnard music available for purchase in America and elsewhere. One thing to note is that the names of performers are given both in American and in Montagnard style. In Montagnard societies, parents are referred to as “father/mother of the first child,” and so Dock R’mah is referred to as Ama Phillip in some places in the liner notes. On a purely technical level, there are several typographical and other editorial errors in the liner notes that we will list here in hopes that a future edition of the recording can address: Page 13, zylphone should be xylophone; Page 14, trưng should be gong;
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Pages 27–31, the written lyrics do not correctly represent the sung lyrics; Page 29, gong should be trưng; picture is also incorrect; Pages 39–42, the written lyrics do not correctly represent the sung lyrics and the organization of the lyrics does not correspond to the structure of the song. Anăk Čư˘ Čhiăng: The Original People of Vietnam’s Central Highlands is an important contribution to the slender body of recordings documenting the soundscapes and musical expression of Montagnard refugees in the world. It also represents an important accomplishment for the Montagnard American community in North Carolina. The producers have clearly set out to construct something that will have appeal to Montagnard/Montagnard Americans as well as non-Montagnard Americans. We feel that they have succeeded in that endeavor. Lap M. Siu and Jeffrey P. Williams
Department of Sociology, Anthropology and Social Work, Texas Tech University
References Aubert, Laurent 2007 The Music of the Other: New Challenges for Ethnomusicology in a Global Age. Burlington: Ashgate. Lassiter, Luke Eric 2005 The Chicago Guide to Collaborative Ethnography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thanh, Tô Ngọc 1997 Musical Instruments of Vietnam’s Ethnic Minorities. Ha noi: Gioi Publishers.
The Art of the Early Egyptian Qanun. 2008. One CD (51:26). Performed by the Traditional Arabic Music Ensemble. Produced by George Dimitri Sawa. Ontario Arts Council/Conseil des Arts de l’Ontario. English notes by George Sawa. Distributed by CDBaby.com. ISBN 978-0-9809661-0-7. Born in Alexandria, Egypt, George Sawa has lived in Toronto since 1970, where he completed his PhD in historical ethnomusicology. He is known for his qanun (78-string zither) performances of Egyptian folk, classical, and dance music, as well as his scholarly publications on Arabic musical practice, including his book Music Performance Practice in the Early Abbasid Era 132-320 AH/750-932 AD (1989). The Art of the Early Egyptian Qanun is one of five recordings nominated for a 2009 Canadian Juno Award in the World Music Album of the Year category.
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Pages 27–31, the written lyrics do not correctly represent the sung lyrics; Page 29, gong should be trưng; picture is also incorrect; Pages 39–42, the written lyrics do not correctly represent the sung lyrics and the organization of the lyrics does not correspond to the structure of the song. Anăk Čư˘ Čhiăng: The Original People of Vietnam’s Central Highlands is an important contribution to the slender body of recordings documenting the soundscapes and musical expression of Montagnard refugees in the world. It also represents an important accomplishment for the Montagnard American community in North Carolina. The producers have clearly set out to construct something that will have appeal to Montagnard/Montagnard Americans as well as non-Montagnard Americans. We feel that they have succeeded in that endeavor. Lap M. Siu and Jeffrey P. Williams
Department of Sociology, Anthropology and Social Work, Texas Tech University
References Aubert, Laurent 2007 The Music of the Other: New Challenges for Ethnomusicology in a Global Age. Burlington: Ashgate. Lassiter, Luke Eric 2005 The Chicago Guide to Collaborative Ethnography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thanh, Tô Ngọc 1997 Musical Instruments of Vietnam’s Ethnic Minorities. Ha noi: Gioi Publishers.
The Art of the Early Egyptian Qanun. 2008. One CD (51:26). Performed by the Traditional Arabic Music Ensemble. Produced by George Dimitri Sawa. Ontario Arts Council/Conseil des Arts de l’Ontario. English notes by George Sawa. Distributed by CDBaby.com. ISBN 978-0-9809661-0-7. Born in Alexandria, Egypt, George Sawa has lived in Toronto since 1970, where he completed his PhD in historical ethnomusicology. He is known for his qanun (78-string zither) performances of Egyptian folk, classical, and dance music, as well as his scholarly publications on Arabic musical practice, including his book Music Performance Practice in the Early Abbasid Era 132-320 AH/750-932 AD (1989). The Art of the Early Egyptian Qanun is one of five recordings nominated for a 2009 Canadian Juno Award in the World Music Album of the Year category.
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The accompanying 15-page booklet has photographs of the musicians and their instruments, informative notes about the repertoire and performers, and details of rhythmic patterns and melodic modes. Both the recording and booklet are important resources for musicians, scholars, dancers, and music libraries. Performing with George Sawa, percussionist Suzanne Meyers-Sawa shows her skill and flexibility on various tambourines and drums, particularly darabukka (goblet-shaped drum), while Raymond Sarweh adds rhythmic embellishment on the riqq (tambourine). The chamber ensemble allows the listener to appreciate the unique timbres of the instruments, and is particularly welcome among numerous recordings by large Middle Eastern ensembles filled with western violins, cellos, and electric guitars. Originally, the qanun had gut strings and the performer used finger positions to achieve different microtones. In the early 20th century, small metal stops (mandals or orabs) were added to create fixed microtones. For this recording, George Sawa, aided by a Canadian harpsichord maker, removed the mandals which had been added to a 19th-century Egyptian qanun. After experimenting with various types of strings, he also decided to re-string the instrument using high-quality harp strings. The lack of mandals means that the tuning is flexible and not limited by a European-inspired tempered quarter-tone tuning system; however, one must then have the skill to produce correct-sounding microtones. Sawa, a versatile performer, teacher, and scholar, has that ability. His unique qanun has a flexibility and warm, mellow sound that is quite different from modern instruments. Most of the repertoire on the recording is lively dance music, primarily from the late 19th and early 20th century, including “Dance of the Noble Ladies” and “Ceremonial Entrance of the Professional Dancers,” both from the early 20th century. Other dance pieces include a group of Egyptian Sufi dances and a set of anonymous dances and improvisations compiled as a “Tribute to Mohammad Ali Street Composers.” These latter works are mainly in three modes or makam—Rast, Huzam, and Suznak—partly in keeping with the original concept of the fasil (suite) in a single mode, and partly for ease of tuning and recording, as the instrument needs time to settle between tunings. The focus on three makam allows the listener to gain a better understanding and appreciation of these modes. The fast dance works contrast with the slower tempos of three instrumental preludes (peshrevs) from the 1700 collection by Dimitri Cantemir, a Moldavian prince who lived in Istanbul as a royal hostage from 1687 to 1691 and 1693 to 1710. The peshrevs are all in Rast makam, with the third and seventh lowered by one comma. In the recurring refrains of the peshrevs and in several improvisations (taksim), Sawa shows his skill in ornamentation and variation, highly valued artistic devices in Middle Eastern musical and visual arts. Some of the
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taksim are freestyle, whereas others are in rhythmic cycles such as 8/4 or 4/4, the latter inspired by a 1928 recording. In summary, this recording is both creative and scholarly, with an intriguing mixture of Ottoman and Arabic repertoire and tuning. George Sawa is an exceptional performer with a unique perspective that combines the contemporary and historical. For those wishing to learn about Middle Eastern music, or for those already familiar with it, this CD is invaluable for both its musical content and scholarly information. Leslie Hall
Ryerson University
Reference Sawa, George 1989 Music Performance Practice in the Early Abbasid Era 132-320 AH/750-932 AD. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies.
Taïwan—Musique des Hakka: Chants Montagnards et Musique Instrumentale Bayin (Taiwan—Music of the Hakka: Mountain Songs and Bayin Instrumental Music). 2007. One CD (76:47). Performed by the Chung Yun-Hui Ensemble. Maison des Cultures du Monde, Inédit, website: www.label-inedit .com, W260127. Booklet (28 pp.) with black/white photographs and lyrics, as well as liner notes by Wu Rung-Shun in French translation by Pierre Charau and English translation by Frank Kane. Generally subsumed into the Han nationality as an ethnic/national subgroup, the Hakka earned their name—which literally means guest families—as centuriesold immigrants from central China to the southern provinces of Jiangxi, Hokkien (Fujian), and Canton (Guangdong), and subsequently also to Taiwan and Southeast Asia. Currently accounting for 20 percent of Taiwan’s population, or about 4.6 million, the Hakka Taiwanese have been migrating to the island from mainland China since the mid-17th century. Musical continuities among diasporic Hakka communities are manifested in the transnational popularity of the two well-known performance traditions: mountain songs and the bayin instrumental music; both are represented on this Inédit CD. Derived from the name of the ancient instrument classification system, the term bayin, literally eight sounds, is today a shared designation for a few instrumental traditions of variegated settings. Characterized by its idiosyncratic shawm-and-percussion sonority, the repertoire of bayin is enjoyed as a refined and intricate musical descendant of ancient court traditions. The bayin music of the Hakka people in Taiwan assumes two closely related regional styles,
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taksim are freestyle, whereas others are in rhythmic cycles such as 8/4 or 4/4, the latter inspired by a 1928 recording. In summary, this recording is both creative and scholarly, with an intriguing mixture of Ottoman and Arabic repertoire and tuning. George Sawa is an exceptional performer with a unique perspective that combines the contemporary and historical. For those wishing to learn about Middle Eastern music, or for those already familiar with it, this CD is invaluable for both its musical content and scholarly information. Leslie Hall
Ryerson University
Reference Sawa, George 1989 Music Performance Practice in the Early Abbasid Era 132-320 AH/750-932 AD. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies.
Taïwan—Musique des Hakka: Chants Montagnards et Musique Instrumentale Bayin (Taiwan—Music of the Hakka: Mountain Songs and Bayin Instrumental Music). 2007. One CD (76:47). Performed by the Chung Yun-Hui Ensemble. Maison des Cultures du Monde, Inédit, website: www.label-inedit .com, W260127. Booklet (28 pp.) with black/white photographs and lyrics, as well as liner notes by Wu Rung-Shun in French translation by Pierre Charau and English translation by Frank Kane. Generally subsumed into the Han nationality as an ethnic/national subgroup, the Hakka earned their name—which literally means guest families—as centuriesold immigrants from central China to the southern provinces of Jiangxi, Hokkien (Fujian), and Canton (Guangdong), and subsequently also to Taiwan and Southeast Asia. Currently accounting for 20 percent of Taiwan’s population, or about 4.6 million, the Hakka Taiwanese have been migrating to the island from mainland China since the mid-17th century. Musical continuities among diasporic Hakka communities are manifested in the transnational popularity of the two well-known performance traditions: mountain songs and the bayin instrumental music; both are represented on this Inédit CD. Derived from the name of the ancient instrument classification system, the term bayin, literally eight sounds, is today a shared designation for a few instrumental traditions of variegated settings. Characterized by its idiosyncratic shawm-and-percussion sonority, the repertoire of bayin is enjoyed as a refined and intricate musical descendant of ancient court traditions. The bayin music of the Hakka people in Taiwan assumes two closely related regional styles,
218 Asian Music: Summer/Fall 2010 identified broadly as the northern and southern traditions. Compared to the larger-sized northern bayin ensemble—which consists of six to eight performers on various flutes, bowed fiddles, plucked lutes, double reeds, and percussion instruments—the southern bayin ensemble is typically smaller and includes only four performers. The selections on the CD, all performed by the Chung Yun-Hui Ensemble, represent the finest of the southern tradition. Led by the renowned performer Chung Yun-Hui (b. 1938), members of the ensemble are natives of the Hakka town of Meinung in the Liudui region of southern Taiwan. The core of the ensemble is the double-reed shawm zuona of various sizes and a small percussion section of drums, woodblocks, cymbals, and gongs. A pair of bowed fiddles nixian and huxian and an end-blown flute xiao are also commonplace in the southern Hakka bayin tradition, which remains closely tied to ritual and ceremonial occasions such as weddings, funerals, and religious festival in Taiwan today. The CD also includes three representative Hakka mountain songs, a highly expressive Chinese folk song genre, featuring a female vocalist called Wen Tzu-Mei accompanied by the ensemble. Recorded at the Maison des Culture due Monde in Paris during the ensemble’s tour to France in March 2005, the 14 tracks on the CD represent a faithful selection of Hakka mountain songs and the southern bayin tradition of various settings, including, firstly, the dachui tunes (“big tunes”), a category of shawmand-percussion pieces; secondly, xiaozi diao tunes (called dizi diao in the booklet; “tunes for the flute”), performed by the end-blown flute and the percussion section; and finally the xiansuo diao tunes (“tunes for strings”), performed by the shawm, the two bowed fiddles, and the percussion section. The uniformly excellent quality of the studio recording is accompanied by a well-sequenced selection of pieces from various styles and genres, attempting to mimic the actual succession of ritual acts and music. It begins with Chuihao jiao (“horn call”), an invocation to the gods, played on the shawm (with the double reeds removed), and is followed by a dachui tune that normally starts a bayin performance, called Tuanyuan xiangdi (“gathering and playing the flutes”), for the shawmand-percussion combination. The music then proceeds with alternations among mountain songs and the three bayin instrumental settings, eventually leading to a closing shawm-and-percussion tune, called Da tuanyuan (“big gathering”), an abridged musical response to the opening shawm-and-percussion tune to conclude the Hakka ritual—and our musical journey into Hakka music. Informative yet highly accessible, the accompanying notes—in both French and English, translated from an original Chinese version written by the famous Hakka-music specialist Wu Rung-Shun—maintain a good balance between conciseness and detail. Each track on the CD is accompanied by a paragraph explaining its stylistic influences, performance contexts, and musical particulars. The notes are preceded by an introductory text, which briefly describes the various
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Hakka musical traditions in Taiwan and contextualizes the bayin performance practices in traditional Hakka societies. Contemporary changes and maintenance of the bayin tradition are also addressed with some ethnographic findings. More comprehensive biographical sketches of individual performers—each of whom currently receives a full-page black-and-white photograph but shares only one small paragraph of text with the rest of the performers in the booklet— however, would be helpful. Some listeners might also prefer to learn more about individual musical instruments used in the ensemble and the tune relationship between bayin and other local genres—notably the beiguan tradition—perhaps with brief musical notations. Finally, a short bibliography would be a welcome addition to this generally well-prepared booklet. Taïwan—Musique des Hakka: Chants Montagnards et Musique Instrumentale Bayin presents a reliable, instructive, and engaging introduction to Hakka musical traditions in Taiwan. Given the dearth of recordings for this distinctively rich tradition (see also Wu Rung-Shun, 2002), this collection certainly comes as a timely and valuable addition to the growing scholarship of Hakka musical culture and performing art in Taiwan, mainland China, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asia. It will be of interest not only to specialists of Chinese music and Hakka culture, but also to scholars who are interested in ritual music and/or musical diaspora. Instructors will find this CD a useful addition to their courses in Asian music and/or more specialized topics. This recording represents an important musical record of a changing tradition that deserves to be better known and heard both inside and outside Taiwan Chuen-Fung Wong
Macalester College
Reference Wu Rung-Shun 2002 Taiwan nanbu kejia bayin jishi (Recording the Hakka Bayin in Southern Taiwan). I-lan, Taiwan: National Center for Traditional Arts.
Voices for Humans, Ancestors, and Gods: A Musical Journey through India’s Interior (East and North-East). Topic Records Ltd., 2006. One CD. 64.38 min. Recording, photographs, and text by Rolf Killius. This is a welcome sampling of local song traditions from Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, West Bengal, Assam, and Arunachal Pradesh. The recordings—some made by SOAS graduate Rolf Killius on a 1997 research trip, others on a 2001–2002 trip—are uniformly clean. As is often the case with recordings done in the field,
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Hakka musical traditions in Taiwan and contextualizes the bayin performance practices in traditional Hakka societies. Contemporary changes and maintenance of the bayin tradition are also addressed with some ethnographic findings. More comprehensive biographical sketches of individual performers—each of whom currently receives a full-page black-and-white photograph but shares only one small paragraph of text with the rest of the performers in the booklet— however, would be helpful. Some listeners might also prefer to learn more about individual musical instruments used in the ensemble and the tune relationship between bayin and other local genres—notably the beiguan tradition—perhaps with brief musical notations. Finally, a short bibliography would be a welcome addition to this generally well-prepared booklet. Taïwan—Musique des Hakka: Chants Montagnards et Musique Instrumentale Bayin presents a reliable, instructive, and engaging introduction to Hakka musical traditions in Taiwan. Given the dearth of recordings for this distinctively rich tradition (see also Wu Rung-Shun, 2002), this collection certainly comes as a timely and valuable addition to the growing scholarship of Hakka musical culture and performing art in Taiwan, mainland China, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asia. It will be of interest not only to specialists of Chinese music and Hakka culture, but also to scholars who are interested in ritual music and/or musical diaspora. Instructors will find this CD a useful addition to their courses in Asian music and/or more specialized topics. This recording represents an important musical record of a changing tradition that deserves to be better known and heard both inside and outside Taiwan Chuen-Fung Wong
Macalester College
Reference Wu Rung-Shun 2002 Taiwan nanbu kejia bayin jishi (Recording the Hakka Bayin in Southern Taiwan). I-lan, Taiwan: National Center for Traditional Arts.
Voices for Humans, Ancestors, and Gods: A Musical Journey through India’s Interior (East and North-East). Topic Records Ltd., 2006. One CD. 64.38 min. Recording, photographs, and text by Rolf Killius. This is a welcome sampling of local song traditions from Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, West Bengal, Assam, and Arunachal Pradesh. The recordings—some made by SOAS graduate Rolf Killius on a 1997 research trip, others on a 2001–2002 trip—are uniformly clean. As is often the case with recordings done in the field,
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though, percussion and wind instruments sometimes cut through the texture too stridently. The text and photos in the accompanying CD booklet provide useful documentation of the performances. As is often the case with commercial releases of field recordings, though, there is not enough information about song lyrics. Despite these drawbacks, this is a useful introduction to song from eastern and northeastern India, simultaneously opening up a window onto a portion of the extensive collections of the British Library Sound Archive. I was immediately put off by the map inside the front cover of the CD booklet, which sketches the “musical journey” undertaken here: it shows clearly the Indian states represented, as well as showing India in relation to its two largest neighbors, China and Pakistan, but the outline of Bangladesh was curiously left blank, and Nepal seemed to have been taken over by China, for it had no outline of its own. The introduction also puzzled me, as the only scholarly reference was to B. C. Deva’s classic Musical Instruments of India: Their History and Development—indeed an important work, but hardly the most relevant to the material presented here. The first 2 tracks are described as “ballads” from Andhra Pradesh: one by daasari in Kurumbeta, the other by maasti in Palakonda. There is a curious mixture of terminologies in the CD booklet. It is not clear why the first track is a “ballad,” “set to 3/4 and 4/4 times,” while a later track is designated a “bhajan,” “in ektala tala.” The daasari performance has no accompanying melody instruments, which very nicely draws the listener into the CD’s focus on the voice. Furthermore, the performance alternates between spoken and sung parts, between solo and group singing, between unmetered and metered sections, and between very short and very long phrases, highlighting the expressive range of the voice in South Asia. The maasti performance that follows unfolds similarly, with the addition of the wonderful sounds of the two jankili konda with which the singers accompany themselves. The following 4 tracks are from Orissa: two examples of “Saora Geet,” from Tame Gorjang village, followed by the bhajan mentioned above and a recording of “Odissi music” from Puri. Killius’s descriptions of ethnic groups in his text sometimes seem to condemn them to a disappearing past. Here, the Saora “are an ancient community,” while the Deori of track 11 also “are an ancient community.” The emphasis on the immense age of these groups is unnecessary, for this is a feature of all surviving human populations, and it almost implies an incapacity to adapt to the present. Track 3, sung by a man calling himself Mr. India, is marvelously simple, although this is one of the places where the percussive sounds are particularly strident: percussion instruments that work very effectively outdoors do not often transfer well to speakers or headphones, and this is of course no fault of the recordist. Track 4, a “naming song,” returns us to the purely vocal sphere. The vocal style of this short selection is beautifully
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raucous, and Killius shows a good feel for album organization by following it with the more familiar genre of bhajan devotional song, which then gives way to the mellifluous voice of Chandra Mani Lenka, who here sings “Dutiya jaminire mo pranasahi,” the most refined performance on the CD. West Bengal is underrepresented in this album. Only tracks 7 and 8 are Baul songs from Joydeb-Kenduli, and the listener might be left wondering about the other kinds of songs that thrive in the region. But the two tracks included were obviously chosen with an ear toward their similarities and differences, the first sung by an older man with a “rough voice” and the second by a sixteen-year-old woman, whose “voice expresses well the devotional sentiment of this song—to connect the human to manush, the divine within oneself.” The accompanying musicians use the two-stringed dotara lute and the khotal cymbals for both tracks; the gobgubi, a plucked instrument similar to the jatili konda, appears in track 7, while an ektara and a khol drum are featured in track 8. The next 3 tracks are from Assam, and were all recorded on the river island of Majuli. The first is a “loko geet” from Dakasensuan Gaon, followed by “satra music” from Dakhinpath Satra monastery and a “Deori geet” from the village of Major. I suspect that loko geet (or, to use its more common transliteration, git) is an Assamese linguistic variation of the more widely known appellation lok git, usually translated as “folk song.” Killius defines it as “a generic term for a group of genres.” The recording here has the murali player too closely miked, but the performance is a good example of a familiar South Asian format, combining a main singer and a backing singer, melody instruments which mimic the vocal lines, and several layers of percussion. Likewise, the group devotional singing from Dakhinpath Satra monastery, labeled as bargit and described as “a regional music genre peculiar to Assam,” will sound familiar to listeners who have heard group performances of bhajan, kirtan, and qawwali elsewhere in northern India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Nepal. By contrast, the last selection from Assam, a lament by a group of Deori women, is performed in a lovely, little-known style, with long, solo melodic lines punctuated by ululations, exclamations, and percussion. The final stop on the journey is Arunachal Pradesh. The CD concludes with two performances of “Monpa geet,” track 12 recorded in the village of Shakti and track 13 sung by villagers from Thrillam who were attending a festival in the town of Tawang. Monpa live in a very different musical world from that of the CD’s starting point in Andhra Pradesh. Not unexpectedly, these tracks show more of an affinity with similar kinds of performances among Tibetan and Tibeto-Burman speakers in Nepal, China, and Bhutan. In track 12, while a stately collective step dance provides the percussion, a group of women and a group of men alternate verses. Here, as for the very different performance by Mr. India in track 3, Killius remarks that the piece is in 3/4 time, though how it is
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possible for songs that so clearly use a duple metric framework to be in 3/4 time is beyond me. Track 13 is an intriguingly deceptive close to Voices for Humans, Ancestors, and Gods, for while it is indeed a song, it is Lama Jambey Lotey’s beautiful accompaniment on the 3-stringed dramnian lute that stands out. Given how much importance singers and listeners give to the words of song around South Asia, it is frustrating to find so little about the lyrics in the accompanying booklet. Nowhere is there a transliteration of a song, and only occasionally is there a translation of a song or a portion of a song. Fortunately, there are always a few words about the meaning of the lyrics: for example, track 2 is “a love story taken from the Mahabharata epic,” and Killius elaborates with the comment that “the ballad is interspersed with explanations and moral stories made on the spot.” Certainly, it is difficult to imagine that Killius could undertake a project of this broad scope while simultaneously giving close attention to each of the languages included here. Yet we might hope, following this fine introductory survey, that future releases might concentrate on the music of particular regions, states, groups, or performers, and that the accompanying materials might work harder to convey a sense of the expressivity contained in the words. David Henderson
St. Lawrence University
About the Contributors Joys H. Y. Cheung received her PhD in Musicology (Ethnomusicology) from the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor in 2008. Prior to that, she received her Master of Music in Ethnomusicology from the University of Texas at Austin. She taught at Kalamazoo College as a Mellon Postdoctoral Teaching Fellow from 2008 to 2009. She now teaches at the Chinese Civilisation Centre, City University of Hong Kong. Her dissertation research is on Chinese musical modernity emerged from interwar Shanghai, involving studies of musical networks, knowledge discourse, musical translation, and film music. Kim Chow-Morris received her MA and PhD in Ethnomusicology from York University and is currently Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy and Music at Ryerson University, Toronto. She previously taught at the University of Toronto, and founded the York University Chinese music program in 2000, where she continues to conduct two Chinese orchestras. Chow-Morris played for ten years with the Toronto Chinese Orchestra, and now leads the professional Chinese chamber group the Yellow River Ensemble. Her teachers include Lu Chun Ling and the late Yu Xun Fa. She has performed on Chinese winds (dizi, xiao, bawu, and hulusi) and western flute in China, Hong Kong, India, Canada, and the United States. Her CDs, sound track recordings, and live performances have been heard on China’s China Central Television, History Television, Omni TV, CBC Radio, and Fairchild Radio. She has also performed by invitation for Canada’s former Prime Minister Jean Chretien and China’s Premier Wen Jiabao. Her recent research interests include social and stylistic hybridity in Chinese instrumental music (Jiangnan sizhu, folk traditions, Chinese guoyue orchestras, Cantonese opera), socio-musical hegemony, and Chinese music in diaspora. She is currently working on a book project on Chinese music in Canada. David Dennen is a graduate student at the University of California–Davis. Currently he is researching the modern development and institutionalization of Odissi music in the Indian state of Orissa, in particular looking at the various musical and conceptual adaptations that have affected musical life there and in India generally. He is also a student of flute (bansuri) in the Hindustani and Odissi styles.
© 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
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Stefan Fiol completed his PhD from the University of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign in 2008. His current research investigates the development of vernacular and mass-mediated music in the central Himalayas, and the ways that musical practices sustain and undermine attempts to delineate a regional political and cultural movement in Uttarakhand, North India. He was the recipient of the Fulbright-Hays and Wenner-Gren dissertation research grants (2004–2005) and the American Institute of Indian Studies junior fellowship (2006–2007). Previously he taught at the University of Illinois, the University of Notre Dame, and the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, New York. He is currently a member of the musicology faculty at the University of Cincinnati. Leslie Hall is Associate Professor of Music at Ryerson University in Toronto. She studied kanun in Istanbul and wrote her doctoral thesis on the Turkish Fasil (1989). David Henderson is Associate Professor of Music, Film Studies, and Asian Studies at St. Lawrence University. He has done research on music in the Kathmandu Valley since 1987, and on the Nepali film industry in 2002. With Ron Emoff (Ohio State University–Newark), he edited the book Mementos, Artifacts, and Hallucinations from the Ethnographer’s Tent (Routledge, 2002); he has compiled the listings of “Current Films and Videos” for Ethnomusicology since 2003. Theodore Levin is Arthur R. Virgin Professor of Music at Dartmouth College. He first visited Central Asia in 1974, and has been returning there ever since. His most recent project is the nearly complete ten-volume CD-DVD series, Music of Central Asia, released by Smithsonian Folkways Recordings. Peter Manuel studied sitar for several years with Dr. Kalyan Mukherjea, and also from Ustad Vilayat Khan and Shahid Parvez. In the 1970s–1980s, he concertized extensively in the United States, and also in India and Pakistan. He is the author or editor of several books on music of India and the Caribbean, most recently, Creolizing Contradance in the Caribbean (Temple University Press, 2009). He teaches ethnomusicology at John Jay College and the City University of New York Graduate Center. Terry Miller, a native of Dover, Ohio, majored in organ before turning to musicology and, as a result of service in Vietnam, to ethnomusicology. Although known primarily as a specialist in the music of Mainland Southeast Asia, especially Thailand and Laos, he has also worked extensively in the United States, the West Indies, the United Kingdom, and China. In addition to numerous articles, recordings, and other contributions, he has published a number of books
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focusing on Thailand and the United States. His most widely known work is as coeditor and writer of The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music: Southeast Asia, and as cowriter of a survey textbook, World Music: A Global Journey. Dr. Miller retired from Kent State University (KSU) in 2005 where, in addition to teaching, he founded and directed both the KSU Thai and Chinese Ensembles. Kalyan Mukherjea was educated at the La Martiniere College, Calcutta (1951– 1958); Presidency College, Calcutta—affiliated with the Calcutta University— from 1959 to 1962 obtaining a BSc Honours degree in Physics; Christ’s College, Cambridge (1962–1965) where he received a BA in Mathematics; and Cornell University, Ithaca, New York where he received a MS and PhD in math in 1968. Mukherjea studied the sarod under the guidance of the late Pandit Radhika Mohan Maitra from 1956 until his death in 1981, and also received guidance from the late Pandit D. T. Joshi between 1959 and 1961. He served on the faculty of the mathematics department at the University of California–Los Angeles from 1968 to 1976. During this time, Dr. Mukherjea also taught classes in Hindustani music (sarode and sitar) and was an active participant in the graduate seminars conducted by the late Professor Nazir A. Jairazbhoy. Kalyan joined the Indian Statistical Institute in 1976 and retired from the Institute in 2005 as a professor of mathematics. He had suffered a physically debilitating stroke around 2000 and died of a heart attack on March 31, 2010. Michael Saffle is Professor of Music and Humanities at Virginia Tech. He has published articles and reviews in the Journal of the American Musicological Society, Acta Musicologica, Notes, the Programmhefte of Bayreuth’s Wagner Festival, Music & Letters, and the Leonardo Music Journal; his books include Franz Liszt: A Guide to Research, revised and republished by Routledge in 2004 and again in 2009. Three years ago, on his sixtieth birthday, Professor Saffle was honored with a “Festschrift” published as an issue of the cultural-studies eJournal Spaces of Identity. During the 2007–2008 academic year, he taught in China, where he held the Au Yeung King Fong Research Fellowship at Hong Kong Baptist University. Lap M. Siu is a Montagnard from the Jarai tribe of the Central Highlands of Vietnam. He is currently a master’s student of anthropology at Texas Tech University in Lubbock. His research interests include Jarai traditional music, legends, culture, history, and the Jarai language. Siu’s first accomplishment was his Jarai vocal performance featured on the Montagnard debut CD entitled Anàk Čü Čhiàng: The Original People of Vietnam’s Central Highlands, performed by the Montagnard American Music Group. He is currently developing a preliminary Jarai-English dictionary for the Jarai in North America, which he expects to complete in the summer of 2009. The purpose of this dictionary is to preserve the Jarai language as it is spoken in North America.
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Shzr Ee Tan is a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow at Royal Holloway, currently researching musical activities on new media platforms in the Chinese diaspora. Her research touches on phenomena ranging from viral videos to politico-musical activism on the Internet. Tan completed her PhD at the School of Oriental and African Studies, studying Amis aboriginal folk song of Taiwan in interacting contexts of the village, the cultural troupe, the popular music industry, and Christian missionization. Her other interests include music and gender, music and politics, urban ethnomusicology, and connections between music and food cultures. She has published on music, kitsch, media, and politics in Singapore, as well as on aboriginal song in Taiwan. Jeffrey P. Williams is Professor of Anthropology and Chair of the Department of Sociology, Anthropology, and Social Work at Texas Tech University. While his primary area of research and teaching is linguistics, he also has interests in the relationships between music and language. Through his linguistic documentation of the Jarai language he has gained valuable experience regarding the musical life of the Montagnard refugees living in North Carolina. Chuen-Fung Wong is Assistant Professor of Music at Macalester College. He teaches courses on world music and ethnomusicology. His research concerns Uyghur music, racial/ethnic politics, and minority nationalism in northwest China. He is editor and coauthor of Listening to Chinese Music (Commercial Press, 2009). Hon-Lun Yang is Associate Professor at the Department of Music, Hong Kong Baptist University. Her research interests are cross-cultural, specializing in 19thcentury American music and contemporary Chinese music, both serious and popular in style and appeal. She has authored over 20 articles that appeared in journals such as American Music (2003), BLOK (2003), and CHIME (2005), as well as several book chapters. She is currently working on a book about three contemporary Chinese composers: Zhu Jian’er, Luo Zhongrong, and Wang Xilin.
Errata, Asian Music 41:1 An unfortunate error occurred in reproducing several of the figures contained in Christina Sunardi’s “Making Sense and Senses of Locale through Perceptions of Music and Dance in Malang, East Java,” which appeared in Asian Music 41:1. The corrected figures are included here.
Figure 4. Malangan compositional structures identified by Kusnadi compared to standard central Javanese (Solonese) structures (after Brinner 2008). © 2010 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819
Figure 7. Overall structure and musical accompaniment of Beskalan Putri.
Figure 8. Overall structure and musical accompaniment of Ngremo Putri.
Figure 8.5. Please note that this figure appears in Asian Music 41:1 on the bottom of page 112, but is not labeled as “Figure 8.5.”
Figure 11. Comparison of basic mat drumming.
Figure 12. Similar dance movement, different drumming, first mat.
Figure 13. A drum pattern that occurs in Beskalan, but not in Ngremo.
Figure 14. Basic melody of “Gendhing Beskalan” associated with the city/southern Malang, as taught by Kusnadi. (The first line is an introductory melody played one time only.)
Table 1. Key to drum symbols.
