CRITICAL THEMES IN WORLD MUSIC

Critical Themes in World Music is a reader of nine short essays by the authors
of the successful Excursions in World Music, Eighth Edition, edited by Timothy
Rommen and Bruno Nettl. The essays introduce key and contemporary themes
in ethnomusicology—gender and sexuality, coloniality and race, technology and
media, sound and space, and more—creating a counterpoint to the area studies
approach of the textbook, a longstanding model for thinking about the musics
of the world. Instructors can use this flexible resource as a primary or secondary
path through the materials, on its own, or in concert with Excursions in World
Music, allowing for a more complete understanding that highlights the many
continuities and connections that exist between musical communities, regardless
of region. Critical Themes in World Music presents a critically-minded, thematic
study of ethnomusicology, one that serves to counterbalance, complicate, and
ultimately complement the companion textbook.

Timothy Rommen is the Davidson Kennedy Professor in the College and

Professor of Music and Africana Studies at the University of Pennsylvania.
TO THE MEMORY OF BRUNO NETTL (1930–2020)

I continue to believe that fundamentally, despite differences in complexity

and technology, all musics are equal, equally valuable.
“Have You Changed Your Mind?
Reflections on Sixty Years in Ethnomusicology”
(Acta Musicologica, 2017).
 CRITICAL THEMES IN
WORLD MUSIC
A Reader for Excursions in World Music,
Eighth Edition

Edited by
Timothy Rommen
Marié Abe, Andrea F. Bohlman, Richard Jankowsky,
Joshua D. Pilzer, Chérie Rivers Ndaliko, Lei Ouyang,
and Jim Sykes
 First published 2021
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rommen, Timothy, editor. | Abe, Marie, contributor. | Bohlman,
Andrea F., contributor. | Jankowsky, Richard, contributor. | Pilzer,
Joshua D., contributor. | Ndaliko, Chérie Rivers, contributor. |
Ouyang, Lei, contributor. | Sykes, Jim, contributor.
Title: Critical themes in world music : a reader for Excursions in world
music, eighth edition / Timothy Rommen, Marie Abe, Andrea F.
Bohlman, Richard Jankowsky, Joshua D. Pilzer, Cherie Rivers
Ndaliko, Lei Ouyang, Jim Sykes.
Description: New York : Routledge, 2020. | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020012643 (print) | LCCN 2020012644 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781138354562 (hardback) | ISBN 9781138354609 (paperback) |
ISBN 9780429424717 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Ethnomusicology. | World music--History and criticism.
Classification: LCC MT90 .E95 2020a (print) | LCC MT90 (ebook) |
DDC 780.9--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020012643
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020012644

ISBN: 978-1-138-35456-2 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-138-35460-9 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-429-42471-7 (ebk)

Typeset in Galliard
by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire
 CONTENTS

About the Authors vi

Preface viii

1 Introduction 1
TIMOTHY ROMMEN

2 Music, Gender, and Sexuality 10

JOSHUA D. PILZER

3 Music and Ritual 19

RICHARD JANKOWSKY

4 Coloniality and “World Music” 29

CHÉRIE RIVERS NDALIKO

5 Music and Space 40

MARIÉ ABE

6 Music and Diaspora 52

TIMOTHY ROMMEN

7 Communication, Technology, Media 61

ANDREA F. BOHLMAN

8 Musical Labor, Musical Value 71

JIM SYKES

9 Music and Memory 85

LEI OUYANG

Index 93

v
 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Timothy Rommen studied at the University of Chicago and has, since 2002,
taught at the University of Pennsylvania. Working primarily in the Caribbean,
his research interests include coloniality/decoloniality, the political economy of
music and sound, creole musical formations, tourism, diaspora, music and reli­
gion, and the ethics of style. He is the author of “Funky Nassau”: Roots, Routes,
and Representation in Bahamian Popular Music, and “Mek Some Noise”: Gospel
Music and the Ethics of Style in Trinidad.

Marié Abe studied at the University of California, Berkeley and teaches at

Boston University. Working primarily in Japan, the US, and Ethiopia, her
research interests include the politics of sound and public space, affect, social
precarity, as well as the intersection of music, violence, social movements, and
the everyday. She also likes to play the accordion, which helps her to think
about issues of migration, diasporic formations, colonialism, and circulation.
She is the author of Resonances of Chindon-ya: Sounding Space and Sociality in
Contemporary Japan.

Andrea F. Bohlman studied at Harvard University and teaches at the University

of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Her research on music, sound, and social move­
ments in eastern and central Europe was recently published in a book, Musical
Solidarities: Political Action and Music in Late Twentieth-Century Poland. She
has additional interests in listening and media, especially tape recording; migra­
tion and mobilities; nationalisms and dissent; emotion and environment; and
memory work. She also writes on the Eurovision Song Contest.

Richard Jankowsky studied at the University of Chicago and teaches at Tufts

University. His research interests include music of North Africa and the Middle
East, trance and healing, ritual and religion, and rhythmic theory. He is the
author of Stambeli: Music, Trance, and Alterity in Tunisia; and editor of The
Continuum Encyclopedia of Popular Musics of the World: Genres of the Middle East
and Africa.

vi
 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Joshua D. Pilzer studied at the University of Chicago and teaches at the

University of Toronto. His research interests include the relationships between
music, sound, voice, survival, memory, traumatic experience, marginalization,
gendered violence, everyday life, and identity. He is the author of Hearts of Pine:
Songs in the Lives of Three Korean Survivors of the Japanese “Comfort Women,” and
is currently finishing another ethnographic book on the musicality of everyday
life among Korean victims of the atomic bombing of Japan and their children.

Chérie Rivers Ndaliko studied at Harvard University and teaches at the

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She also serves as director of
research and education at Yole!Africa in Goma, DRC. Building on decolonial and
subaltern perspectives, her research and activism on expressive culture, epistemol­
ogy, and ecology seek to subvert global systems of power. Her books include
Necessary Noise: Music, Film, and Charitable Imperialism in the East of Congo and
The Art of Emergency: Aesthetics and Aid in African Crises.

Lei Ouyang studied at the University of Pittsburgh and has, since 2017, taught
at Swarthmore College where she co-directs the Chinese Music Ensemble. She
previously taught at Skidmore College and Macalester College. Her research
interests include memory, politics, race and ethnicity, and social justice. She has
conducted fieldwork in the United States, Japan, People’s Republic of China, and
Taiwan. She is the author of the forthcoming book Music as Mao’s Weapon: Songs
and Memories of the Chinese Cultural Revolution.

Jim Sykes studied at the University of Chicago and teaches at the University of
Pennsylvania. His research interests include music, religion, personhood, moder­
nity, and the politics of disaster in the Indian Ocean region, with a focus on Sri
Lanka and Singapore. He is the author of The Musical Gift: Sonic Generosity in
Post-War Sri Lanka and coeditor with Gavin Steingo of Remapping Sound Studies.

vii
 PREFACE

This reader is designed to accompany the eighth edition of Excursions in World

Music. This new reader includes an introduction and eight chapters on themes
that are central to ethnomusicological inquiry. These include:

• Music, Gender, and Sexuality

• Music and Ritual
• Coloniality and World Music
• Music and Space
• Music and Diaspora
• Communication, Technology, Media
• Musical Labor, Musical Value
• Music and Memory

For Students
Each short chapter (approx. 4,000 words) introduces you to the theme at hand
and then illustrates it with reference to musical examples drawn from at least
three chapters of Excursions in World Music. In so doing, the reader becomes
a way for you to engage with the musics of the world thematically as well as
from the area studies perspective presented in the textbook. The new reader,
too, should be considered a major resource for generating deeper engagement
with and understanding of the musical practices and communities that you
read about in the textbook. Your instructor may choose to assign only a few
chapters from the reader to augment thematically the goals of the course, but it
is equally possible to use the reader as the first point of entry into materials in the
textbook. However the reader is integrated into your classroom experience, it is
my hope that you’ll explore all of the short chapters in order to get a better sense
of the enduring concerns and political stakes that animate ethnomusicological
inquiry.

viii
 PREFACE

For Instructors
Instructors can use this reader as a primary or secondary path through the
materials. Having available both an area studies and a thematic approach to the
materials offers important pedagogical flexibility and also provides students with
additional means of engaging with the musics of the world. This thematic reader
can be integrated into your course plans in any number of ways. Instructors could
choose to introduce students to a chapter from the textbook and then augment
their engagement with that material by assigning a chapter from the reader that
connects, in its examples, to that chapter. Conversely, instructors could decide to
engage a broad theme (such as gender and sexuality, or music and memory) first,
and then follow the examples offered in the reader to the chapters in the textbook
for further study. The goal here is to offer multiple paths through the material,
such that those instructors more comfortable teaching thematically have a strong
set of essays to help organize such an approach while still connecting directly to
the textbook. But, for those instructors who prefer the area studies approach
of the textbook, the reader offers a set of additional readings to generate more
depth, opportunity for classroom discussion, and thematic focus for a few units
within a given semester.
The authors have all contributed essays to this reader with the aim of ensuring
that both students and instructors have at their disposal a rich set of resources
for negotiating the many musics of the world and the equally rich set of critical
themes that emerge as scholars explore the communities within which these
sounds are produced. Just as many instructors will not use all chapters of
Excursions in World Music during a given semester, so too, the reader is designed
for maximum flexibility. The chapters are not ordered consecutively, nor should
instructors feel that students need to read all of them in order to productively
integrate the reader into their course—they can be assigned in any order, and
in any proportion. It is my sincere hope that instructors will find the reader a
welcome and useful addition to this new edition of Excursions in World Music.

Timothy Rommen
Philadelphia, Spring 2020

ix
Taylor & Francis
Taylor & Francis Group
http://taylorandfrancis.com
 1
INTRODUCTION

Timothy Rommen

Music is powerful: it can provide the soundtrack for protest (“We Shall
Overcome,” Black Lives Matter); it drives or accompanies rituals of all sorts
(religious services, healing ceremonies, coronations); it can be mobilized for
propaganda (Chinese “Songs for the Masses”); it can trigger memories of places,
emotions, tastes, and smells (“Auld Lang Syne,” that slow-dance tune from
Prom); it helps us produce solidarities (college team fight songs, indie concerts);
it affects our mood (makes our workout more intense, helps us relax at the
beach); it is used as a marketing tool (advertising jingles, elevator music); and it
drives us to move (whether in the club, at a concert, or in our own living rooms).
Music accompanies us through life (“Happy Birthday,” weddings, children’s
songs), animating much of what we do and contributing to our sense of self
(playlists, fandom). It is, in fact, so ubiquitous that we could be forgiven if we
sometimes take its power for granted in our everyday lives.
But what if we really pay attention to music? What if we listen carefully for
what we can hear, discover, and come to understand through sound? One of the
aims of the discipline of ethnomusicology is to engage deeply with sound and
music in order to come to a better understanding of what it means to be human,
what it means to live in community, and what it means to make social and politi­
cal meaning through sound. As a discipline rooted in the humanities but draw­
ing methodologically from the social sciences (and anthropology, in particular),
ethnomusicology has a lot to offer to those who are interested in these big ideas
and in how they can help us “hear” power, or subjectivity, or memory, among
many other possibilities.

Area Studies?
This short reader, designed to accompany your textbook, Excursions in World
Music, aims to introduce you to some of the critical themes that occupy
ethnomusicology in the contemporary moment. In so doing, it creates a coun­
terpoint with a rather longstanding model for thinking about the musics of
the world within the discipline of ethnomusicology itself. Let me explain: your
textbook, Excursions in World Music, is organized according to a logic that

1
 TIMOTHY ROMMEN

was very prevalent throughout the US academy in the mid- to late-twentieth

century—that is to say, it is organized around the idea of area studies. Although
thinking about music in Maritime Southeast Asia or the Middle East is, without
doubt, one productive way to present some of the musics of the world, it goes
without saying that there are also significant drawbacks to such an organizational
structure. For starters, it can inadvertently suggest a homogeneity within regions
that is not ever as stable or complete as it may seem. A regional approach also
makes it harder to highlight the many continuities and connections that exist
between musical communities that happen to live in different “regions.” Charting
musical migrations or the sounds of shared waterways is just harder to accomplish
within an area studies model.
The important thing to understand about area studies is that it grew out of
US cold war policy, which dictated that understanding the languages, histories,
and cultural practices of those regions not yet aligned with the US or the Soviet
Union would be key to the continued spread of democracy (and with it the
expansion of US interests and influence). The connection to ethnomusicology
(and, by extension, to your textbook) is that significant resources were poured
into universities for the purpose of establishing Area Studies Centers—a turn
of events that had dramatic effects on what it was possible to study and how
such study was structured. Studying cultural areas, thus, became something that
anthropologists and ethnomusicologists did, and it also became something that
they trained their students to do. Structuring courses and textbooks around
regions was a fairly straightforward application of this approach within curricula,
and Excursions in World Music is a good example of this model.
I mention this historical context here because ethnomusicologists, like scholars
in many other disciplines, must be clear-eyed about the lasting impact of what
has been called the colonial matrix of power (Quijano 2000). What I mean
here is that the academy itself bears within its own structures of thought and
institutional practices the intellectual biases and economic benefits of the long
colonial project (and area studies is but one concrete example of this project).
What counts as knowledge? Who gets to decide what is valued and what is not?
What is taught and what is not? Who decides where resources are spent?
This reader offers an opportunity to reflect on how answers to these questions
can offer a foundation for drawing the best from the past while guarding against
any uncritical assumption that current scholarship is somehow “superior.” For
example, this reader is organized along a more contemporary approach revolving
around theme, not region, but this approach, too, has drawbacks. Privileging
themes instead of regions can, for example, inadvertently draw equivalencies
across rather incommensurate musical practices and communities. It can also pay
insufficient attention to those musical practices that complicate or only partially
connect with a particular theme but are, nevertheless, crucial to arriving at a
balanced understanding.
There are good reasons, then, to preserve a critically informed area studies or
regional model of presentation and to pair it with an equally critically-minded

2
 INTRODUCTION

thematic one. These approaches counterbalance and complicate one another and
it is in this spirit that you should engage with this reader. As you read the chapters
in your textbook, you’ll notice that many authors have chosen to take a thematic
approach to their regional coverage, doing a bit of this kind of work even within
each chapter. Each chapter in the reader inverts this presentation of materials and
ideas, introducing a crucial theme that is then illustrated with reference to three
or four musical examples drawn from several different chapters in Excursions in
World Music. In so doing, the goal is to connect both modes of presentation and
thus highlight their strengths.

World Music?
Before thinking a bit more specifically about the aims of this reader and the
chapters themselves, I’d like to briefly explore one more history—the history of
World Music, a concept that appears in the titles of both your textbook and this
reader. In fact, you can think of this as the first “critical theme” to which this
reader is dedicated. World Music is a convenient catch-all term for musics that
fall outside of the North Atlantic (primarily Anglophone) popular music industry.
As such, it can offer a way of grouping together many of the musics of the world.
It is also an industry term that has spawned recording labels, festivals, and tours,
mostly owned, organized, and operated by North Atlantic (read White) interests.
And yet, it is also a term that, since the 1980s, when it started to be used, has
been both exceedingly opaque and incredibly confining/constricting/delimiting
for those artists who find themselves characterized as “world musicians.”
Opaque because it makes no distinction between art musics, traditional prac­
tices, and popular musics. Leaving aside, for the moment, the difficulty of arriv­
ing at any satisfactory definition of these categories in the first place, it is clear that
Hindustani music, joiks, and soca are better thought of as distinct practices rather
than grouped together as examples of “World Music.” A category this capacious
ultimately loses all coherence and explanatory power. Confining/constricting/
delimiting because, once categorized and marketed as “world musicians,” artists
are separated from the North Atlantic music industry, and this despite the fact
that many of these musicians are deeply invested in genres that could easily count
as more intimately connected to the North Atlantic music industry than they are
to “World Music.” For instance, how do we think about Hip Hop in Ghana or
Senegal? R&B or Indie music in India? World Music is, in these cases, revealed as
a market category that confines artists in ways that their practice obviously and
consistently transcends.
World Music is also yet another example of the colonial matrix of power in
the contemporary moment. As articulated by cultural brokers, intellectuals, and
the industry, what counts as art music is, in fact, Western Classical music, and
not Hindustani music or Javanese Gamelan, or the many other art musics the
world over. Those practices are conveniently relegated to the category of World
Music. What counts as popular music, moreover, is sung mostly in English and

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 TIMOTHY ROMMEN

produced in and disseminated from the North Atlantic. This means that “popular
musics” such as Dangdut, or Cumbia, or Soukous, are relegated to the same
category—World Music. The same principle holds for traditional musics of the
“West” versus those from the rest of the world. And this deeply flawed and
colonially-informed logic isn’t just an industry issue. It is translated directly into
the academy by means of courses like “Introduction to World Music” or through
courses that focus on popular music, or art music, but take for granted that the
terrain upon which such courses are built incorporates only the North Atlantic.
The continuing coloniality of World Music has been clear to many within the
industry and the academy for many years. As just one example of this, David
Byrne (of Talking Heads fame), wrote a stinging article for the New York Times,
entitled “I Hate World Music” (Oct 3, 1999), in which he bluntly assessed the
issues I’ve been outlining here. He wrote:

In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of … relegat­

ing this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute,
weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by
definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups
everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them” … It’s a none
too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture.
It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move,
White Man!

So, we would all do well to approach an album, a course, a textbook, or a

reader (like this one), that proposes to deal with World Music with a healthy
dose of skepticism. And yet, the term World Music also offers us an opportunity
to think about how, even as we acknowledge the challenges and difficulties of
the term, we can confront the state of the industry and the academy and then
begin to unpack what we can learn about the musics of the world when we step
outside of this category. In other words, holding World Music in a critical light
offers a starting point for undoing its legacies and logics. So, I’d like to suggest
that continuing to address ourselves to a concept like World Music allows us to
problematize its assumptions, to hold it in tension with the many other ways we
might categorize the musics of the world, and to reveal something of the ongo­
ing specters of coloniality that continue to structure our experiences and even our
curricular options.

Critical Themes
Let’s now turn our attention to thinking about the aims of this companion
reader. Perhaps we should start with a few questions. Why study music at all?
What can we learn from listening to and thinking about the musics of the world
that we couldn’t learn better through attending to other subjects? How does
music afford us access to ways of thinking and being not easily addressed in

4
 INTRODUCTION

other ways? In order to answer these questions, I’ll touch briefly on four broad
categories within which thinking through sound and music can provide particular
insight.

Music and Encounter

Ethnomusicology is a discipline that relies methodologically on fieldwork and
ethnography. As such, one of the distinguishing features of this discipline is
the privileged place accorded to encounters of all sorts. These encounters often
take place between ourselves and the musicians, producers, listeners, and other
interlocutors we work with in the field, but they can also involve our experiences
with new ideas about music or new perspectives on history, to name but two of
many possibilities. As we engage with our interlocutors, then, our encounters
can include a wide range of experiences, including confronting difference, or dis­
covering histories of deep connection. Our encounters can help us work toward
understanding patterns of musical life that revolve around diaspora, or migration,
or exile. Encounters also offer us a foundation from which to wrestle with the
obvious legacies of coloniality in the communities we work among and a starting
point for our attempts to come to terms with histories of violence and trauma.
Our encounters with technology also shape our relationship to sound and music,
both in terms of how we listen, and also in thinking about media flows and the
mechanics of sound production, recording, and distribution.
One of the things that the authors of all the chapters in this reader share is a
deep commitment to thinking with individuals and their communities. And, as
you can imagine, encounters with our fellow world citizens are bound up in very
important considerations around power relationships, the politics of representa­
tion, and questions of reciprocity. All of these concerns around how best to
approach our encounters in the field and our responsibilities and obligations
after we return “home,” moreover, are part of the next category we need to
consider—ethics.

Music and Ethics

Ethnomusicologists face a set of ethical issues in the course of our work. Each
and every time we venture to explore a new project, revisit old friends and
interlocutors, or decide to publish our findings in journals or as films, we need
to consider the ethics of our actions. So let’s think just briefly about the three
areas I mentioned above. You are likely familiar with power relationships in your
own experience. Some of them are fairly commonplace: when you were in middle
school you likely tried to respect your teachers, because they might have given
you a detention if you didn’t; or maybe you were someone’s supervisor at the
job you worked at in high school, in which case you may have had a bit of power
over their work schedule or raises? You’ve also likely encountered situations in
which gender dynamics revealed underlying power differentials? Think here of

5
 TIMOTHY ROMMEN

certain forms of male privilege and entitlement (mansplaining, for instance).

In all of these cases, there is the potential for those with more power in a given
relationship to abuse that in some way.
In the case of ethnomusicologists, these power relationships are somewhat
more complex. We are often in unfamiliar places, beholden to our interlocutors
for guidance and kindnesses as we figure out how to get around and get used
to things. And yet, we are also often only temporary residents in these places
(a semester or two, thanks to a grant), have the ability to return to our univer­
sity campuses or research centers, benefit from a certain freedom of mobility
and access afforded to us by our affiliations (both national and institutional),
and have other forms of power to which our local interlocutors may not have
access. Cultivating an awareness of how we are relating in these situations, and
developing a vigilance about the explicit and implicit power relationships at play
in any given context are thus crucial to our ability to foster equitable and ethical
relationships in the course of our fieldwork.
As a rule, ethnomusicologists tend to be strong advocates for the people,
musics, and cultures they study—people, musics, and cultures which have often
experienced long histories of exclusion or marginalization within North Atlantic
academia. And yet, we also tend to be members of university communities, and
we are often researching and writing for a living (that is, we are producing dis­
sertations, and then articles, films, and books from the encounters we have in the
“field”) and must therefore negotiate additional ethical questions in the process
of translating our encounters with our interlocutors into texts largely consumed
by the scholarly community. These questions and concerns we can group under
the rubric of the politics of representation. Who speaks? Who has the power
to dictate the narrative or storylines? Who gets to decide what gets left out?
There are many ways of addressing these concerns, such as: co-authoring sections
of or whole documents with our interlocutors; circulating drafts of our work
and then engaging with our interlocutors’ responses to it; or, creating multiple
“products/texts” and making them more accessible to the communities we work
with through online repositories, photo essays, films, or oral history projects.
All of these strategies for addressing the politics of representation fall under the
category of reciprocity. That is, what can we do to give even as we receive in these
encounters?

Music and/as Performance

And this brings me to the third category that broadly defines the work of ethno­
musicologists. We are, as a group, alive to the possibilities of performance—and
this both in terms of our own relations (to the “field”; to our interlocutors; to
our institutions; to ourselves) and with regard to the everyday performances
we witness during our encounters. Many of us play music, dance, record, com­
pose, or otherwise engage in such performances as we work in and among the
communities we encounter. We also regularly explore questions such as what

6
 INTRODUCTION

gesture and the body, gender and sexuality, and the performances related to
childhood, or aging, or affect, can teach us about the nature of performance.
There are opportunities here for reciprocity, to be sure, even as there are signifi­
cant theoretical and critical possibilities to be pursued.
It is through our performances (as researchers, musicians, dancers, etc.) that
we also leave traces of our presence and encounters in the field (how could we
not?). As one textbook on ethnographic methods phrases it, we leave “shadows
in the field” (Barz and Cooley 2008). But I’d like to suggest that these traces,
if grounded in shared, ethical, and reciprocal relationships, can be much more
than mere shadows, for they are made up of our own performances in the act
of encounter; of our own performances as we negotiate power relationships; of
our own performances vis-à-vis the politics of representation; and of our own
performances of reciprocity.

Music and Memory

A final category that animates ethnomusicologists can be summed up by the term
memory, by which I mean histories (both written and oral), traditions, myths, ritu­
als, nostalgias, and all the stuff that informs the stories we tell about ourselves and
the myriad ways that we perform those in the contemporary moment. What can
music tell us about those stories? How can music help tell them? What new ques­
tions emerge when we “listen” for memory? What silences do we encounter? How
were they produced and by whom? And what do they mean? Much of what we
wind up writing (or editing into film) is deeply engaged with many of these forms
of memory, and music consistently offers us a means of exploring these from an
artistic and intellectual perspective. Often “listening” to ritual, or myth, or history
through sound and music can generate insights and nuances otherwise difficult
to access. It is also the case that music is often produced by communities whose
performances of memory challenge, subvert, or otherwise push back against offi­
cial narratives and common wisdom. For all of these reasons, ethnomusicologists
attend carefully to the ways that music connects us to memory.

This Reader
The chapters in this reader offer an introduction to several themes that ethno­
musicologists continue to think about. In a series of eight short chapters, the
authors (who have also authored the chapters of your textbook, Excursions in
World Music) outline the political stakes of these themes, demonstrate the kind
of thinking through sound that these themes make possible, and illustrate these
possibilities with reference to musical examples drawn from several chapters of
your textbook. I introduce the topics here, very schematically, just to give you
a sense for what’s ahead. But even as I do so, you’ll notice that you could easily
extend this list yourself. As with any such effort, this reader offers a selective and
necessarily partial statement, but I hope it will be useful to you and spur your

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 TIMOTHY ROMMEN

own thinking about the power of music and the reasons why thinking with sound
can be so rewarding.
Chapter 2, written by Joshua D. Pilzer, concerns itself with the many ways that
music can help us explore, nuance, and problematize questions related to Music,
Gender, and Sexuality. Josh encourages us to wrestle with the ways that gender
and sexuality are, at one and the same time, normalized and contested through
musical performance. Music, in other words, offers both conservative and radical
possibilities in this regard. Chapter 3, authored by Richard Jankowsky, takes us
on a journey through the various registers in which Music and Ritual operate
around the world. Rich helps us think about three powerful registers within
which music and ritual are mobilized: at the level of healing and trance, in
connection with the state and public spectacle, and in the act of listening as
individuals or in groups.
Chapter 4, contributed by Chérie Rivers Ndaliko, wrestles with the history of
Coloniality and “World Music” and the more recent possibilities afforded by
decolonial projects, thinking in particular about how musical performance offers
us the opportunity to begin to name the histories of domination and the violences
accompanying colonial projects. But she also helps us to imagine the terrain upon
which truly decolonial projects can be articulated and the ways in which musi­
cians have already shown us the way. Marié Abe, in Chapter 5, offers a meditation
on Music and Space, giving us a glimpse into the multifarious ways that space
can be thought and made meaningful through musical performance. She helps us
think about how music has been used to reinforce and challenge absolute space,
about how music and space has been theorized within phenomenology, and
about what happens when we think of music and space as relational, emergent,
and connected to the more-than-human.
Chapter 6, entitled Music and Diaspora and written by Timothy Rommen,
explores the patterns, challenges, and possibilities that diasporic communities
face and how music can offer insights into these dynamics. This chapter offers
an exploration of classic instances of diaspora, with examples drawn from the
African diaspora, and then opens onto the musical lives of more recently dis­
placed people and migrant communities in order to think about what music can
provide and mean in such circumstances. Andrea F. Bohlman, who contributes
Chapter 7, helps us gain insight into the relationship between Communication,
Technology, Media, and music. Andrea is interested in helping us understand
the everyday realities of our musical engagements and the ways these are medi­
ated through technology. But she is also deeply invested in getting us to think
about how technology, media, and communication actively shape the meanings
that music accrues as it is disseminated.
Chapter 8, authored by Jim Sykes, explores the notions of Musical Labor
and Musical Value in global perspective. In this chapter, Jim illustrates how
very differently musical value and musical labor are conceptualized as we explore
examples from different communities around the world. A final chapter, entitled
Music and Memory and written by Lei Ouyang, helps us think about how

8
 INTRODUCTION

powerfully music and memory are linked. She introduces us to several paired
terms that help explore this theme, including: performer and listener, individual
and collective, content and process, and past and present. As each of these sec­
tions unfolds, Lei builds an increasingly nuanced and rich framework for thinking
about the dynamic relationship between music and memory.
There is no doubt that many “critical themes” could be added to this collec­
tion of essays. For instance, it would be wonderful to include a chapter on music
and the everyday, or a chapter on music, violence, and trauma, or a chapter
engaged with music and disability, or childhood. It would be fabulous, moreover,
to consider music and social justice, or music and Indigenous rights, or music
and the environment, and perhaps future editions of this reader will do just that.
But, as I pointed out at the beginning of this Introduction, one of the aims of
the discipline of ethnomusicology is to engage deeply with sound and music in
order to come to a better understanding of what it means to be human, what
it means to live in community, and what it means to make social and political
meaning through sound. The chapters that are included here are a step toward
doing just that—toward understanding the power of music to help us intervene
in, nuance, and explore issues that concern us all. It is my hope that you will
encounter in the pages that follow roadmaps and prompts for engaging meaning­
fully with sound and music, and consistent encouragement to think about what
music might reveal not only about yourself, but also about the communities you
are connected to, and perhaps even about all of us.

References
Barz, Gregory and Timothy J. Cooley. 2008. Shadows in the Field: New Perspectives for
Fieldwork in Ethnomusicology. 2nd edition. New York: Oxford University Press.
Quijano, Aníbal. 2000. “Coloniality of Power and Eurocentrism in Latin America.”
International Sociology 15/2: 215–232.

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 2
MUSIC, GENDER, AND SEXUALITY

Joshua D. Pilzer

Excursions in World Music is filled with examples of music’s role in the creation
and maintenance of selfhood and identity. These identities may be national, they
may concern ideas about race, class, place, era, or other things. But they are as
typically based, if not more so, in notions of gender and sexuality. Ask yourself:
what percentage of the songs you know are about love? If they are about love,
they are likely about people who love; and they propagate ideas about who should
love whom, and how. There are many other ways that music can be about gender
and sexuality, but the love song is rather a central one.
Imagine a country singer who identifies as a heterosexual man, who wakes
up to discover he is no longer Texan, but Australian. He might struggle with
the Vegemite and other things, but within a relatively short time he would have
settled down to being an Australian country singer. Now imagine instead that he
woke up a Texan woman, or a trans woman, or a gay man. How much harder
would it be to put on those hats? And what would she/he sing then? Yes, some
of our identities, however precious we claim them to be, would be more easily
shifted than others. Gender and sexual identities are perhaps the two that most
people cling to the most urgently, often violently, and rehearse most earnestly in
musical performance, often without realizing it.
There are several reasons why music gets called up for the delicate work of man­
aging gendered and sexual identities. First of all, music, like many other expres­
sive arts, is based in performance, and it puts the body on the line. Performing
bodies and voices are put on stages, screens, and recordings; and these voices and
bodies become recognizable types of the basic categories of culture—women,
men, children, others—and perform relationships between them. Music becomes
a means of teaching people what gendered and sexual identities are sanctioned
and which are not. And it becomes, at the same time, a place where the rules of
this propriety are contested, transgressed, suspended, and reworked.
Second, music is a cultural resource for the working out and the socializa­
tion of gendered and sexual identities because it has a malleability that suits it
to expressing these fluid concepts of culture. Music is, except for in the most
extreme instances, characterized by plasticity and flexibility, no matter how
people may try to pin it down or rationalize it. Even the most austere, canonized,

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 MUSIC, GENDER, AND SEXUALITY

and worshipped musics the world over, which are assumed to be preserved and
transmitted without alteration, change radically over time, and even from perfor­
mance to performance.
Take a moment to consider the fluidity of gender and sexuality in unexpected
places. An example: you are listening to a well-known pop-country song in which
an unspecified man, assumed to be the singer, hops on horseback and rides into
a large city, hoots at pretty “girls” (women, we hope), and is met with the titular
reply from these women: “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!” This song, sung by
two men, seems to present an aggressively simple, heterosexual version of love,
or perhaps just sex, or perhaps just masculinity, and love and sex and women are
only important as foils for that masculinity. So why would the protagonist ride a
horse in an act of male mastery, only to turn around and become the mastered
horse?
Most people grow up urged to take certain sexes, genders and sexualities for
granted, and to consider others abhorrent. And yet even in this song, with such
conventional notions of gender and sexuality in the air, love, sex, gender, and
sexuality are not straightforward in the least. They are messy and nuanced to a
degree, and above all they are mobile (de Beauvoir 1953). That is why states,
societies, and cultures—including musical ones—expend such energy and inflict
such violence in efforts to make it seem otherwise. But it is also a reason why
there are so many love songs, and why so many people marginalized by these
fictions and their violences take refuge in music and dance.
From the beginnings of ethnomusicology, scholars have encountered a range
of gender roles that has made it impossible to believe that there are only two
“natural” genders, male and female. Indigenous peoples of North America and
the Pacific have long made space in culture for third and fourth genders—people
assigned female at birth who occupy the roles of men, and vice versa, nowadays
referred to by the shorthand “two spirited.” There are numerous other exam­
ples of third and fourth genders in South Asia, Southeast Asia, and elsewhere.
Almost all these peoples were victims of colonial criminalization, marginalization,
“conversion therapies,” and other horrors. In addition to this, even in cultures
that have binary conceptions of gender, the concepts of “woman” and “man”
are radically different around the world. In traditional Korea, for instance, a
male person only became a “man” at marriage, and unmarried males of any age
were considered boys. For these reasons the social sciences distinguish sex,
referring to chromosomal, hormonal, and anatomical sexual characteristics,
and gender, referring to a social role, as distinct entities. Humanity’s general,
although far from absolute, tendency to two sets of sexual characteristics, called
sexual dimorphism, does not map automatically onto two genders. That so many
people believe it does is a measure of how much effort patriarchal societies have
put into trying to stamp out the gender diversity of our world in the interest of
further consolidating their own power.

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 JOSHUA D. PILZER

Musical Constructions/Articulations of
Gender and Sexuality
Sex is a matter of biology; but it is quite complex, involving chromosomes,
hormones, and anatomy that often diverge from one another and spread out
into continua which link poles of so-called female and male sex characteristics.
This complexity makes it quite reasonable to consider the enforcement of sexual
dimorphism as natural law and processes of sex assignment to be functions of
gender ideology. Gender, by contrast, is entirely socially constructed. This is
quite different from saying it is a fiction; it is no less real than anything else
people make. What it does mean, however, is that there are observable, historical
processes by which genders come to be, and that they can be witnessed “under
construction,” maintenance, and remodeling in the moment. This is because
gender is constantly being performed (see Butler 1988); the performing arts
and music, with their frequent focus on voices and bodies, are central to these
processes. One perspective on gender is to observe the performative making
of gender roles. Virtually every performance reported in Excursions in World
Music has something to do with the performance of gender.
In her seminal work The Second Sex (1953), Simone de Beauvoir wrote that the
concept of woman is typically designed to be purposefully vague, because it needs
to be able to change to accommodate the changeable concept of “man,” which is
similarly vague and which it is designed and redesigned to help define by contrast.
The exigencies of history, in other words, require different (male) subjects, and
that means that as the gender “man” changes to suit circumstances, “woman”
transforms as well. This changeability and ambiguity assure that there are any
number of concepts of men and women under construction, maintenance, and
revision at any one time in a musical culture. To take “woman” as an example:
there are good wives and mothers whom men must protect; wild women who
have broken men’s hearts, or whom men must tame; fallen women who represent
to us the tragedies of life; objects of desire whom men pursue, often in vain, thus
confirming the ideality of love in its unrequitedness.
These “many faces of woman” may seem like just more and more ways that real
women are backed into corners and deprived of real chances at subjectivity, and
indeed that is part of de Beauvoir’s argument. But the necessity of performing
these roles puts real women in places of real power, however constrained; and the
inherent ambiguity of the roles themselves is a source of power as well, indicating
as it does a latitude of which women can take advantage.
The origins of the Algerian popular music called raï provide one example.
In the first decades of the 20th century, shaykha female singers who entertained
in cabarets and other venues in the port city of Oran “were both singers and
dancers who used their voices and bodies to crystalize desire in their male audi­
ences” (see Excursions, Chapter 3). This forum, based in the power of seduction,
enabled Shaykha Remitti, the “mother of raï,” to sing of current political issues,
migration, religion, and the sufferings of the marginalized, and to found an

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 MUSIC, GENDER, AND SEXUALITY

entire genre which would take North Africa and parts of Europe by storm as
a form of social critique. The nightlife culture became a space outside of the
everyday where extraordinary things could happen, including the construction of
new gendered persons. Shaykha took stage names to protect their families, and
reinvented themselves as a new kind of woman with a new kind of voice. They
became symbols of modernity as women defying traditional gender prohibitions,
and invented raï as a genre of social critique, pathos, and entertainment, and
a “voice of modernity” (see Weintraub and Barendregt 2017 for many other
examples of this phenomenon worldwide).
The gender “under construction” in the early history of raï is thus a complex
one, a new, modern woman, with a new social power, preoccupied with a struggle
for respectability. The struggle was particularly intense because the shaykha were
women of high social power but low social prestige, historically associated with
brothels and prostitution. They were one of many different kinds of performer
who demonstrate the deep connections between entertainment and sexual labor,
between musical expression and amorous play, between art, exploitation, and
power.
With the liberation of Algeria from France in 1962 the new government
clamped down on the entertainment culture in which the shaykha thrived,
and while it continued as an alternative space of culture, men became the new
standard bearers of the emergent genre. Women still frequented the nightlife
spaces of raï, but as patrons, not singers. Women could still be found singing the
risqué songs of raï at weddings, a rather more respectable setting that allowed
them to shake former associations with sex work and that, at least seemingly,
put the music in service of conventional social reproduction. The cabaret scene
remained a space beyond everyday conventions, however, and now became a
forum for men to diverge from conventional forms of masculinity and “display
indeterminate markers of sexual identity” (Schade-Poulsen 1999: 141). These
transgressions, however, were often accompanied at the cabaret by compensating
gestures of hyper-masculinity, often resulting in violent brawls between singers
and patrons (ibid.: 142). One can also see this in much global heavy metal musi­
cal culture, which often sees machismo and violence performed in direct propor­
tion to the amount of transgendering in play. Such relative freedom to display
non-normative sexual and gender identities was extended to the atmosphere
of wedding performance as well, but no counterbalancing display of normative
sexualities was required.
We have not yet spoken directly of sexuality, or relations and identities based in
sexual desire. Gender is not always defined with reference to sexuality; for instance,
one can be asexual but have a clearly articulated gender identity. But in the above
example the two are rather inextricably intertwined. If genders are social posi­
tions, sexuality is one of the most important relations that links them; and
it coalesces into sexual identities which may fortify or destabilize genders. In any
case, musical and other performances of gender, like those in raï described above
and in the textbook, are often accomplished through presentations of desire,

13
 JOSHUA D. PILZER

which are often proclamations of sexual identity as well. Sexual identities seem to
be less constructed than discovered and experienced by each of us; but like every­
thing else, they are processual, worked out in performance, and articulated and
coded using pre-existing or emergent systems of signification. We can see these
processes of articulation in the case of the non-normative sexualities struggling
to define themselves in and around raï.

Gender, Sexuality, and the Voice

Turning away from North Africa, we find a very different story of gender con­
struction told by the rise of Bollywood film music over the course of the twentieth
century in India—one that centers, in part, around the voice. As female perform­
ers sought new modes of respectability that would enable public performance
and participation in public life, they turned away from the full-throated voices
of traditional female singers, many of whom had been courtesans themselves
and like the shaykha associated with sexual labor. A new, “high-pitched, nasal-
sounding female voice” became conventional; a deferential, hyperfeminine voice
suited to the “good-wife-and-motherly” ideals of the emergent middle classes.
The voice was associated in particular with two sisters, Lata Mangeshkar and Asha
Bhosle, who together recorded many thousands of songs for film playback (see
Excursions, Chapter 2). At the same time, a gentle, boy-next-door voice became
conventional for male singers, similar to the “civil voice” which Martin Stokes
describes arising in the history of Turkish popular music at much the same time
(2010: 77), one which also bore the unmistakable signs of the intimacy of new
cardioid microphone technology, which enabled this kind of vocal intimacy on
record and in live performance. These new voices became, through popular circu­
lation, the mechanism by which gendered voices in India, Turkey, and elsewhere
were radically reformed. There are similar stories to be told in North America
about the rise of crooners in popular music and the transformation of male and
female voices. All of these, taking genders and their right relations as the founda­
tion, were means of creating new notions of what it meant to be Indian, Turkish,
American, both ethnically and in terms of civic participation; and they were part
of the means by which emergent middle classes consolidated power.

Gender, Sexuality, and Power

The nuances of gender and sexuality in performance are often centrally about
power. Unsurprisingly the cultures of domination which sprang up under coloni­
alism, which has impacted all of the worlds of music discussed in Excursions, often
centrally involved tropes and practices of gender and sexuality. A main thrust of
the “orientalist” imagination (see Said 1979) of the British in South Asia and
the Middle East, the Japanese throughout East and Southeast Asia, and other
imperial powers has framed colonial subjects and entire territories, as female,
and in need of male imperial tutelage or stewardship. Subaltern performers have

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 MUSIC, GENDER, AND SEXUALITY

often been made to fulfill these Orientalist fantasies in performance, and have
inadvertently helped in their creation. And in the wake of such colonial cultures,
post-colonial nation states have often undergone rather explicit processes of
“masculinization,” meant to undo the supposed feminization of culture which is
cast as either an enforced effect of colonialism or purportedly one of the reasons
why the country was colonized in the first place. One example is the effort to
“remasculinize” Korean epic story-singing (pansori) (see Excursions, Chapter 5).
In contrast with colonial “feminizations” of culture and people, colonial and
neo-colonial stereotypes of “Africa,” described in the “Music of Sub-Saharan
Africa” chapter of Excursions, are often informed by notions of African men,
in particular, as hyper-masculine to the point of “savagery.” Thus “Africa” is
portrayed as in need of the stewardship of a domesticated, Western masculinity
at the level of the colonial state; and African women, in particular, are painted
as helpless, in need of rescuing from unspeakable violence by Western or other
first-world elites (see Ndaliko 2016, Chapter 4). The reality on the ground is
quite different, as the remarkable catalog of women’s musical activism at the
end of Excursions, Chapter 8 testifies, much of which has been notably more
effective in combatting violence against women than the efforts of Western
charitable concerns. But these stereotypes are very difficult to dislodge. They
cling to the African diaspora wherever it goes; they are one reason why so many
African-American boys and men are murdered by authorities and others every
year. And despite the central roles of African-American men (and women) and
other people of color in the development of American LGBTQ+ scenes—for
instance in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s and ’30s and the Greenwich
gay scene of the 1960s—stereotypes of black men and their musics as “hyper­
masculine straight” are still commodity #1 in North American popular culture.
This is yet another example of social power without social prestige. The collisions
of gender, sexuality, and race are classic examples of intersection: when different
modes of social identity overlap in processes of privilege or oppression.

Alternatives
The musical performance of gender and sexuality has so much to do with power
and domination that it might occasionally appear to have little to offer those
who don’t identify with normative genders or sexual identities. But we also find
within culture many alternative spaces of performance that people have designed
to allow them relative freedom of self and expression, although these scenes may
be coopted by mainstreams and made into commodities for sale. The 1990s
New York City gay dance culture which Buckland describes (2002), where men
strove to be themselves free of social constraint in the rarified spaces of clubs
and dancefloors, is but one species of a global phenomenon with many forms.
Looking to traditional musics, many people of non-normative sexual identities
and genders find their way into traditional performance roles. The vocation of
musician, dancer, or performer is in many places traditionally considered an

15
 JOSHUA D. PILZER

alternative social position already, and tends to recruit from amongst people who
are already marginalized. Signing on to one of these vocations condemns people
to high social power and low social prestige, and to a unique place which is at
once central to and marginal within culture. There are kinds of participation,
however, which do not involve this sort of full-time commitment, in which the
rarified space of selfhood becomes a positive complement to the rest of life.
There are several instances of such alternative spaces in Excursions. Korea has
rich traditions of homosexual and transgender cultural practice, often associated
with the performing arts, and homosexuality was rather more permitted in Korea
than the West until the neo-Confucian Joseon Dynasty (1392–1910). The strict
social strictures of the Joseon Dynasty compelled elites to repress or conceal
homosexual practice, but a well-known culture of male homosexuality flour­
ished among lower-class namsadang itinerant performers from the late Joseon
Dynasty into the twentieth century. Homosexuality was decriminalized in 1948,
the year of the end of the US occupation of South Korea, long (55 years) before
decriminalization was effective throughout the United States. Nonetheless, neo-
Confucianist conservatism about gender and sexuality persists, and LGBTQ+
people struggle for acceptance, although, as elsewhere, much progress has been
made.
Korean shamanism has long served as a space of relative acceptance of gendered
and sexual difference. In shamanist performance, shamans dress as maidens,
as shamans, as male warriors, and as a host of spirits—some male, some female,
others non-specified in terms of gender. Shamans modulate their voices and
behaviors as they are possessed by the various spirits as well. There is a tremen­
dous fluidity in performance of gendered appearance, voice, and behavior, and
this means that in performance shamans are at liberty to deviate from the genders
associated with their assigned sex, and from the sexuality which is assumed to cling
to it. This fluidity, part of the liminal character of ritual performance, has become
part of the cultural space in which ritual practitioners live. Although most Korean
spirit-descended shamans are female, there is a small minority of men who are
drawn to shamanism as well. There is a small culture of gay male shamans in the
ecstatic tradition; and there are many women who embrace the transgendering
aspects of shamanism as identities in themselves. Same-sex relationships are not
openly celebrated, but they are not uncommon. Some contemporary shamans
have come forward as allies in support of LGBTQ+ rights.
We find a similar case in Myanmar’s Taungbyone Nats Festival, an annual
event held in honor of the spirit pantheon in which supplicants make offerings
to different spirits, one of many such animist events throughout Southeast Asia,
others of which are described in Chapter 7 of Excursions. The spirit–human con­
nection is managed by spirit mediums called nat kadaws, a term often translated
as “spirit wives.” Since the 1980s, transgender gay men have entered the nat
kadaw vocation, and the Festival has become a rare occasion where they are
able to be public about their gendered and sexual identities. Not every culture
values publicity the way Western liberal thought does, and equates it so closely

16
 MUSIC, GENDER, AND SEXUALITY

with freedom; some queer theorists have criticized this attitude as derived from
masculinist thinking about the nature of freedom as the phallic (or phallocen­
tric, or phallogocentric (Derrida 1981)) domination of public space (see Sinnott
2013). Put slightly hyperbolically, whereas the Western liberal subject has to fly
a banner proclaiming itself from a giant phallic symbol in the town square to be
considered truly free, in other parts of the world privacy can be a measure or a
site of freedom, and does not automatically equal or index repression. Publicity,
privacy, and intimacy do not always configure or line up in such tidy ways anyway.
The Taungbyone Festival is, by all accounts, an important annual event that helps
consolidate the Burmese gay/transgender community; but understanding the
significance of its publicity and of the public nature of its performances must be
determined through careful research.
We have had only a few pages to consider the vast complexities of music as a
gendered and sexual practice; there are many paths we could take from here. I
end by listing some of the themes in this essay:

• The performative construction of gender

• Expressions of sexual identity in musical performance
• Musical performances of gender and sexuality vis-à-vis relations of power
• Body, movement, and dress in musical performance
• The voice as a medium of teaching and propagating gender and sexual
ideology
• Musical constructions of normative gender roles and sexual identities
• Fluidity and change in music and in gendered/sexual practice
• The creation of musical spaces for alternative gendered and sexual practices
and identities
• Intersections of gender, sexuality, race, and national identity under colonial­
ism and in general.

Do be on the lookout for other intersections as well—with class, with age, ability,
and other parameters of culture—as you work through the various themes of this
reader and encounter the many musical practices in Excursions.

References
de Beauvoir, Simone. 1953. The Second Sex. New York: Knopf.
Buckland, Fiona. 2002. Impossible Dance: Club Culture and Queer World-Making.
Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press.
Butler, Judith. 1988. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in
Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal 40/4 (December): 519–531.
Derrida, Jacques. 1981. Dissemination. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Ndaliko, Chérie Rivers. 2016. Necessary Noise: Music, Film, and Charitable Imperialism in
the East of Congo. New York: Oxford University Press.
Said, Edward. 1979. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books.

17
 JOSHUA D. PILZER

Schade-Poulsen, Marc. 1999. Men and Popular Music in Algeria. Austin, TX: University
of Texas Press.
Sinnott, Megan. 2013. “Dormitories and Other Queer Spaces: An Anthropology of Space,
Gender, and the Visibility of Female Homoeroticism in Thailand.” Feminist Studies
39/2: 333–356.
Stokes, Martin. 2010. The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music.
Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Weintraub, Andrew, and Bart Barendregt. 2017. Vamping the Stage: Female Voices of Asian
Modernities. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

18
 3
MUSIC AND RITUAL

Richard Jankowsky

Scholars have long been fascinated by ritual. Rituals order calendrical and life cycle
progressions (holidays, birthdays, graduations, weddings, funerals), connect indi­
viduals to larger social solidarities (festivals, parades, protests), and provide some
of our most profound transcendental spiritual experiences (religious rites, trance
healing ceremonies). They put into play highly charged cultural symbols evoking
history, myth, kinship, politics, morality, spirituality, and belonging to act upon
people’s experience of cosmological, political, and personal power. It is important
to note, however, that the concept of ritual is not a universal category of human
action, but rather, an intellectual category devised to help us understand a range
of those actions. Thus, there is no universally valid definition of ritual. However,
just as all societies have sonic practices that approximate the English-language
concept of “music,” activities defined as “ritual” are present across the globe and
have certain general family resemblances. Ritual, in the sense I’m using it, is an
activity involving others that uses symbolic communication and performance to
create an immersive experience deliberately located apart from the “everyday”
world. It exercises the imagination to provide participants with a profound sense
of what is possible. It is often teleological—that is, it moves toward a predictable
goal—and therefore provides an experience of social synchrony through time.
Ethnomusicological studies reveal that, when music is involved, ritual is not
merely accompanied by music, but instead often serves as a showcase highlight­
ing music’s capacity to act on individuals and society.
Because some of the most influential studies of ritual focused on practices such
as African initiation rites, Australian totemism, and Balinese ritual combat drama,
ritual is sometimes associated with the “traditional” practices of “other” societies.
However, ritual is prevalent, in many guises, in all societies, including twenty-first
century North America, where people engage in ritual practices to pursue socially
meaningful, personally transformative, heightened experiences of their world. As
Joshua Pilzer argues in Chapter 5 of Excursions, even rituals that are anchored
to a sense of a timeless past continue to speak to contemporary concerns and
issues and are productively understood to be “resolutely modern.” This chapter
examines three domains of ritual experience as it relates to music: (1) trance
healing rituals in which music is understood to facilitate encounters with unseen

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beings; (2) rituals of state and public spectacle in which music acts to provide a
sense of solidarity that may reinforce (or challenge) political power; and (3) the
ritualization of musical listening, whereby, for example, attending concerts can
become a ritual act with outcomes similar to so-called traditional rituals.
Before moving on to our case studies, a few words on the transformational
potential of ritual and the power of music are in order. While ritual commonly
reworks social relationships, it is also individually transformative. Arnold van
Gennep (2004 [1909]) proposed a three-part model of the experience of rites of
passage involving (1) separation: the initiate is separated from the everyday world
of society and enters the space of ritual; (2) liminality: in ritual, the initiate is in
a deeply transformative yet ambiguous state of betweenness where they detach
from their previous identity and gain new experiences and perspectives; and (3)
reaggregation: the initiate returns to society transformed, with a new status in
society. Van Gennep’s model can be applied as much to healing rituals in which
patients enter ill and leave healed as it can to the experience of college students
going through the ritualized experiences of entering a specific place and finite
period of higher learning before reincorporating into society at commencement
with a new status of degree-holding graduate. Victor Turner’s (1970) study of the
ritual process zeroed in on the stage of liminality, finding in it a profound space of
in-betweenness that also produces a sense of solidarity he called “communitas.”
This sense of communitas has been linked to the role of music in ritual. In his
study of a South African spirit possession ritual, John Blacking (1985) elaborated
how music in such contexts is felt to be so powerful because it produces a strong
sense of “fellow-feeling” for all participants, not only those who become pos­
sessed by ancestor spirits. In his example, several types of participant take part in
the ceremony: musicians and dancers of the local ritual community, members of
neighboring ritual communities, non-member audience members who join in the
performance, and spectators who do not perform. Blacking’s holistic approach to
ritual accounts for the transformative experience of all constituencies. He argues
that, through the music, all those gathered have access to heightened experiences
of the self and other, manifest in fellow-feeling (the social) and a transcendent
sense of self (the individual). The work of music in ritual, then, is closely bound
up with this interface between the self, others, and larger forces (political, social,
and spiritual) and continually reinforces its own capacity to create the conditions
for individuals to transcend their everyday selves.

Rituals of Healing and Trance

In many rituals of healing, music is used to create the conditions for individuals
to enter into trance, a heightened or altered state of consciousness that some
ritual communities cultivate to gain access to a domain of unseen beings. Gilbert
Rouget’s (1980) monumental study of music and trance concluded that there
are no specific rhythms, melodies, instrumentation, or other musical features that
automatically cause trance in listeners. Rather, trancers are culturally conditioned

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to respond to musics associated with trance in their own societies; as such, trance
musics in one culture tend to differ substantially from trance musics in other
cultures. Music tends to be necessary for eliciting trance states, yet there are
no musical universals for doing so. This is one of many paradoxes of trance and
music that also include the performance of private suffering in public settings
and the high degree of self-control that is necessary for entering a state in which
trancers give up control of the self. Another is in the realm of temporality: while
trance rituals often mark the passage of time, they also have their own internal
temporality, built on an “architecture of time” (Rouget 1986) provided by music.
Spirit possession and shamanism are two cases in point.
Spirit possession and shamanism are two broad categories of ritual that involve
healing and rely on music for efficacy. In spirit possession, an individual is under­
stood to be temporarily inhabited, ridden, or displaced by possessing spirits,
while shamanism often operates in the opposite fashion, with the shaman’s soul
understood to depart the body for a journey into the world of spirits (although
shamans can also be possessed by spirits). The more categorical difference, how­
ever, is that in spirit possession, the patient in need of healing is the one who
is inhabited by the spirit; the patient’s trance dance is central to her own heal­
ing process. By contrast, in shamanism the shaman heals others. Chapter 3 in
Excursions described a spirit possession ceremony in North Africa, where spirits
from sub-Saharan Africa are summoned through musical sounds and instruments
associated with the history of sub-Saharan migrations into North Africa.
Like similar rituals performed in Morocco and Algeria, the Tunisian stambeli
ceremony involves the invocation of dozens of spirits (and several Muslim saints).
Because each spirit has his or her own song, the musical repertoire is as large
as the pantheon of spirits. Music is absolutely necessary to summon the spirits;
without it, there can be no ceremony, and no healing. The purpose of the music
is to attract the spirit, who will descend into ritual once he or she hears their song,
which not only praises the spirit but also must be played skillfully to entice the
spirit. In fact, if patients fail to fall into trance, a different (usually older, more
experienced) set of musicians may be hired to try to correct the problem. Musical
aptitude, then, is particularly important in spirit possession ceremonies, and ritual
efficacy is largely in the hands of musicians. A successful trance experience entails
the spirit accepting the invitation to descend into ritual, where it inhabits the
body of the dancing host (the patient), until the spirit has had its fill of this rare
opportunity to experience the power of the human world through music and
dance.
A stambeli ritual depends on the effective deployment of the distinctive sounds
of its bass-register lute (gumbrıˉ) and iron clappers (shqa ˉshiq), both of which
index a sub-Saharan otherness that is at once associated with stambeli’s power
to deal with African spirits and its history of social marginalization. Beyond
the sounds themselves, the ritual is structured according to a “chain” (silsila)
of songs that brings each spirit to the ritual space in a loosely prescribed order.
Each of these songs relies on a short, cyclic rhythmic ostinato that provides a

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cushion of reliably predictable movement through time. These rhythms increase

in speed as the dancer’s trance increases in intensity (compare the beginning and
ending tempo of the listening example “Sıˉdıˉ Marzu ˉ g” in Excursions, Chapter 3).
Ritual time and efficacy relies on the aesthetic forces of music at the macrolevel
(structuring of the ceremony) and the microlevel (creating the conditions for the
trajectory of each trance dance).
Musical performance is equally important to shamanism (see Excursions,
Chapter 5). In Korea, where two forms of shamanism are practiced, the music
comes from the wellspring of traditional Korean music—unlike the migrational
history of stambeli. In ecstatic shamanism, in the central and northwest regions
of Korea, the shaman is possessed by spirits who then offer advice to and help the
shaman manage the patient’s afflictions caused by imbalances in the spirit world.
In hereditary shamanism, limited to the southwestern part of the peninsula, sha­
mans play more of a priestly role, serving as a mediator between humans and spir­
its in a less embodied way in rituals that are now declining in demand, albeit still
active particularly in funeral rites. Music in ecstatic shamanism, based on the
janggo hourglass drum and other drums and gongs, supports every stage of the
ceremony, from opening instrumental pieces and the shaman’s chants invoking
the spirit to the dance performed by the shaman as she becomes possessed. More
music proceeds as the spirit demands various forms of entertainment, and there is
also a closing chant and dance to send off the spirit. But this description does not
do justice to the way that music transforms the ritual sense of time through shifts
between patterns, increases in tempo, and sudden endings. The ritual journey of
the shamanic ceremony may oscillate between metered rhythmic patterns and
free rhythmic sections. A free rhythmic section may gradually become regular,
accelerating and turning into a rhythmic pattern (such as jandgan), effectively
creating order, regularity, and intensity out of the flowing nature of the free
rhythm passages.
The sounds of trance rituals situate participants in a space where notions of
time and space are collapsed. Spirits representing neighboring societies and dif­
ferent historical eras are brought together in the same ritual, evoking social
and political transformations. In Tunisia, timeless spirits from sub-Saharan Africa
migrated along with stambeli’s originators, sharing space with spirits represent­
ing nineteenth-century Ottoman rulers and Muslim saints from the thirteenth
to the twentieth centuries. Political leaders sought out stambeli publicly, for
example in performances for the Ottoman court in the nineteenth century, and
privately, as members of the president’s family sought out the healing services
of stambeli ritual in the twenty-first century. In Korea, shamanism responds to
national tragedies such as the financial crisis of 1997, the suicide of the former
president in 2009, and a tragic ferry sinking in 2014. Shamanism and spirit
possession, then, react to and absorb worldly, political powers. And the opposite
is true: such political powers have also relied on the power of ritual, as the next
section illustrates.

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Rituals of State and Public Spectacle

Public rituals of state also enlist music in invoking powers, but those powers
are worldly, political ones (although some may be understood to derive their
power from the unseen realm of divinities). In our global geography, defined by
borders between countries, each nation-state depends on bringing together three
elements: a bounded geographic territory, a ruling apparatus, and the idea of a
unified “people.” Certain musical systems are used to legitimize political power
through ritual musical performance. Asian court musics, for example, performed
in ceremonies at royal courts and temples, signify prestige and authority, and gov­
ernments have lavished resources on them to maintain their vitality. A Confucian
philosopher once noted that giving verbal commands is less effective than enact­
ing rituals because verbal commands always carry with them the possibility that
the subject will consider doing the opposite. Rituals are more effective because
they have no opposite (Turino 2008: 195).
The Maritime Southeast Asia chapter in Excursions (see Chapter 7) describes
the importance of orchestral gong music to political authority across the region,
focusing especially on the Indonesian states of Bali and Java. In Java, elaborate
and expensive bronze gamelan orchestras are given proper names and offerings
are made to them; the largest gongs can take a month to build. The instru­
ments of the gamelan orchestra were ritual objects invested with power, not only
because of the high value of bronze, but also because the highly ritualized forging
process combines elemental substances (metal) and elemental forces (fire) associ­
ated with the supernatural (Spiller 2008: 47). The elaborate gamelan orchestras
of the courts were not only symbols of wealth and prestige but also symbolized
the legitimacy and power of rulers. Gamelan performances were central aspects of
public ceremonies that demonstrated the potency of political authority by attract­
ing followers and competing with the followings and ceremonies of neighboring
leaders (Errington 1989: 286).
But there is much more to the ritual power of gamelan. First, the structure
of the music is understood to represent the structure of the universe, with a
cyclic ordering of time interpreted as mirroring the progress of time and space,
thus embodying the cosmic order (Spiller 2008: 70). Second, gamelan’s musical
stratification mimics Javanese social stratification: in both cases, each musical part
or social class has its place in the social hierarchy and must fulfill its “designated
role” in “maintaining the status quo” (Spiller 2008: 70). According to Henry
Spiller, by “regarding the exaggerated musical stratification in gamelan music
as beautiful, listeners are predisposed to accept social stratification as the natural
order of things,” and gamelan music thus participates in normalizing people’s
acceptance of limited access to that power and prestige (Spiller 2008: 70). After
Indonesian independence, court styles became redefined as national heritage, and
new arts academies and performance contexts emerged that nevertheless main­
tain the chains of value connecting contemporary performance with the prestige
and power of ancient Javanese courts. One gamelan piece associated with the

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courts that is still performed in many different gamelan settings is “Puspawarna,”

which announces the arrival of the prince (see Listening Guide in Excursions,
Chapter 7). Listen to how different instruments play at different rates of speed
to create a hierarchical layering whereby the largest instruments are struck less
frequently than small instruments; the largest gong, which orients the timeline of
the piece, is struck every 16 beats.
Gagaku in Japan illustrates the role of music in sonically legitimizing national
authority. Gagaku was the music and dance of the Japanese imperial court as
far back as the eighth century, when it established the Gagaku Institute to train
court musicians. Featuring a solo voice and a small heterophonic instrumental
ensemble, it is associated with refinement and elegance; the term gagaku, which
translates to “virtuous,” connects music to highly regarded social values. Over
the centuries, gagaku remained associated with imperial power, even when the
imperial system was replaced by the shogun system (1603–1868). When the Meiji
empire reintroduced the position of emperor in 1868, it looked to gagaku as a
tool to legitimize its rule. Gagaku served as a tool for cementing the new imperial
system, legitimizing the lineage back to mythological origin of country, which
made gagaku a tool of nationalists starting in the 1930s. When it was performed
at the court, in Buddhist temples, and now on stage, the otherworldly timbres
and elastic rhythmic forms of gagaku pieces like “Etenraku” (see Excursions,
Chapter 6) reflect and further entrench its sacred and royal associations and its
symbolism of the Japanese nation. Gagaku now plays a role in sonically invoking
the political foundations of Japanese heritage.
Music is commonly mobilized in national anthems, parades (see the junka­
noo example in Excursions, Chapter 11, for instance), and other civic activities
designed to promote the idea—and feeling—not only of a unified nation, but
also that the nation is the natural and primordial unit of belonging and loyalty.
Indeed, ritual, broadly speaking, is an exercise of power, to make “a power
situation appear a fact in the nature of the world” (Bloch 1989: 45). When
fans in a baseball stadium rise, remove their caps, and sing along (or mouth the
words) to the Star-Spangled Banner before a game, or “God Bless America”
during the seventh-inning stretch, this is an act of what Benedict Anderson
calls “unisonance”: the sonic production and “echoed physical realization of the
‘imagined community’ of the nation-state” (2006: 145).
Yet because it defies the strict notions of ownership that nationalism depends
on, music can also create spaces for alternative perspectives. National anthems
are a case in point. While nationalism is exclusionary and rigid—demanding
loyalty on its own terms—musical performance may reveal fissures in nation­
alist agendas and open up opportunities for resistance. When Jimi Hendrix
performed the Star-Spangled Banner in a heavily distorted, feedback-laden
electric guitar solo at Woodstock, he reclaimed the anthem for African
Americans and a new generation opposed to war and dedicated to the Civil
Rights Movement. Similarly, when Matoub Lounes sang the Algerian national
anthem in Berber—the language of the country’s indigenous population

24
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excluded from Algeria’s Arabic-based nationalist project—he helped bolster the

Berber rights movement (see Excursions, Chapter 3). When Canadian students
sang their national anthem on the occasion of the British Queen’s royal visit,
they did so by singing the anthem not only in Canada’s official languages of
French and English, but also in the indigenous languages of Cree and Inuktitut,
emphasizing the limits of official national symbols in representing the mosaic
of peoples who make up Canada’s citizenry (see Excursions, Chapter 13). In all
these cases, the performance of national anthems provides a critique of existing
assumptions about the nation and opens up possibilities for reimagining the
nation.

Listening as Ritual
If ritual, as the above examples suggest, is often deeply musicalized, the act
of listening to music can also be ritualized. Some cultures put a name on the
transformative, emotionally charged individual listening experience. In the
Arab world, that experience is called tarab,
. a heightened state of emotion often
described as a kind of musical ecstasy resulting from deep, attentive listening to
music. In contrast to what is referred to as the “high arousal” trance state of spirit
possession and shamanism, tarab . may be interpreted as a “low arousal” trance
state in which listeners may be emotionally transformed and respond physically
at musically appropriate moments with silence and stillness, verbal exclamations,
hand-clapping, or weeping. Tarab . relies on a “feedback loop” (Racy 1991)
between performer and listener, in which the variations and improvisations of
the performer move the listener to react physically or verbally, which further
empowers the artist to continue a masterful performance, which again moves
the listener, and so on. The ritualized framing of the concert event encourages
participants to focus their attention on specific performative aspects, such as
the nuances of timbre or melodic phrasing and improvisation in tarab . culture.
These elements are magnified in concert performance and draw attention to the
aesthetic force of these inner elements and processes that carry listeners through
their journey, transform their emotional states, and generate meaning. Indeed,
the song “Ghannıˉlıˉ Shwayya Shwayya” (see Excursions, Chapter 3) not only
evokes tarab
. (which you can hear in audience responses), but is also about the
experience of tarab,
. drawing attention to the power of music to move us. Such
experiences are associated with live performances, both public and private. Just
as other rituals are structured in a predictable yet flexible way, so too do concerts
have a ritualized structure with warmups, encores, climaxes, and the ebbs and
flows of tension and release that audiences expect. But attending performances
also pulls listeners into a larger whole. Performances are multisensory experiences,
in which participants are not being told something but are made to experience
something (Bell 1997: 160). The framing of the event creates a holistic totality
apart from the everyday, holds at bay the chaos of quotidian life, and can present
a microcosm of imagined or ideal social relations.

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 RICHARD JANKOWSKY

Classical music concerts in the United States, for example, are ritual occa­
sions that celebrate “upper-middle-class and elite values and heritage and, for
some concertgoers, are as much about the ritual occasion as about the music
being performed” (Turino 2008: 61; Small 1987). Concertgoers take part in
contemplative listening characterized by a deeply ritualized silence that honors
“the taboo against talking, singing, dancing, and eating or drinking” (Kingsbury
1989: 165). Bruno Nettl (1995) interprets the classical music concert as a ritual
event celebrating musical deities (“great composers”) that is run by a priesthood
(musicians, conductors, scholars) who interpret sacred texts (authenticated origi­
nal versions of compositions) that are performed in ritualized settings (concerts)
in architectural monuments that serve as shrines (concert halls, which often have
the names of “deities” such as Beethoven and Bach inscribed on them). Indeed,
as Andrea F. Bohlman notes in Chapter 9 of Excursions, the German city of
Bayreuth is a site of pilgrimage for classical music aficionados to make the “once­
in-a-lifetime journey” to:

the concert hall built on top of a hill by the nineteenth-century German

composer Richard Wagner just outside the city limits of this the south­
ern German city. The building was designed for the purpose of perform­
ing Wagner’s compositions, especially the four-evening cycle of operas
he composed based on the German epic, The Ring of the Nibelungen
(1848–74). Little luxuries build up the sensory delight: at the intermis­
sion people order sausages, pretzels, and sparkling wine.
(Chapter 9)

Unlike some religious pilgrimages in which pilgrims “musically perform their

spiritual journeys into existence” (Bohlman 1997: 80), these musical pilgrimages
treat music with religious-like reverence. The ritual of pilgrimage often involves
an arduous physical journey or, in some cases, the taxing tedium of air or rail
travel; in either case the destination is a highly valued site of ritual activity. These
destinations evoke both belonging and otherness: pilgrims may travel alone or
in small groups but find and join forces with others to form a collectivity of like-
minded participants. At performances held at musical pilgrimage sites, temporary
microworlds are created by the atomized collectivity. Pilgrimages to dance clubs
and electronic dance music (EDM) festivals on the circuit of techno-tourism in
Europe, for example, are also undertaken in the pursuit of profound, transcenden­
tal experiences of music (see Excursions, Chapter 9). Going to raves or clubbing
and listening to EDM is particularly associated with ritualized, spiritual experi­
ences. Rave culture has its own philosophies of spirituality and transcendence,
often drawing on sacred symbols and concepts from religions such as Buddhism
and Hinduism, with a DJ sometimes referred to as a “shaman” who leads dancers
on their ritual journeys with music that, like possession ceremonies, transforms
consciousness by creating compelling temporal and spatial worlds (Sylvan 2005).
Electronic dance music, based on repetition and gradual transformations, carries

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listeners through a sonic and psychic journey of heightened experience. These

associations remain embedded in the musical sounds even when they are recon­
textualized outside the ritualized live performance experience and packaged into
recordings that allow for portable, solitary listening experiences.
Indeed, such solitary listening experiences can produce similar autonomic
nervous system arousal as ritual, such as goosebumps, chills, and changes in heart
rate and emotional states. In ritual, when we listen to music, we entrain to it,
meaning we become in sync with it and therefore also with others, including not
only musicians but also a community of other listeners. There is great power in
this. Traces of this power are extended even to solitary listening practices. Even
when we think our musical experience is solely individual (think of listening
through earbuds as you go to class), it still carries with it the underlying founda­
tions and associations of ritualized music with its twin pillars of belonging and
otherness. Everyday listening often occurs in conjunction with individualized
rituals like studying, exercising, getting pumped up for a game or exam, or just
chilling out. Such acts of listening all draw on the power of music—highlighted
in rituals such as those discussed in this chapter—to create an atmosphere that
envelops us, to help us transcend our ordinary sense of self, and to evoke a sense
of connection to others, both present and absent.

References
Anderson, Benedict. 2006. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of
Nationalism. London and New York: Verso.
Bell, Catherine. 1997. Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions. New York and London: Oxford
University Press.
Blacking, John. 1985. “The Context of Venda Possession Music: Reflections on the
Effectiveness of Symbols.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 17: 64–87.
Bloch, Maurice. 1989. Ritual, History and Power: Selected Papers in Anthropology. London:
Athlone Press.
Bohlman, Philip V. 1997. “World Musics and World Religions: Whose World?” In
Enchanting Powers: Music in the World’s Religions, edited by Lawrence E. Sullivan,
61–90. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Errington, Shelly. 1989. Meaning and Power in a Southeast Asian Realm. Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press.
Kingsbury, Henry. 1989. Music, Talent, and Performance: A Conservatory Cultural System.
Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.
Nettl, Bruno. 1995. Heartland Excursions: Ethnomusicological Reflections on Schools of
Music. Urbana, IL and Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press.
Racy, Ali Jihad. 1991. “Creativity and Ambience: An Ecstatic Feedback Model from Arab
Music.” The World of Music 33/3: 7–28.
Rouget, Gilbert. 1986. Music and Trance: A Theory of the Relations between Music and
Possession. Translated by Brunhilde Biebuyck. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Small, Christopher. 1987. “Performance as Ritual: Sketch for an Enquiry into the True
Nature of a Symphony Concert.” In Lost in Music: Culture, Style, and the Musical Event,
edited by A. Levine White, 6–32. New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

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Spiller, Henry. 2008. Focus: Gamelan Music of Indonesia. 2nd edition. New York and
London: Routledge.
Sylvan, Robin. 2005. Trance Formation: The Spiritual and Religious Dimensions of Global
Rave Culture. London: Routledge.
Turino, Thomas. 2008. Music as Social Life: The Politics of Participation. Chicago, IL:
University of Chicago Press.
Turner, Victor. 1970. The Ritual Process. London: Routledge & Paul.
van Gennep, Arnold. 2004 [1909]. The Rites of Passage. London: Routledge.

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 4
COLONIALITY AND
“WORLD MUSIC”

Chérie Rivers Ndaliko

In addition to offering insights into musical genres, instruments, artists, and

practices, Excursions in World Music also provides an opportunity to explore the
history of power. Its chapters invite us to explore many places, and, if we are
paying attention, they also give rise to critical questions about how we under­
stand and study the world—about how it has been divided into territories, what
those territories are called (and who gets to decide), about who occupies them
and on what terms they do so.
These are all questions about space, time, and power. And they are deeply
embedded in Excursions. If, rather than approaching this text (primarily) as a
study of music and sound, we approach it as a study of space, we might ask
ourselves, for example, why the book divides the world into the regions it does?
Which places are included? Which, if any, are left out? Which places get greater
or lesser attention? Why are there three chapters dedicated to East Asia (China,
Korea, and Japan) and one chapter for all of Sub-Saharan Africa? For that matter,
why is Sub-Saharan Africa separated from North Africa? Why do European lan­
guages determine what we learn about Central and South America—that is,
why do we learn about Spanish and Portuguese speaking areas of Latin America
and not Dutch, French, and English territories? Better yet, why are Nahuatl,
Quechua, or Guarani not the languages around which the study of Central and
South America is organized? (And why is that region of the world called “Latin
America” anyway?).
I raise these questions not to critique the choices made by the editors and
authors of Excursions but rather to provoke reflection on how we conceive of
the world. Many people have been conditioned not to question, in depth, the
boundaries and systems that make up the modern world, but to regard them as
the result of bygone history, as economic inevitabilities, or simply as geographic
realities.
But from another perspective, the modern world is a testament to a very
specific form of power called coloniality (also called the coloniality of power or
the colonial matrix of power) that has come to dominate the globe.1 We will
arrive at a more detailed definition of coloniality, but in broad strokes it refers
to a system of interrelated hierarchies—including racism, patriarchy, capitalism,

29
 CHÉRIE RIVERS NDALIKO

heteronormativity, Western epistemology, neoliberalism, and others—that per­

mits a dominant group to exercise power over subordinate groups with or without
formal mechanisms of control. The issue of formal structures is critical—indeed
the term coloniality arose out of the need to identify the persistence of Western
domination and hegemony both preceding the establishment and following the
dismantling of European and U.S. American colonial administrations.
A number of important characteristics differentiate coloniality from other
forms of power. One is that coloniality rests on assumptions—about race, gender,
governance, knowledge—which, though false, have been so thoroughly normal­
ized that they are not only accepted as truths, but as foundations of reality (and
the only possible version of reality at that). Therefore recognizing coloniality can
be difficult—after all, it persists by disguising itself as “reality” or simply “how the
world is.” To learn to recognize coloniality we must, then, begin by investigating
these entangled assumptions and how they have come to stand in for truth.

Manufacturing Race and Space

One primary axis on which coloniality operates—both historically and in the
present—is race. To untangle the relationship between race and global power
structures we must revisit a number of things that began in Western Europe, for
though they happened more than five centuries ago, these events directly shape
our understanding of the world today. The story of coloniality is rooted in the
age of exploration, during which Europeans sought to expand their empires.
Over a few centuries, they claimed new territories and conquered the peoples
who inhabited them. This was a violent process involving the theft of land and
the slaughter and enslavement of millions upon millions of human beings.
Clearly Europeans were not the first to covet foreign lands. There have been
feuds between people throughout time, resulting in the domination of one group
by another. What is unique about the era of European exploration—indeed about
coloniality—is that it was not an effort to dominate one, or even a handful of
neighboring groups, but rather to dominate the world. Justifications for this level
of domination evolved over time. What began as religious conquest in the name
of God, gave way to imperial conquest in the name of the state. Through this
process, the modern notion of race was invented and used to explain Europeans’
“right” to conquer and control others. In the Americas, race was first understood
as phenotypic, then as biological; in Africa, biology was transferred to skin color.
In all cases, the notion of race was used to justify imperial and colonial violence.
And this directly impacts our modern understanding of space. Indeed,
European explorers and cartographers sought not only to map physical geogra­
phy (e.g. lands and waters), but also to locate and classify different races of human
beings. Their classifications identified Europeans as the superior race, seconded by
Asians, whose culture and “civilization” could not be denied, and, on the bottom
of this hierarchy were indigenous peoples of the Americas and antipodes, as well
as black Africans. Over time, systems of racial classification added categories for

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mixed race populations (e.g. castizo, mestizo, cholo, mulato, indio, and zambo as
discussed in Excursions, Chapter 10) determined by their percentage of “white­
ness.” The classification of races was accepted as cutting edge science, which had
severe consequences. Claiming racial hierarchy as scientific fact implied that it was
objective and incontestable truth—that is, that European racial superiority was
not a human invention but a scientific law of nature.
In truth, codifying the difference between conquerors and conquered as bio­
logical was a means of reconciling violent domination with Christian notions of
morality. Inventing race, in effect, transferred the justification of conquest from
greed to “science,” enabling “white” Europeans to dominate lands and peoples
around the world in the name of “moral duty.” Exercising such domination
required strategic laws to protect the rights and properties of white people while
still permitting the conquest of the “New World.” To achieve this, a 1559 treaty
between France and Spain designated, as “amity lines,” the prime meridian and
the tropic of cancer. To the north and west of these amity lines the rule of law
applied; to the south and east of them it did not. Notably, this treaty applied
to people and property not in but from territories north and west of the amity
lines. Thus white people and their goods were (and arguably still are) afforded
legal protections when they were in, say, Africa, while black Africans were (and
arguably are) not afforded the same in Europe.
It was thus disguised as science and law that race and the idea of racial hierar­
chy was naturalized as a “fact” rather than a very subjective Eurocentric fiction.
Of course racial “science” has long been debunked, but this history continues to
influence how we learn about the world. To return to the opening questions of
this chapter, this history explains why studies of global history (and world music),
frequently examine East Asian nations thoroughly and as individual countries,
whereas places lower on the racial hierarchy are grouped as generalizable regions.
Similarly, it explains why North Africa, which is on the European side of the amity
lines, is included with the Middle East and not with the rest of the continent,
which is south and east of the lines. (It also explains why Egyptian civilization
is typically taught as if it were not part of Africa.) In other words, the racialized
cartographic activities of 15th century Europe continue to shape how we under­
stand and study the world. To understand this is to begin to recognize coloniality.

From Race and Space to Capitalism

Though racial hierarchy is one primary ingredient, race alone does not sustain the
colonial matrix of power. It is, rather, one in an entangled system of hierarchies.
Capitalism is another. But from the perspective of coloniality studies, capitalism is
not simply an economic system, but is, instead, constituted by racial (and other)
hierarchies. This view of capitalism lays bare the inherent connections between
race and global economic structures. Indeed, the very premise of capitalism—the
production of surplus—relies on the exploitation of labor performed by people
deemed “disposable” (in one way or another) by dominant groups. Historically,

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these were indigenous populations who Europeans placed on the bottom of

the hierarchy of races, and to whom they assigned subhuman status in order to
justify exploiting them as slaves and unwaged laborers. From this perspective,
examples of musical hybridity and migration in Latin America and the Caribbean
(discussed in Chapters 10 and 11 of Excursions) as well as in the United States
(discussed in Chapter 13) are sonic echoes of coloniality for they are premised
on the forced migration—historic and ongoing—of labor forces and the cultural
practices they retain as they move through space. In cumbia, for instance, we
quite literally hear what happened when bodies, transported and dominated for
capitalist purposes, collided in coastal Colombia. As Chapter 10 describes, it
resulted in an amalgam of musical practices drawn from Africans, Amerindians,
and Europeans. The very makeup of cumbia ensembles, which includes, among
others, hand drums and other percussion instruments associated with Africa,
“indigenous” flutes associated with Amerindian traditions, and “Western” instru­
ments like accordion, guitar, and bass, bears witness to the history of proximity
forced through colonialism.
But, having colonial roots does not make cumbia an example of coloniality.
Quite the contrary, like so many other hybrid musical forms, cumbia artists have
transformed the genre, which was historically viewed as “low brow” by racial
elites, into an emblem of identity and pride. What’s more, some artists use such
hybrid genres with colonial roots to make concertedly anti- or decolonial cri­
tiques that expose and/or reject coloniality (I will return to decoloniality in both
concept and practice below). It is, however, important to recognize the influence
of capitalism in this as well. Indeed, just as capitalism was the driving force
behind the historic migrations that landed Africans and Amerindians in coastal
Colombia, so, too, capitalism is the driving force behind the contemporary urban
migrations that continue to shape the genre. I point this out not to diminish
the impact of sounds like cumbia, but rather to underscore the interconnected
elements of capitalism.
Viewing capitalism through the lens of coloniality also opens up other ideas
related to music and culture. From this vantage point, capitalism is “an integrated
network of economic, political and cultural processes the sum of which hold the
system together.”2 Unlike other schools of thought that view the capitalist world
system as primarily constituted either by culture (e.g. postcolonial theory) or by
economic relations (e.g. political-economy theory), studying coloniality makes
clear that the capitalist world system is constituted, fundamentally and equally,
by both. And not just culture and economics, but also race, gender, sexuality,
epistemology, and so on.
From this perspective, the discussion of how Europe influences other places
becomes both an economic and a cultural question at the same time. And one
that thus puts into perspective less tangible aspects of Western expansion and
domination, including the notion of cultural and mental colonization. Indeed,
by creating, in their colonies, dependence on European metropoles, colonizing
nations did not just “underdevelop” their colonies in economic and political

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terms, they also promoted Western cultural superiority in ways that led many
colonized populations to emulate the West in expressive and intellectual practices.
In short, culture, too, was—and is—a tool of coloniality. This was certainly
true in Europe’s African and Asian colonies, and of course this has sonic implica­
tions. As discussed in Chapter 5 of Excursions, the influence of military marching
bands, Christian hymns, Western popular music, and Western classical music edu­
cation, for example, significantly shapes the sonic landscape of Korea. There are,
of course, countless examples, including chindon-ya, a type of distinctly Japanese
street advertisement band combining both Japanese and Western influences (see
Excursions, Chapter 6).
It is also important to point out that Europe was not the only colonizing
force. To be sure, Europe set the example and the precedent, but other nations
also exercised colonial power and coloniality. To cite a few examples: beginning
in 1895, Japan colonized much of the Western Pacific and East Asia, including
Taiwan, Korea, and China; the United States (itself already a settler colony),
colonized, and/or established as “protectorates,” parts of the Caribbean. These
forms of colonization, too, are part of the larger picture of global coloniality and
thus they, too, have sonic implications that are audible in Excursions. Indeed
the larger point is, if we train our ears to coloniality, we hear in all these sounds
potent reminders of the fundamental interconnections between culture, race, and
capitalism.

From Race, Space, and Capitalism to Universal Truth

In addition to racial hierarchies and capitalism, another factor that sustains the
colonial matrix of power is control over knowledge. This is relevant to the study
of world music in that diverse methods of understanding the world have, over
time, been disguised as absolute—and singular—truth. Indeed, from within the
colonial matrix of power, there is only one legitimate way to understand the world
and that is through modern Western science. Historically, this view is linked to
a shift in European philosophy from conceptualizing knowledge as something
divine (i.e. determined by God and interpreted by theologians) to something
human, that is, objectively knowable by man (and I use the gendered pronoun to
reflect the era).3 This line of thought suggests there is a universal Truth that can
be discerned by studying the laws of the material universe, which, is, of course,
the foundational belief driving modern Western science and affirmed by modern
Western theory.
Because it is framed as unveiling empirical Truth, modern Western science
(aided by modern Western theory) claims total objectivity. By extension, every­
thing undertaken in the name of modern Western science—whether natural,
social, or political science—is deemed rational, accurate, and valid. And, critically,
because it is deemed rational and accurate, what is undertaken in the name
of modern Western science is deemed valid for everyone everywhere. This has a
number of implications. For one, it justifies global political projects. For example,

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economists promote development discourse in the name of science, political

scientists promote democratization discourse in the name of science, natural sci­
entists promote conservation discourse in the name of science. Without disputing
the specific merits or shortcomings of any of these discourses, from the perspec­
tive of coloniality studies they all provide recipes with which to remake the rest
of the world in the image of the West. For the imperative to “develop” is really
to develop like the West; the imperative to adopt democracy is really to adopt
neoliberal Western democracy; the imperative to conserve natural resources is
really to apply the capitalist logic of management and control; etc. And, like the
racial justifications behind imperial and colonial conquest, the continued imposi­
tion of Western ways of life is framed as “science.”
A byproduct of viewing modern Western science as objective and thus univer­
sally true is that, from this perspective, no other form of knowledge can also be
true. Thus in the name of modern Western science, all other ways of life are either
deemed false, framed as folkloric or superstitious, destroyed, or some combina­
tion of the three. There is much to say about the destruction and falsification of
non-Western epistemologies, but most relevant to this study of world music is,
arguably, their designation as folklore and culture. Indeed, the colonial matrix of
power persists, in part, by subsuming diverse cultural practices and, in so doing,
stripping them of any real power. This happens through a number of subtle
maneuvers in the way knowledge is institutionalized in the West. For example,
labeling non-Western ideas under the umbrella of “culture” rather than “science”
already separates them from (and implies they are not relevant to) economics,
politics, and other privileged “scientific” forms of knowledge that inform geopo­
litical decisions.
Here, again, we encounter the artificial separation of culture from economics.
And here, again scrutinizing the separation of culture from economics sheds
light on the logic of coloniality. Indeed, in regards to capitalism, separating
culture from economics obfuscates the complex and entwined forces sustain­
ing the coloniality. In regards to epistemology, this division prevents us from
taking seriously—even recognizing—any options other than those prescribed
by the colonial matrix of power. For they have all already been deemed false by
modern Western science. Thus they could not possibly prescribe a valid way of
being. (This dynamic is, in part, what Didier Awadi challenges in “Mon Afrique”
as discussed in Excursions, Chapter 8.)
This is how one view of the world makes itself universal: by eviscerating all
others. In the colonial matrix of power, this involves labeling all non-Western
forms of knowledge as “culture,” which, under the hegemony of modern Western
science is code for “not factual” and thus not True in any meaningful sense.
(Notably, non-Western forms of knowledge do stand a chance of becoming
“true” but only when validated by modern Western science—think acupuncture,
yoga, Pachamama, etc.)

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The “So What?” Factor

The manufacturing of race and its intricate interconnectedness with modern
Western conceptions of space, capitalism, and knowledge are a few salient char­
acteristics of coloniality. There are, of course, others, including the imposition of
(Western) patriarchy and sexual norms; the “scientific” classification of humans
as separate from “nature,” which enables unchecked destruction of the environ­
ment. But what does all this mean for the study of world music? Investigating
coloniality in the context of world music opens up an array of options. On one
hand, it exposes some troubling insights into how—and why—modern Western
institutions study other “cultures” as they do. Indeed, like anthropology, the field
of ethnomusicology has been complicit in manufacturing and imposing racial
hierarchies and in sustaining the perceived divide between culture and economics
(as discussed in Excursions, Chapter 8). In these and other ways, the institutional
study of world musics and world cultures has, ironically, diminished rather than
increased their potential to provide viable alternative perspectives to the colonial
matrix of power.
At the same time, recognizing music—and the study of music—as complicit
in coloniality (hopefully) prevents further unconscious perpetuation of such
complicity. Indeed learning to recognize coloniality opens possibilities for many
pressing questions to emerge at the intersection of coloniality and sound. For
example, what does, or could, music (and the study of music) do to make colo­
niality visible? or audible? How might we approach the study of music in ways
that allow us to take non-Western practices and beliefs seriously without fram­
ing them as folkloric and/or denying their status as valid and true forms of
(scientific) knowledge? And what might, or ought, studies of music contribute
to decoloniality, that is, to creating options other than those prescribed by the
colonial matrix of power?
Spurred by questions of this ilk, we can find in Excursions additional avenues
through which to think about music and sound. For example, Chapter 8, “The
Music of Sub-Saharan Africa,” makes coloniality visible. By explicitly highlighting
the ways music was instrumentalized in the invention of Africa, the chapter as a
whole exposes the ongoing relationship between Western epistemology, Western
economic interests, and the study of “African music.” It also includes albums,
such as Anjelique Kidjo’s Remain in Light, that use lyrics, melodies, harmonies,
and rhythms to expose capitalist violence and global hierarchies. Indeed the
very fact that Kidjo, a Black Beninese woman, produced a remake of Talking
Heads’ iconic album draws explicit attention to issues of cultural appropriation—
and coloniality—that often obscure African origins of popular global cultural
practices.
In addition to making coloniality recognizable, Excursions also provides oppor­
tunities to take non-Western epistemologies seriously as conduits of knowledge.
With this goal, one could pursue a range of compelling questions, for example,
in the discussion of the spiritual and musical practice of candomblé in Brazil

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(Chapter 10). While the chapter focuses primarily on the logistical and practical
elements of candomblé, it includes clues one could pursue more deeply. Entering
into trance, for instance, is often dismissed as “superstition” (by modern Western
science), but from non-Western perspectives trance yields important factual
information. In fact, the kinds of knowledge that keep human beings in balance
with the natural environment are, in some cultures, linked to trance. In other
cultures, such as Korea’s shamanistic traditions (discussed in Chapter 5), the bal­
ance between humans and nature rests on the perception that all matter is infused
with spirit, a view that is not dissimilar in principle, though distinct in practice,
from the indigenous North American perspectives discussed in Chapter 12.
The point is, from these perspectives, learning to live in balance with nature
would benefit Western societies. And, to return to candomblé, what of the com­
bination of chickenblood, oil, and honey? Ought we to dismiss that as an exotic
or primitive concoction or might we consider whether it has medicinal or other
properties? The point here, is not to make a specific argument about a given
practice (much less one I know little about), but rather to demonstrate the
kind of curiosity that permits us to take non-Western epistemologies seriously as
conduits of knowledge.
The final question to pursue is what studies of music might contribute to
decoloniality. Before drawing examples from Excursions, it is important to out­
line, briefly, two key principles of decoloniality. First is that the decolonial school
of thought adamantly rejects the idea that we are in a postcolonial world (and
thus diverges from postcolonial thought). Indeed, the whole point of identifying
coloniality is to name the matrix of power that persists despite the dismantling of
formal colonial administrations.
A second important principle from the perspective of decoloniality is that anti­
dotes to coloniality must be derived from options not predicated on the colonial
matrix of power. The notion of options, here, is paramount. From a decolonial
perspective, identifying any given option (e.g. matriarchy) exposes, by default,
that dominant paradigms (e.g. patriarchy) are not in fact “reality” but rather
they, too, are one in a menu of options. Thus taking or leaving them becomes a
possibility (if not always a realistic immediate choice). From this perspective any
form of resistance structured as “alternatives” (rather than “options”) has already
accepted, as primary, the power to which the alternative is necessary.
Recognizing that we still inhabit a colonial world and thinking in terms of
options affords us greater freedom to identify—and choose—which options exist,
which we might invent (or recover), and which to adopt. And this is one way
music might contribute to decoloniality. There are, of course, individual songs
and albums that explore options. Ancient Man’s performance of “I Ain’t Askin’
Fa Much,” for example, reminds listeners that returning to their roots (in his
case African roots) can reconfigure identity in powerful ways (see Excursions,
Chapter 11). In a similar vein, tracks on Anjelique Kidjo’s Remain in Light
point to Afrofuturism as a means by which to establish social and aesthetic ideals
that are not rooted in colonial logic and racism. For example, to combat the

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racist association of whiteness with beauty that prompts many African women
to bleach their skin (with severe health consequences), in “Seen and Not Seen”
Kidjo asserts standards of beauty based on West African aesthetics (see Excursions,
Chapter 8). In “Soul is Heavy,” Nneka revives the memory of political activ­
ists fighting oil exploitation and environmental degradation in Nigeria (also
Chapter 8).
Other songs and albums identify—and in some cases reclaim—more specific
options. Didier Awadi’s Presidents d’Afrique (discussed in Excursions, Chapter 8)
is a good example. In it, he revives political speeches delivered by revolutionary
African leaders, many of whom were assassinated and whose legacies have been
either buried or distorted by coloniality. Reviving them quite literally presents an
array of options to younger generations, who would not otherwise learn about
the continent’s most liberatory policies. (For example, in just three years as
president of Burkina Faso, Thomas Sankara almost completely freed his country’s
economy from dependence on its former colonial power, France, while simul­
taneously increasing literacy rates from 13% to 73% and championing women’s
rights.)
But the decolonial options enacted through music go beyond individual songs
and albums. The genre champeta, for example, is a testament to musical decolo­
niality. As indicated in Chapter 10 of Excursions, a primary feature of champeta is
Palenquero, a creole that integrates Spanish with various Bantu languages spoken
in Africa. But though the origins of Palenquero are colonial, the language is
the result of centuries of decolonial activity. It developed in Palenque de San
Basilio, a town established by escaped slaves in Northern Columbia that was freed
by royal decree in 1691 (because they were helping too many Africans escape
slavery) and thus the first free Black town in the Americas. Today, Palenquero
is threatened by dominant languages like Spanish, thus singing in Palenquero is
an active means of sustaining a long-standing decolonial tradition. In addition,
by popularizing champeta, Black Colombians—who are marginalized in their
country—transformed negative connotations about their identity into a source
of pride and honor that is valued around the world.
Other links between music and decoloniality are measurable in economic
terms. Take, for example, Malian singer Oumou Sangare (discussed in Excursions,
Chapter 8), who leverages her stardom in projects—like building hotels and
manufacturing affordable automobiles. Her music has enabled her to create
economic options for local populations in Mali that do not rely on coloniality as
exercised by neoliberal monetary bodies like the World Bank or the International
Monetary Fund.
Then there are intersections between musical decoloniality and politics. Of
this, the Senegalese Y’en a Marre and Burkinabé Balai Citoyen movements (also
discussed in Excursions, Chapter 8) are a prime example. Founded by a group of
rappers, journalists, and university students, these groups actively reintegrate “cul­
ture” and “economics” as they identify—and embody—options other than colo­
niality. Through music-driven grassroots social organizing, they have effectively

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reshaped West African political landscapes by galvanizing enough youth votes

to oust corrupt presidents in both Senegal and Burkina Faso. In addition to
large-scale political actions, they have also developed sustained opportunities for
sociopolitical engagement that are not built on the colonial matrix of power but
that, instead, support local communities in utilizing their resources—including
non-Western forms of knowledge—to solve their own problems. In this way they
support initiatives related to education, public health, economic development (as
understood in local cosmologies), disaster relief and prevention, and much more.
In sum, they have not only drawn inspiration, knowledge, and strategy from
former leaders like Thomas Sankara and Patrice Lumumba, but adapted these
historic efforts to the present.

The Take Away

Under the right circumstances, music can be a powerful means of exposing and
embodying options not derived from the colonial matrix of power. So, too, the
study of music can serve as an antidote to coloniality. But this requires discipline.
It requires that we refuse to use “decoloniality” as a buzzword. That, instead, we
discern, for example, between musical decoloniality and the popular—often gen­
eral, sometimes apolitical, even vague—association of music with “resistance.”
There are, of course, monumental examples of musical resistance movements,
including the Civil Rights and Anti-Apartheid movements (discussed in Chapter
8). These and other examples are important political actions undertaken through
music. What recognizing coloniality adds is the capacity to see the multiple and
entangled aspects of the dominant global system. And in this music can be a
guide. If, that is, we guard against the dangers of claiming the “power” of music
in abstract ways that risk relegating it to the domain of “culture” in a global
system that divorces “culture” from “science.”
And therein lies the challenge: to read books like Excursions without perpetu­
ating coloniality, which is already embedded in the notion of “world music” (see
the introduction to this Reader). To read Excursions decolonially is to read it
not (primarily) as a study of music and sound, but as a roadmap of global power
throughout time and space. That means constantly reading—and listening—
against the grain by training your ears to what is omitted and sleuthing out why.
It means unthinking and rethinking every assumption, expectation, and notion
of “reality” or truth. It means taking other options seriously by adopting, as a
mantra, the simple questions “according to who?” and “why?”

Notes
1 The terms “coloniality” and “coloniality of power” were first coined by Peruvian soci­
ologist Aníbal Quijano. This chapter draws on the ideas of Quijano and many decolonial
thinkers have subsequently built on his work including Walter Mignolo (who coined the
phrase “the colonial matrix of power” and has done extensive work on the notion of

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decolonial “options”), Sylvia Wynter, and Ramón Grosfoguel. My own thinking about
decoloniality is also deeply influenced by Boaventura de Souza Santos.
2 Emmanuel Wallerstein. 1991. Unthinking Social Science. Cambridge: Polity Press. 230.
3 This idea is most commonly attributed to Réne Descartes (considered the founder of
modern Western philosophy) and his famous phrase “I think/reflect therefore I am.”

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 5
MUSIC AND SPACE

Marié Abe

Sound travels through space. Music is rooted in place. Sound helps orient us in
space. Music can take you places. Sound can fill up space. Music recalls places you
have been. Sound can get blocked from flowing into space. Music evokes places
you have never been, or that don’t even exist. Sound may disrupt existing spaces,
or create new spaces. Whether you conceive of sound as vibrations in the air or
as something to be perceived through your senses, sound is inextricably linked to
space. Put another way, music and space are deeply entangled, almost inseparable.
The relationship between music and space is not merely about the acoustic
physics—about how sound is created and propagated so that you hear and feel it
in your body. Just as music is simultaneously an acoustic and social phenomenon
that calls for cultural specificity in our critical listening, space, as you will see,
also has as much to do with our thinking habits and ideas as it does with physical
parameters. For instance, in our everyday speech, spatial metaphors abound.
Perhaps you’ve used or heard expressions like, “try mapping out your ideas” or,
“make space for more joy in your life,” without giving them much conscious
thought. But what do we mean by space, exactly? As we will see, we use several
categories for thinking about space, and such everyday verbal expressions reflect
only one of them—although a prevalent one, at that. Exploring these different
categories of spatial thought raises so many questions about the nature and
identity of space and its relation to music: is space necessarily a physically deline­
ated unit, like a mappable territory, or is it a mental construct, like a home you
have left behind, or a paradise? Is there a “space” that is beyond this physical
and mental binary? Is space different from place? Does music give character to
space, or does space assign character to music? Who gets to create, inhabit, or
claim space through music over others? The spatial metaphors that we use in
our everyday speech often suggest vision more than hearing; might listening to
space conjure up a different understanding than looking at space? Must space exist
before music can happen, or can music happen before space exists, creating a new
space through its sounds?
This chapter explores how sound—musical or otherwise—compels us to
think about, and through, space in different ways. In particular, I highlight
how thinking about space inevitably leads to the issues of culture, power, and

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difference—difference conceived in the registers of race, ethnicity, nationality,

class, sexuality, gender, age, etc. Such difference does not exist in the abstract,
but is spatialized; a particular identity—and its sounds—can be attached to (or
confined within, or excluded from) a neighborhood, region, country, diaspora,
or even an imaginary place. Throughout Excursions, we encounter examples of
how such spatialized differences are musically expressed, negotiated, produced,
and contested. Music or sound can be a unifying expression of a national identity
or a source of friction between neighboring communities of different ethnic
heritages. Certain types of music may be used to stereotype the “Other” in a
distant place. A marginalized immigrant community in a segregated neighbor­
hood might uphold a song that captures their sense of belonging—a song that
is rooted both in the memory of their homeland and their current location and
serves as a symbol of resistance and pride. As a deeply entangled pair, then, space
and music provides a particularly powerful way of examining the intersection of
culture, power, and difference.
Below, I’ll explore four different categories of spatial thinking and illustrate
how sound and music can help us think about them by drawing on examples
from Excursions: (1) “absolute space”; (2) “stirring up absolute space”; (3)
“phenomenological space/soundscape”; and (4) “relational space.” Within each
conceptualization of space, we will pay close attention to the intersections of
culture, power, and difference as we hear them playing out through a series of
musical examples. You will see how each approach highlights different issues and
themes: race, coloniality, nationalism, and stereotype (absolute space); migration
and diaspora (stirring up absolute space); embodiment, class, and the everyday
(phenomenological space/soundscape); and indigeneity, environment, and
circulation (relational space). You might also find that, in some musical exam­
ples, more than one of these spatial conceptions may be present. Through these
examples, I hope that you will come away with an expanded understanding of
what space can mean, the important roles that music and sound play in these dif­
ferently conceived notions of space, and the stakes and consequences of thinking
through, and listening to, these different understandings of space.

1. Absolute Space: Space as Geographical Container

Nationalism and Coloniality

Consider, for a moment, what is happening when people play or sing their
national anthems. These songs are intended to generate pride in one’s member­
ship in a “nation-state,” a relatively new concept that is built on the assumption
that political and cultural borders are or should be coterminous. According to
this way of thinking, each stretch of space we call a country, geographically
delineated and marked by physical borders, contains a particular national identity
presumably shared among all its citizens, and symbolized by, among other things,
the national anthem.

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But cultural geographers Neil Smith and Cindi Katz have critiqued the under­
lying assumption being made here—namely that space is a pre-existing field, a
passive container in which things happen. This understanding is called “absolute
space.” Smith and Katz (1993) show how this normalized notion, which many
of us probably share, is rooted in the emergence of capitalist social relations
in sixteenth-century Europe, which established absolute space as the premise
that enabled the subsequent development of capitalism and colonialism. This
idea that space is a surface (i.e. land) that is empty and inert, something one
can partition and own, has led, on the one hand, to ideas about geographically
delineated territories that contain unique national identities (nation-states), and,
on the other, to colonial projects which (conveniently) conceived of land as a pas­
sive, commodifiable object, disregarding the lives and histories already contained
therein.
Absolute space has been at the root of much of modern Western thought. For
instance, it has shaped the “terrain” in which cultural difference is understood.
In the absolutist conception of space, cultural difference is naturalized along geo­
graphical–cultural lines and immobilized as an historically, supposedly unchang­
ing essence, thus painting a static picture of cultures as self-contained both in
time and space. For example, for the proponents of a discourse positing Japan
as a monoethnic nation (see Excursions, Chapter 6), a supposedly unique ethnic,
religious, and cultural heritage is contained within the national boundaries. All
area studies, as discussed in the introduction to this Reader, rest on this notion
of absolute space; and academic disciplines growing out of such understandings
of space study cultural difference as contained within geographical boundaries.
Even the chapters of your textbook, Excursions, are organized on this principle.
From this perspective, music and space are often taken as a homologous pair­
ing, in which the two echo and reinforce each other. Put another way, in absolute
space, music is considered an innate expression of the distinct character of a
given territory. For example, you might take a class (or read a chapter) on the
“music of India” or the “music of the Middle East” and expect to learn about
the internal coherence and overarching aesthetic similarities in the music of these
geographical areas.

Race and Essentialist Stereotypes

These links to colonial projects and to assumptions about national coherence
might suggest why a concept of absolute space can also be at the base of musical
stereotyping. If space is an empty expanse to be owned, tamed, or ruled, then it
can also be freely invested with ideas, sounds and images, regardless of the lived
realities on the ground. This is the point at which representation and absolute
space intersect. Musical sounds can be used to construct an entirely imaginary
space and connect it to a real stretch of land. A good example of this is found
in the discussion of musical representations of “Africa” in Western popular cul­
ture (see Excursions, Chapter 8). “Ooga booga” music in early Hollywood films

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produced and then normalized an idea of a space called “Africa” based on racist
ideas that reduced the vastness, complexity, and dynamism of the entire continent
into a singular narrative of a wild, uncivilized place inhabited by less-than-human
people “stuck behind in time.” The more recent Lion King example shows,
again, how musical representations of “Africa” are stripped of the actual com­
plexities, specificities, and humanity of the continent, turning it, for those who
know Africa only through the film, into a monolithic, safari-like space inhabited
by wild animals.
This might seem innocuous, except that the way we imagine spaces through
representations has real-life, political consequences. Edward Said (Said 1978),
who coined the concept “imaginative geography,” calls our attention to how
spatially confining the Other (in this example, people who live on the entire
continent of Africa) in representational practice can be a means to domesticate
and dominate the Other in very real colonial (and neo- or postcolonial) contexts.
The colonization of Africa and the representational practices that, through musi­
cal stereotypes, render Africa as an absolute space (in one way or another devoid
of culture and society), mutually reinforce each other.
“Absolute space,” then, must be challenged for several reasons. First, our naïve
understanding of space as geographically bounded and historically static contain­
ers of cultural difference can mask the mechanics of power (colonial projects being
an obvious example). It can hide exactly how these ideas, which we take to be
“natural,” lead to the actual production of unequal power relations and difference,
designating those who “deserve” to be treated well, and those who “deserve” to
be treated as less-than-human. And when translated into sound and transmitted
through national anthems or Hollywood film scores, the unequal power relations
and problematic mobilizations of cultural difference we’ve explored here are pow­
erfully (and often uncritically) inserted into our everyday lives.
Second, the notion of “absolute space” provides power-invested policymakers
with rhetorical tools for attempts at civilizational self-justification and with a
means of legitimizing imperialism and colonialism—space is either “advanced”
and should be protected, or is “backwards” and available for colonization. Third,
ideas about absolute space ignore the fluidity, complexity, historical dynamism,
and tension within a so-called culture. And lastly, they do not account for the
dynamic phenomena of migrations, which lead to constant cross-fertilization of
supposedly unchanging cultures, musical and otherwise. When we take migration
and the circulation of people and music into consideration, what kind of space
might we hear?

2. Stirring up Absolute Space

Migration and Diaspora

While Hollywood’s musical representations of “Africa” illustrate how sounds
can reinforce the idea of absolute space, Excursions also offers plenty of musical

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case studies that challenge the idea of space as a static and uniform container of
essentialized identity.
Space as a fixed and bounded concept is quickly destabilized when we con­
sider migrations, cultural exchanges, and musical circulations across the world.
Consider tango in Argentina, for example (see Excursions, Chapter 10). Tango
is now a musical synonym for Argentina, the embodiment of national identity.
But if we listen more closely, we hear that tango is inflected by the rural-to­
urban labor migration of the mid-nineteenth century; the musical influences of
Cuban habanera and African-derived candombe; and the international circulation
of tango in the 1910s. Long decried by the country’s elites and officials for its
association with lower-class lifestyles, tango was not embraced as an embodiment
of national essence until it gained popularity abroad. Heard this way, the nation­
alized space audible in tango is not a straightforward container for a coherent
national identity, but rather a product of these dynamic, circuitous, and contested
routes and movements of people, sound, and discourse.
These questions of space, music, and migration become even more compelling
when we turn our ears to the Caribbean, a region of diasporic formations, where
cultures reflect “the forced movement of ethnic groups from their homelands”
(see Excursions, Chapter 11). Not only do Caribbean residents have their original
roots in other places such as West Africa, Europe, South Asia, East Asia, and the
Levant, but travel continues between the Caribbean, homelands, international
metropoles like New York and London, and other diasporic clusters around the
world. When there is such an active movement of people between the “home”
country and diasporic locations, what kind of space is “home”? Does this term
refer to your ancestral origin or to your present location? If your family has spread
across diasporic locations, then where is, and what kind of space is, your “home”?
And what kind of space is diaspora?
One musical answer, as we hear in the Bahamian song “Island Boy,” is to
consider the Caribbean a remembered and imagined “home,” regardless of one’s
physical location in the diaspora. This creates a sense of space grounded in a
discursive and experiential center, the nostalgic sense of a “good old home” in
the Caribbean (the Bahamas, in this case) evoked through music. The space
expressed in this example may resemble some of the parameters of absolute
space—confinement of a stable identity within a national border (the Bahamas).
But here, the singer’s identity is not static and pre-existing, but explicitly con­
structed by the song, and the locale tied to this identity is not, in reality, bounded
in the islands. Rather, it is a “Bahamas” created out of a layering of both imag­
ined and physical space, that captures his longing for a sense of nostalgic “home”;
the actual locales of the islands and metropoles; and the back-and-forth between
those locations. It is a composite, multifaceted space that can only come into
being because of the singer’s movement across geographical boundaries.
Salsa further complicates the question of musical formations in and through
diaspora. A richly multifaceted confluence of hybrid and flexible styles from Cuba
and Puerto Rico that emerged in New York, salsa is an inherently diasporic music

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that has now achieved a global reach across Spanish-speaking Latin America and
beyond. It has geographically grounded roots, but is also inherently transna­
tional, without boundaries, physical confines, or a singular essentialized identity.
Salsa’s sounds initially highlight the movements, sentiments, and interactions
among Caribbean and Latino musicians in New York, then traverse back to Latin
America where they continue to produce this deeply diasporic space through fur­
ther hybridized formations across national borders. The space produced through
salsa, then, contests the very notion of “absolute space,” in part because it is
ever-shifting, dynamic, pluralistic, and always produced through movement and
circulation.
For further exploration into the questions surrounding diaspora and music,
I urge you to consult the “Music and Diaspora” chapter in this Reader. But
diaspora is an important and compelling concept to think about when wrestling
with music and space. However much musical sounds may be intended to repre­
sent a particular identity for a nation-state, musical practices like tango and salsa
highlight how sound can encode cultural difference not as reified or monolithic,
but rather as a product of ongoing, dynamic, and ceaselessly turbulent historical
entanglements. I encourage you to keep asking: what kind of spatial understand­
ing emerges from listening to the musical sounds that became possible because
of the distinct histories of diasporic formations present in the Caribbean? Do you
hear salsa as a music that moves across absolute space? Or does salsa, very much a
music-in-constant-motion, create a different kind of space? What kind of space is
diaspora? We will return to this question toward the end of this chapter.

3. Phenomenological Space and Soundscape

Embodiment, Class, and the Everyday

Thus far, I have used “space” even when describing examples of what you might
usually call “places.” Now, it is time to tease out some specific parameters for
these two terms so that we can deploy them more critically in our thinking.
One school of thought, which I will call “phenomenological space,” differenti­
ates the two this way: space is general and abstract, and becomes concrete and
attains identity as a place through embodiment, experience, and groundedness.
Put another way, place is space made meaningful through sensory experiences.
Because music is a deeply embodied and sensorial practice, it plays a key role in
turning mere “spaces” into “places” meaningful to humans.
Culturally specific practices of listening to sounds that are not convention­
ally considered “music” can also help us understand how people are socialized
to understand and engage with the world sonically—to make space into place.
Just as listening to crickets and cicadas is a cultivated aural sensibility to orient
oneself temporally (to seasonal changes, for example) in Japan (see Excursions,
Chapter 6), listening to sounds can be a way of attuning ourselves to the particular
locale we are in.

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Canadian composer R. Murray Schafer coined the term “soundscape” to

conceptualize this approach to spatial orientation through sound (Schafer 1977
(1980)). Schafer suggested that, by privileging the acoustic dimension of our
environment, we can gain a deeper appreciation for and understanding of a
locality. Schafer himself had an ideological investment in upholding the “pure”
sounds of nature untouched by human civilization, but many scholars of music
and space have since critiqued the Western, Romantic ideal that presumes a binary
separation between “human” and “nature.” Schafer’s “soundscape” concept also
conflates sound and hearing. We must ask: does sound have an intrinsic meaning?
Or do we find meanings through our hearing? For Schafer, certain (“natural”)
sounds are pure and worthy of protection, and certain (“polluting”) sounds are
best eliminated—assuming that sound has inherent values, to be perceived by
careful listeners like himself—but do we all hear the same way? While Schafer
called attention to the importance of listening as a way of engaging with the
world, his idea of soundscape does not allow for the fact that we are all cultur­
ally conditioned to develop different ways of perceiving sound, and therefore,
different interpretations and evaluations of sound.
With these caveats in mind, however, Schafer’s call for attuning ourselves
to the environment through listening has generated numerous new ways of
producing knowledge about sound-space. Listening to sounds can help us get
to know, and eventually navigate, a particular environment, especially if we are
careful and aware of what assumptions we might be making as we pick up (or
don’t) on certain sounds. Next time you go out—whether around your own
neighborhood or to a travel destination—you might want to try taking what
Schafer called a “soundwalk,” an excursion with the goal of listening to the
environment.
Ouyang’s sonic tour of everyday life in Taiwan is one good example of such
a “soundwalk” (see Excursions, Chapter 4). Ouyang takes us on her stroll to a
Taipei night market, on a subway ride, and on a jog in a park. We hear a few
of what Schafer calls “soundmarks”—the acoustic equivalent of a landmark,
a unique sound that identifies a particular place. For example, the sounds,
smells, and humidity of Taipei’s night markets all index the ways people social­
ize in the evening to escape from the heat, after long hours of work and school.
Another example is one of the most well-known street sounds of Taipei: melo­
dies played by garbage trucks. As Ouyang explains, well-organized and efficient
waste management became a critical ecological and social mandate as Taiwan
went through rapid industrialization. Listening to this iconic sound—or sound­
mark—gives us insight into the ecological, historical, and social forces at play
in the everyday lives of Taipei’s residents, helping us to understand this urban
space as a “place.”
The concept of soundscape, on the one hand, is fundamentally grounded in
the notion of absolute space, as it assumes a geographically delineated under­
standing of static space with an intrinsic identity. On the other hand, however,
soundscape highlights the productive potential of sound to help us experientially

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understand a particular locale, an environment, a territory—which in turn reveals

social dynamics and histories that may not be immediately accessible to residents,
let alone to casual visitors. However, it is important to ask: if phenomenological
space becomes concrete through human perception, experience, and embodi­
ment, does that assume the universality of such place-making experiences by all
humans? And if so, does that mean all places are equally meaningful and power­
ful? Who has access to certain places, and to music? Who can hear this music? Do
we all hear the same way? Who has the mobility and resources to move through
places to experience their soundscapes?
One way to think about these questions is to ask who gets to control public
soundscapes. We might consider how noise complaints rise dramatically in “gen­
trifying” areas of U.S. cities, as wealthier (often white) new residents encounter
and are bothered by their (often black and Latinx) neighbors’ amplified music
that, whether played in apartments, on the stoop, or on the sidewalk, passes
beyond private boundaries to create the neighborhood’s soundscape. In 2019,
such complaints temporarily shut down the go-go music that had projected for
two decades from an electronics store in Shaw, an historically African-American
neighborhood in Washington, DC. This dispute over whether residents in the
neighborhood’s new luxury apartments would have to listen to the blasting
go-go, a homegrown DC hybrid music drawing on funk, R&B, and hip-hop—a
“soundmark” of local identity—symbolizes the tension that can arise over sound-
scapes in densely populated areas with varying and changing demographics. It
also illuminates how uneven power between communities can shape what we
hear, or don’t hear, every day.

4. Beyond Boundaries: Relational Space

Indigeneity, Environment, and Circulation

So far we have thought about space as an “absolute,” a pre-given geographical
unit that delineates cultural difference, which can then be claimed, owned, or
controlled by particular people or groups. We have also thought about it in
the realm of representation or imagination, like the “Africa” of stereotype or
the “home” of diasporic migrants. And we have invoked the distinction some
make between an inchoate “space” and a “place” created by human activity. Now,
I want to introduce you to one last approach to thinking about space. What if
humans do play a role in producing space, but not the only role? What if space is
something that emerges from how we interact with and relate to other humans,
non-human beings, and even objects around us, and through the histories that
come with them?
Across musical practices among many North American indigenous groups, we
learn about the indigenous orientation “toward the social, natural, and spiritual
world that … prioritizes the subject’s place in a web of relations, and that …
reminds the subject ever to place her/himself in terms of that web of relations”

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(see Excursions, Chapter 12). But the “subjects” here, crucially, are not only
human. Land is not an inert surface upon which actions take place, but one of
many agents that, through interconnected relations with humans, animals, spirits,
and other beings, co-produces the world. Three-dimensional space, understood
in this light, is not a mere container or background for activity, but the dynamic
product of human, animal, plant, and spirit interactions.
Sound, music, and dance play an essential role in forging these relationships.
For instance, performance of songs, dances, and ceremonies is an important
obligation when a person or group receives a gift from the spirits. In the tra­
ditional Nuu-chan-nulth practice of the Pacific Northwest, songs and dances
are also a way of forging and reinforcing kinship relations; each family inherits,
and owns, specific songs that perform this work. Cree and Ojibwe communi­
ties, whose lifeway involved seasonal migration, perform their communal bonds
through regular meetings involving collective performances of song and dance.
Powwows are spatial-musical processes through which nomadic or distant groups
intersect spatially and reinforce or newly establish intertribal relationships, while
also recognizing tribal differences and honoring community-specific responses to
marginalization and oppression.
These examples highlight how music and sound are often neither an “expres­
sion” of the supposed inherent identity of a territory (absolute space), nor a
simple observation of sounds tied to an environment (soundscape). Rather, music
is, in these examples, a way of making sense of, and simultaneously making, the
world, through relationships among multiple actors. Anthropologist Steven Feld
(Feld 1996) coined the term “acoustemology” to describe a similar idea: sound
as a way of knowing and being emplaced in the world. Feld’s work with the
Bosavi people in Papua New Guinea found that singing, hearing, and sounding
are intrinsically integral to their way of knowing, as they navigate and create their
world via singing and listening, and in active relationship to bird songs, to the
spirits of those who have passed, to waterways, and to rainforests.
Space that is defined in such dynamic and interactive terms can be called
“relational space.” Cultural geographer Doreen Massey helps us think about rela­
tional space as extroverted, outward-looking, made up of historical encounters,
and inclusive of interrelations among humans and non-human actors as well as
the environment. Put another way, these actors don’t just interact within space
(conceived as a mere background or geographically bounded unit); space comes
into being through dynamic relationships. And if we reframe our imagination of
space as a “meeting-up of histories” and as “social relations stretched out,” then
space is revealed as inherently fluid and plural, since it’s made up of historical
encounters and multiple actors (Massey 2005: 4; 1994: 2). As an acoustic and
social phenomenon that embodies and evokes histories and memories, sound and
music is a powerful way to reorient our ears to listen for the extroverted aspects
of relational space.
Japanoise provides an opportunity to hear such “extroverted” and relational
space (see Excursions, Chapter 6). A cultural phenomenon that grew out of the

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circulation of small-scale experimental sounds from Japan to North America, it

is a sound that emerged precisely through interconnections and circulations,
both in imagination and on the ground. Layers of misunderstanding, projection,
and un/mistranslation created unintended consequences and meanings, and
Japanoise emerged out of this “cultural feedback.” In this sound phenomenon,
we hear, then, a deeply relational space that defies the characteristics of abso­
lute space. Japanoise does not embody or represent the country or identity of
“Japan,” or of a singular musician, or group of musicians. Instead, it emerges in
the back-and-forth oscillations of recordings, ideas, and performers, with sounds
freed of any notion of physically bounded territory, and therefore devoid of
any essentialized, stable identity. At once imaginary (imagination, misinterpreta­
tions, untranslation among North American fans) and concrete (recordings in
the mail, underground experimental musicians in small venues of Kyoto and
Osaka), Japanoise sounds out a relational space in and through relationships of
global circulation.
You will probably hear echoes of the earlier discussion of diasporic music here;
the sounds of salsa and tango engendered a space through the migration of
people, the circulation of music, and the accompanying imaginations of “home”
and different senses of belonging that these various movements precipitated.
But, having added to our thinking the notion of relational and extroverted space,
we can now raise slightly different questions about diaspora that nuance our
understandings of the relationship between music and sound. Do you hear salsa
as music that is moving within, and across, absolute space? Or does salsa produce
an extroverted and relational space, arising from relations and interactions among
people and environment across geographically delineated locales?

Summary
Just as ideas about music and sound vary throughout the world, our own implicit
assumptions about how we understand “space” can be called into question.
This chapter, the Reader it is part of, and Excursions itself, all seek to make you
aware of the typical Western conception of space as only one possible approach
among many. Such awareness allows us to observe and analyze music and sound
with careful attention to how the intersection of sound and space affords us
windows onto the intersection of power, culture, and difference. These intersec­
tions might take the form of appropriation or domination (as we’ve seen in our
discussion of absolute space). But they can also lead to reification, contestation,
or the creative or unintended formation of alliances and cultural forms (as we
explored in our discussion of phenomenological space, diasporic space, and
relational space).
And it is important to remember that these various ways of conceptualizing
space are not mutually exclusive, but rather can overlap, support, or interrupt
each other. We can, for instance, hold in mind a kind of absolute space (say, the
geographic space of Hong Kong and the uniform history and identity assumed

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of its territory by the official narrative) even as we consider the relational spaces
and the senses of “place” that are revealed and created by the sounds and music
of the protest movement for the democratic future of that “absolute space” (see
Excursions, Chapter 4). With this insight, I hope that you are able to expand your
understanding of how sound and music work in relation to space; to hear the
historical and political implications of different approaches to spatial thinking;
and to explore new possibilities for hearing/understanding space through music.
If you haven’t thought much about space and sound until now, it may feel
challenging to wrap your head around some of these concepts. But listening to
music, attending to sound, and exploring dance with critical attention are all
powerful and compelling ways to explore different ways of thinking about (and
experiencing) space. As you saw in the examples above, music can contribute
to producing a misconceived sense of space, depriving it of the lived realities of
the actual inhabitants. Music can also be mobilized to symbolize a supposedly
essentialized and unitary identity within a given territory. But even in such cases,
sounds can also tell us a lot about the entangled histories of cultural exchanges
and relationships that might contradict false narratives of cultural uniformity and
historical stasis. Sound can also uncover deeper insights into what you might
take for granted in your everyday environment. Or, instead of being something
that happens in or through space, music can be an agent that produces an active,
extroverted space through its interaction with the environment, humans, and
other actors.
Music and sound play a profound role in providing a sense of who we are in
the world, how we move through the world, and how we orient ourselves toward
others and the environment. Music, sound, and dance help us hear the multiple
qualities, types, properties, and attributes of space and attend to its relational­
ity. On any musical excursion, either in your everyday life or to an unfamiliar
place, you might try to listen and ask: what kinds of stories, memories, histories,
relationships, and forces are audible in this space? Which ones might be sup­
pressed, blocked, silenced, or excluded? What kind of space is being sounded out
through them? What are the repercussions and consequences of different ways of
understanding space? And how might music and sound offer a way not only to
understand them, but to create new possibilities?

References
Feld, Steven. 1996. “Waterfalls of Song: An Acoustemology of Place Resounding in
Bosavi, Papua New Guinea.” In Senses of Place, edited by Steven Feld and Keith H.
Basso, 91–136. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Advanced Seminar Series.
Massey, Doreen. 1994. Space, Place and Gender. Minneapolis, MN: University of
Minnesota Press.
Massey, Doreen. 2005. For Space. London: Sage.
Said, Edward. 1978. “Imaginative Geography and Its Representations: Orientalizing the
Oriental.” In Orientalism, 49–72. New York: Vintage Books.

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Schafer, R. Murray. 1977 (1980). The Turning of the World: Toward a Theory of Soundscape
Design. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press.
Smith, Neil, and Cindy Katz. 1993. “Grounding Metaphor: Towards a Spatialized Politics.”
In Place and the Politics of Identity, edited by M. Keith and S. Pile. London: Routledge.

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 6
MUSIC AND DIASPORA

Timothy Rommen

Have you ever really thought about the freedom of movement that many of us,
especially those of us hailing from the North Atlantic, enjoy? Whether travelling
internationally with family at the holidays; joining friends for a quick vacation in
a popular tourist destination; or, perhaps, studying abroad for a semester—your
citizenship status (especially if it is granted by the “right” nation-state) can come
with profoundly enabling privileges related to mobility. I would venture to guess
that at least some of you have had the luxury of not needing to think a great deal
about how much access and protection your passport gives you, or about how
relatively easy it is for you to obtain everything from student visas to entry on a
tourist visa. We do, of course, need the requisite resources to travel, and so the
mobility I’m referencing here is also a matter of class (and this is no small issue
in a world where the wealth gap is so severe and resources distributed so very
unevenly). But that is a subject for another essay. My point here is more about
what it means to have, at the very least, the theoretical possibility for such mobil­
ity. For this possibility is not shared by everyone. National borders are permeable
for some but hard as stone for others. Sometimes they work much better in one
direction than the other. Immigration policies impinge upon and block many
who are simply trying to move toward a vision of their future just as you and I
are doing in our own ways.
The bottom line here is that many of us, myself included, have the luxury
of traversing borders, mostly freely, and of pursuing our interests, careers, and
education more or less how and where we choose. Throughout history, however,
many people have moved around the world not freely but rather because they
were compelled to do so, either by force (slavery, exile), or because of politi­
cal, religious, social, or economic factors beyond their control (war, religious
persecution, violence, famine). In this short essay, I’d like to explore how music
travels with individuals and communities who find themselves far from “home”
and working to rebuild life in new places. I’d like to do this by first introducing
the concept of diaspora and then offering a few examples taken from Excursions
in World Music to illustrate how powerful music can be in these circumstances.
I’ll also consider why thinking with diaspora affords us insights that we would
likely not generate if we focus only on migration and mobility.

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Diaspora
Diaspora, a Greek word meaning, roughly, “to scatter about,” has historically
been a useful way of referencing the mass movements of people out of their
traditional homelands and into new territories, generally by force, and usually
without the possibility of a return. The desire for a return, the pain and nostalgia
that accompany such longing in the face of the existential reality of permanent
exile from one’s home, and the necessity and difficulty of building life anew in a
new place, despite such conditions, are all foundational to the experience of dias­
pora. This term was initially deployed within the academy in order to describe the
dispersal of Jews around the world. During the twentieth century, it also became
a common framework within which to think about the Armenian diaspora (which
I will not have space to discuss here) and the African diaspora (of which more
below). Within the Jewish tradition, there is, perhaps, no more iconic illustration
of the sense of dislocation and sorrow that accompanies diaspora than the well-
known text of Psalm 137:

By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and there we wept

when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs,
and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
(NRSV Psalm 137: 1–4)

It is no accident that music is part of the calculus here. Do you have any songs
in your life that index a place (or perhaps a memory) you hold dear? If you do,
would it be appropriate to play those songs just anywhere, or do they hold a
special place for you that should be taken into account when performing them?
As Psalm 137 tells it, the Jewish community exiled in Babylon felt it incongruous,
if not impossible, to sing the songs of Zion (or Jerusalem) in that place—“how
could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” As we will see, music plays a
powerful role not only in remembering and celebrating “home,” but also in the
gradual, intergenerational reconfiguration of a diasporic space into a place where
life can be celebrated again.
A good example of this process can be seen in the African diaspora. You may
know that an adaptation of Psalm 137 was written by the Jamaican reggae band,
The Melodians, in 1970 and included on the soundtrack for the film The Harder
They Come in 1972. Called “Rivers of Babylon,” the song offers a particularly
powerful example of Rastafari religious worldviews, a multilayered historical
commentary on slavery and colonialism, and a political message pointing out
continued oppression even in newly postcolonial Jamaica (independent since
1962). Just a few points here: within Rastafari thought, the historical city of

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Babylon is reconfigured to refer to the colonial system (Babylon system) but also
to the diasporic spaces (like Jamaica) into which African slaves were transported.
Zion here refers not to Jerusalem, but to Ethiopia, which, in Rastafari thought,
is the promised land. The history of diaspora indexed in The Melodians’ version
of Psalm 137 includes experiences of the middle passage and slavery, the vari­
ous means by which colonial law and policy maintained degrees of unfreedom
and inequality even after emancipation, and the extent to which even postcolo­
nial, independent Jamaica is subject to neocolonial influence. Here’s how The
Melodians rework Psalm 137:

By the rivers of Babylon [Jamaica]—where he sat down,

and there he wept when he remembered Zion [Ethiopia].
’Cause the wicked [slavers, colonial officials, plantation owners,
International Monetary Fund].
carried us away captivity [slavery as well as post-slavery colonial/
neocolonial/postcolonial forms of unfreedom],
Required from us a song.
How can we sing King Alpha’s [Rastafari reference to King Haile
Selassie] song in a strange land?

What becomes clear, as we compare this example to the text of Psalm 137, are the
ways that The Melodians invest the lyrics not just with different meanings, but
also with references to a much more sweeping historical trajectory and political
landscape than does the original text. And I believe that we can see, in this exam­
ple, a journey from diaspora to home. What I mean here is that, articulated from
the perspective of an independent Jamaica in 1970, these lyrics provide a rich
and multilayered lesson in diasporic life. We can interpret them as memorializing
the experiences of slaves in a new place (the experiences of the band’s distant
ancestors). But these lyrics also index the plight of unequal subjects in a colo­
nial, post-slavery Jamaica (including the plight of their parents). Finally, we can
also hear in these words a contemporary protest over the inequalities that obtain
in a neocolonial, independent Jamaica (their Jamaica) in which it is still appropri­
ate to sing about Babylon, Zion, the wicked, and captivity. What has changed
isn’t the fact of diaspora, but rather the sense that Jamaica is now “home”—if an
imperfect and complicated one—and more home than Zion (Ethiopia), which
exists more as a metaphor/aspiration in Rastafari faith than as a concrete possibil­
ity. The weight of generation upon generation living in and making life work in
Jamaica, and doing so without access to ancestral homelands, necessarily changes
the way that diaspora is experienced over time.
And the Caribbean, in particular, is a collection of sites in which most everyone
is from somewhere else—some by choice, many more by force (see Excursions,
Chapter 11). It is also a space within which musicians, playwrights, dancers,
religious leaders, and many others have identified ways to start “singing the
Lord’s [or King Alpha’s] song in a [no longer] strange land.” These songs have

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taken a variety of forms: some traditions have resisted colonial impositions, others
have created hybrid or creolized practices; all have required coming to terms with
diaspora.
Think for a minute about the difficult choices that many slaves would have had
to make with regard to religious practice. Having been torn from their own com­
munities, their religious traditions, and the contexts within which such worship
and devotion became socially meaningful, slaves were introduced to Christianity
by the very people who enslaved them(!). The irony of this absurd and deeply
tragic situation notwithstanding, many slaves did accommodate themselves to
one degree or another to the new religion. But this didn’t preclude them from
also holding on to what they could of their past religious practices, including the
songs, the rituals, and the social organizations they enabled, thus giving rise to
a great variety of sacred traditions that variously resist, combine with, or oppose
Catholic and Protestant practices. The results are musically diverse and existen­
tially and spiritually rich and include vodoun (Haiti), santería (Cuba), obeah
(Bahamas), shango (Trinidad), and myal, convince, and Rastafarianism (Jamaica),
to name just a few. These practices tend to hold in view both African antecedents
and Caribbean realities, marking them as creole—which, in this context, means
that they combine ideas from multiple sources into a new practice indebted to,
but distinct from, the original practices.
This sense of being both African and Jamaican, or African and Trinidadian (of
having multiple, competing sources for one’s identity), has been identified by
W.E.B. Du Bois, in the context of the United States, as a hallmark of diasporic
existence. Du Bois called this recognition of multiplicity “double consciousness.”
Paul Gilroy, writing about this idea, puts it this way:

Double consciousness was initially used to convey the special difficul­

ties arising from black internalisation of an American identity: “One
ever feels his twoness, an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts,
two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body whose
dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.” However,
I want to suggest that Du Bois produced this concept … not just to
express the distinctive standpoint of black Americans but also to illumi­
nate the experience of post-slave populations in general.
(1993: 126)

The idea of creolization is one way in which such multiplicities were confronted,
absorbed, and reframed to create cultural productions (music, dance, theater,
carnival, etc.) that reflected the new realities that each successive generation
confronted in these places that gradually became “homes.” In their very forma­
tion, however, these cultural productions bear the traces of diasporic experi­
ence. The combination of African, European, and, in some cases, Amerindian
elements (instruments, aesthetics, etc.) in the creation of such creole musics
betrays the long history, stretching over five centuries, of interaction, exchange,

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and coexistence (if unequal and complicated by what The Melodians call the
“wicked”) in the Caribbean.
As just one example among many, I point you to rake ’n’ scrape in the Bahamas
(see Excursions, Chapter 11). This music, originally developed to accompany
social dancing, rose to prominence in the Bahamas during the late nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries. A creole or creolized musical style, rake ’n’ scrape
is based on a combination of European and African instruments (accordion and
goatskin drum) and on a successful combination of European and African concep­
tions of embodied rhythm (several European dances, along with African dances,
all accompanied by the predominantly African-derived rhythms played on the
drum). Today, the traditional form is primarily considered a heritage music, but
its rhythms inform a popular music of the same name that continues to attract
new artists and audiences. In the end, rake ’n’ scrape is a creole musical tradition,
neither African nor European, but rather Caribbean—specifically, Bahamian. It is
also a musical tradition that could only have emerged in and through the experi­
ences, dislocations, and re-groundings of diasporic life.

Diaspora: Other Possibilities

During the late twentieth century, scholars began to expand the use of diaspora
to include many other possibilities. Kevin Kenney, a diaspora studies scholar and
historian, has this to say about this shift:

The dismantling of European empires inspired new forms of transnational

solidarity, especially among people of African descent. Decolonization
also led to the displacement of certain migrant populations in vari­
ous parts of Asia and Africa. Involuntary migrants classified as refugees
received international recognition and protection, bringing global
attention to the idea of diaspora. The number of international migrants
increased dramatically in recent decades. New forms of technology
facilitated faster international travel and communication. And national
governments began to reach out in new ways to their overseas popula­
tions in search of economic and political support. These developments
help explain not only why the term diaspora has become so popular but
also why it is used in such a wide variety of ways.
(2013: 9)

Thinking with Kenney, it becomes possible to see why the South Asian diaspora
in the United Kingdom and the United States, for instance, or any similar com­
munity living outside of their historical homeland, is now likely to be described as
diasporic. One of the fundamental differences between such uses of the concept
and the more iconic examples I discussed in the previous section, however, is that
there usually exists for individuals in these communities a possibility of return to
their homeland. In fact, frequent travel back and forth is common. It is also the

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case that many of these communities (though not all—refugees, for instance)
have moved by choice, perhaps in search of educational or professional opportu­
nities, and then stayed “abroad” in their new hostland. This is not to negate the
deep feelings of longing for “home” or the sense of dislocation and isolation that
can and do accompany such migrations, but we should acknowledge that such
a use of diaspora is qualitatively different from how it has been experienced and
what it has meant for the Jewish or African diasporas. That said, there is much
we can learn by expanding the scope of diaspora to include such communities,
and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that music plays an important role in these
cases as well.
For instance, there are, in Maritime Southeast Asia, several such diasporic com­
munities (see Excursions, Chapter 7). I’d like to highlight just one of them here. In
his discussion of the Malay world, Jim Sykes introduces a non-Malay population
called the Straits Chinese (also known as the Baba-Nonya). This population, num­
bering about eight million and spread all across Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore,
and Thailand, is descended from early Chinese migrants and has adopted Malay
customs and several Malay creole languages (called Baba Malay). In adapting to
life in new places around Maritime Southeast Asia, many of these Straits Chinese
chose to adopt as their own a Malay musical practice called pantun, a kind of
improvised sung poetry that, as Sykes explains, can be sung on its own or within
certain musical genres. The Straits Chinese favored singing pantuns within a genre
called dondang sayang (“Love Song”), which involves men and women improvis­
ing witty and flirtatious pantuns to one another. As Sykes notes,

at least until the 1960s, Straits Chinese families were known to hold
dondang sayang sessions in their private homes for families and friends;
and pantuns by that point were sung not only in the Baba Malay creole
but also sometimes in Hokkien, the language from southern China.

Here then, we see a local Malay genre adapted to the needs of a non-Malay
population, sung in different contexts, and even in a different language, as a
community came to terms with the contours of its diasporic life.
But it is also important to consider how, as a community deals with the exigen­
cies of diaspora, it can also connect with other, similar communities in a new
place, using the musical ideas it has brought with it as a foundation from which
to develop new, diasporic practices. I’d like to show you how we can both “see”
and “hear” such diasporic connections. Good examples of this can be found
in new York City’s Labor Day Parade (see Excursions, Chapter 11), and in the
development of salsa music, also in New York City (see Excursions, Chapter 10).
From at least the turn of the twentieth century, New York City was an attractive
destination for both West Indian (think here of people hailing from the English-
speaking Caribbean—from places such as Trinidad, Jamaica, and Guyana) and
Latinx migrants. People moved to pursue educational opportunities, for work, or
to join family already living in New York City. And, even though long-standing

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national and regional rivalries existed between the various West Indian communi­
ties, in the context of New York City, West Indians had much more in common
with other West Indians than with the white, U.S. American population. The
same was true of the various Latinx communities arriving in New York City:
whether hailing from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, or nations in
Central and South America, these communities, too, had more in common with
each other in the context of New York City than they might have acknowledged
at “home.” And this realization makes new diasporic solidarities and affinities
possible. But how do these new solidarities look and sound?
Perhaps the most visible example I can point to is the annual Labor Day
Parade, which is a West Indian-inspired carnival. At “home” in the Caribbean,
fierce rivalries exist (have you ever seen a soccer match between Trinidad and
Jamaica?), but in New York City, West Indians recognize the utility, visibility,
and strength that numbers can provide. As such, those regional rivalries (we
are Trinidadian, or Jamaican) remain important but are nested within the larger
diasporic identity (we are West Indians) necessitated by living in New York City.
So, the West Indian community comes out and participates in the Labor Day
Parade en masse, but you will still see Jamaican, Trinidadian, and Guyanese flags
flying proudly even as revelers assert their solidarity as West Indians.
But we can also “hear” the growth of such diasporic affinities and solidarities
by attending to musical exchanges. So, let’s think, briefly, about what listening
to salsa can help us understand about the Latinx community. Since at least the
1930s, a series of musical interactions between Cuban master drummers, Puerto
Rican musicians, Dominican players, and jazz artists, produced a series of musical
constellations, including the Cu-bop of the 1940s, the Latin Big Band scene of
the 1950s (think cha-cha-chá and mambo), and the Boogaloo craze of the 1960s
(which was, in its own way, also a profound interaction with African-American
musical styles which I don’t have space to address here). Salsa emerged out of
this constantly hybridizing context in the 1970s, absorbing a bit of all that had
preceded it into its own sound and aesthetic approach. It is, as such, a sound
with multiple sources—it is no longer possible to hear salsa as Cuban or Puerto
Rican. Instead, it is a musical style that emerged in and through the processes of
diaspora.
In fact, one important way to “hear” salsa is as a cultural production that
is only possible because it has developed in multiple diasporic contexts. The
roots of salsa completed the middle passage in the hearts and minds of unfree
African musicians and dancers and then grew into important diasporic musical
traditions like bomba, plena (Puerto Rico), rumba, and son (Cuba), to name but
a few. These musical traditions, carried in the hearts and minds of now free but
still diasporic Afro-Caribbean musicians and dancers, travelled throughout the
twentieth century to a new diasporic destination—to New York City, that is. In a
profound way, then, what we hear when we listen to salsa is music that bears, in
its core aesthetic principles, the memory and consequences of two very different
kinds of diasporic experience.

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Migration or Diaspora? Sounds and People on the Move

But couldn’t the examples in the previous section (Straits Chinese, Labor Day
Parade, salsa) be productively described and analyzed through the lens of migra­
tion and mobility instead of through diaspora? I think that the answer here is an
equivocal “yes and no.” In one sense, diaspora merely helps us think about spe­
cific instances of migration. It helps us think about communities moving across
the globe, forming new connections and facing new challenges and opportunities
in new places. This entire essay is, at this level, certainly about migration and a
range of involuntary and voluntary mobilities. And yet, I think diaspora remains
especially useful for focusing attention on the networks that extend beyond the
binary of home and abroad, or homeland and hostland. Let’s look again at the
three case studies I briefly introduced above.
In the case of the Straits Chinese, this population of some 8 million people is
dispersed across the Malay world—a geography that, today, is divided between
several nation-states, including Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and Thailand.
What thinking with diaspora can offer here that migration is less able to highlight
are the networks of belonging and shared identity that extend across these various
“national” boundaries, connecting the Straits Chinese in their various hostlands
to each other as well as maintaining links (though not necessarily loyalty) to their
ancestral homeland of China.
The Labor Day Parade in New York City can be read, from the perspective of
migration, as a continuation of culturally relevant practices developed in West
Indian homeland(s) in a new hostland. What diaspora adds here is a fine-grained
analysis of the ways that the idea of West Indian is mobilized and a recognition
of the discrete identities that it folds into its collective in the process. But, if we
think beyond the specifics of the New York City scene, diaspora also offers ways of
thinking about how the Labor Day Parade is connected to and in dialogue with
similar celebrations such as the Notting Hill Carnival and Caribana, held annually
in London and Toronto, respectively. What diaspora adds to the discourse of
migration, then, is the ability to think carefully about how these nodes in far-flung
networks of diasporic communities interact, support each other, become rivals to
each other, and reflect ever-changing relationships to homelands in the Caribbean.
Finally, salsa, too, is better thought in terms of diaspora. Let me continue the
story of salsa from where I had left off earlier. Although the 1970s saw the birth
of salsa as we understand it today, it didn’t stay confined to audiences in New York
City. In fact, in large part because of the profoundly diasporic roots of the genre,
salsa was rapidly exported to other locations, including to Colombia, Venezuela,
and many other locations throughout Central and South America, where com­
munities were readily able to identify with the music and dance. Thus, while
migration and mobility certainly help us explore some of salsa’s journeys, dias­
pora enables us to think about the deep connections and historical solidarities
that can be shared, in this case, through a musical genre. Put differently, the very
fact that salsa is a diasporic musical formation is, in fact, one of the reasons for

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its migrations across the Americas—one of the reasons that people from Cali to
Caracas recognized themselves in its sounds and movements. And in so doing,
new diasporic nodes became a part of a larger network that is better captured by
the concept of diaspora than by migration.
I should point out here that the three examples I have chosen to highlight
in this essay represent only a fraction of the diasporic communities and musics
discussed in Excursions in World Music. You will encounter many rich examples
as you read your textbook and I hope that this short essay has given you some
tools for reading about and exploring these histories of migration, mobility, and
diasporic life. I’ll leave you with a few questions to consider as you continue
thinking about diaspora.
How should we think about refugee communities who live in hostlands far
removed from their homelands and without the ability to return? Think here of
Syrian refugees hoping for the chance to escape war and make life anew/again
in Europe. They are migrants, yes, but their experiences and musical practices
might be better thought through the lens of diaspora. Or, how do we address the
increasingly restrictive immigration policies sweeping into vogue around Europe
and in the United States? Where does this leave migrants who are hoping to
make a new life in a new place? And how do we reconcile all of this with the
fact that the migrants (and refugees) most disproportionally affected in all of
this tend not to be white and often hail from the Global South? These migrants
(and refugees, too) are literally caught between hostland and homeland, unable
to live in either. The inequities begin to pile up. Or, how do we understand
communities, like the West Indian or Latinx community in New York City, who
at one and the same time appreciate their place in a new hostland but also remain
connected to and invested in relationships that extend far beyond the nation-state
in which they currently live? All of these questions reflect the complexities of
diasporic experience. And all of these complexities are rehearsed and explored
through music, dance, art, and poetry—that is, in the cultural productions that
enliven and sustain these communities. And this is perhaps the primary reason
why ethnomusicologists continue to engage urgently with questions of diaspora
as they spend time thinking with communities about what it means to “sing the
Lord’s song in a foreign land.”

References
Gilroy, Paul. 1993. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press.
Kenney, Kevin. 2013. Diaspora: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University
Press.

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 7
COMMUNICATION,
TECHNOLOGY, MEDIA

Andrea F. Bohlman

Questioning Listening
I’ll begin by posing a simple, but hard, thought question. Think about your
life over the last twenty-four hours. When did you hear music? Perhaps you were
intentional in the first moments that spring to mind. Maybe you connected some
headphones to a mobile device and chose some music to listen to while you
exercised, commuted, or worked. Or you participated in a live rehearsal with an
ensemble, turned on the radio while cooking, sat down to do an assignment for
the class for which you purchased this Reader. Or maybe you huddled over a cell
phone to watch a streaming music video suggested by a family member or friend,
whether through social media or in person. You might have attended a concert
or watched a video of a performance on television.
These are all modes of purposefully accessing music and directing your ears
and body to it as an object that is, more or less, at the center of your experi­
ence of the world. The tasks that clear time to focus upon the sound of music
unfolding—things like cooking, driving to work, the repetition that goes into
practicing for a performance—help to frame the thing you are listening to as
music, too. You configure yourself for desired acoustics by cutting off other
sounds with headphones, enclosing yourself in a car, shutting the door to a room,
hovering over a piano, and picking a track that will choreograph your running or
dancing legs. Often, when we notice music in our lives, it’s not only because we
are listening, but because we have to work to foster a relationship to it. We set
aside time for it and, sometimes unconsciously, orchestrate how it resonates: what
technologies and materials bring it to life.
I might have asked a different, but also hard, leading question to invite you
into the issues raised by this chapter: what are some remarkable sounds you
heard over the last twenty-four hours? Some of these might be easily categorized
as music: the sound track to a video game that sticks in your ear, the song
you’ve set to play as your morning wake-up alarm, the DJ mixing tracks in the
apartment above or below you, or the street musician you walked by as you got
off a bus to do some errands. These listening experiences might have stimulated
in you some of the same emotional and physical responses as those intentional

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musical encounters you recalled in response to my first question: feelings like

calm, focus, frustration, and excitement. Maybe you sang or danced along. Your
floor vibrated; your pulse quickened. Maybe you think of these interruptions
as music, but they communicate differently than the music you “made space
for”—the music over which you had power—in the first exercise. You did not set
the terms of engagement for your encounter with these sounds: they accompany,
interrupt, intrude, and distract you. Some of this music is called noise—or its
makers are called noisy. Noise is a term which emphasizes that in these contexts,
this sound is less valued and even unwanted.
Why and how we encounter sound—its context—influences what we call it,
how we listen to it, and what it communicates to us. When we call something we
hear a sound, it does not carry the same set of cultural meanings that the very
same thing can have when we call it music. Interpreting something we hear (or
make) as music is a means of distinction, a way of separating something apart
and often above the wider, presumably more neutral, concept of sound. The
collection of musical noises I conjured here in response to the second listening
question serves as a reminder that music is often present in our lives even when
we do not prioritize it, or are not necessarily aware of it consciously. In fact, it
is very likely that most of the music you hear is not the product of you pushing
a button, turning up the volume, plugging in headphones, turning on your
amp, or tuning up your instrument. But you probably still cherish some of these
sounds, whether because they are familiar, comforting, intriguing, or delightfully
surprising. They shape your home, your hobbies, your everyday life. Music is not
only there when we explicitly tune in: it is embedded in the spaces through which
we move. We bring it into the world; the world mediates it to us. The “how” of
this mediation is what the study of communication, technology, and media dwells
upon, from the myriad of means of sound production to the feelings produced in
individuals and across communities when they hear that sound.
Note that my second leading question wasn’t about music, it was about
remarkable sounds. So maybe you would answer that question along completely
different lines than those that guided my suggestions. The bark of your pet dog
when you were out walking at night made you notice a neighbor across the street
on a very similar routine stroll. A clanking radiator in your apartment building
roused you out of a deep slumber and made you grumpy. You made a telephone
call just to hear a comforting voice. You are learning a new language, and you
spend time in the morning making faces in the mirror to get the “l” sound just
right. At the end of the day, you opened a cold beverage and sat outside, listening
to the buzzing sound of summer insects and a game of pick-up basketball nearby.
You rode a subway or bus that was so noisy, you put on headphones—and closed
your eyes—just to shut out the sound.
All of us could make our own versions of this list, paying attention (as I have)
to our bodies and psychological responses as much as to the vibrating matter or
digital technology out of which the sound originates. Crucially, who we are and
what our life has been like impacts not just what is on the list, but how we describe

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and relate to these sounds. As I shared my hypothetical list, I foregrounded the

meanings deduced from each sound: what it communicated to me. There is a
science to sound: we can measure pitch, volume, and duration, for example.
Much of the technology that enables us to reproduce music was developed in the
late nineteenth century to study sound along these parameters. But, as you can
see across all of the examples I have evoked thus far, much of what sound and
music communicate to us is a product of our cultural experiences and cannot be
easily measured by others or by devices. When we study music as communication,
music technologies, and musical media, we are questioning how we ourselves—
but also how other people—listen so that we might better understand the always
shifting interface between our individual lives and the broader value systems and
infrastructures that are products of culture through sound.
Keep a sound diary for just one day, incessantly asking yourself what you hear.
You will be overwhelmed by the quantity of information and meaning that sound
conveys to you. (Indeed, this is one way in which the infrastructures and social
structures of twenty-first century life privilege hearing individuals.) Music and
sound are constantly there in the world around us, and we are constantly making
decisions to pay attention or turn away. As we feel, we think about how what
we hear relates to what we see, taste, touch, and smell, building our sensorium.
Sound is mediated when it travels as vibrations through materials. Membranes
on drums and in our ears—both technologies—vibrate, as do molecules of air
in between. The sounds and music we hear always communicate across a gap
between ourselves (as listeners—even when we are also performers) and the
cultural contexts to which we are relating.
Thinking about music along the themes of technology, communication, and
media emphasizes what scholars call the relationality of music: its profound
capacity to shape connections. Music and sound are the result of actions and
they prompt action: at a protest someone might shout “No justice, no peace!”
and the rest of the crowd joins in chorus. On the dance floor, someone might
mouth “come join me,” while making eye-contact with their partner as they strut
over—to the beat—to move their bodies in tandem. These kinds of relationships
formed through sound are not just the domain of human interaction. Sound
connects non-humans and humans: dogs hear dogs bark, too. It shapes our social
relationships to things: we ask our cell phones questions by speaking to them.
By ourselves, we tease music out of the strings of a guitar with our hands—
sometimes in that moment, we feel least alone. The feelings we have as a result
of music and sound are the result of their communicative power. Technology,
communication, and media are closely linked concepts of central importance
for making and studying music. When we focus on them, we learn about how
music moves among people, how it is shared, and how knowledge about music is
transmitted. The rest of this chapter grounds these terms in their specific mean­
ings, providing examples of what kinds of questions they raise about what music
is and how we listen.

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Communication
Music and sound communicate because they convey information and organ­
ize social contact. The word communication is used to describe the action of
making something common or shared: I communicate to you. In contemporary
usage, it also refers to the object, in this case, the sound, that is shared: this is
my communication. The information that sound and music convey depends
on many factors: how is the sound made? What does it sound like (which is, of
course, a matter of opinion)? And, crucially, who is listening? The latter question
unleashes a whole new set of questions: what does the listener know? Why, when,
and how are they listening? When studying music, we have tended to ask these
questions about human listeners, thinking about how music and sound create
shared knowledge among people through their capacity to communicate. But
people also make music for divine audiences and as divine offerings. Non-human
animals—such as frogs, whales, and cicadas—respond to the vibrations of sound,
too, as they communicate among each other, or respond to changes in their
environment like rain and fire.
Asking questions about the listener, however, does draw attention to human
difference, while also showing how musical communication is often a common,
or mutual, process: a two-way street. Perhaps you, as you read the opening
section of this Reader chapter, dwelled on how the examples I offered diverged
from your own responses. There are biological differences that are a factor of
age—generally our ears hear a smaller range of pitches and struggle to attend to
quieter sounds as we grow older—and human variance. Differences abound as a
result of where we are born, what languages (and how many) we speak, and what
and how much musical training we have undertaken, just as examples. The com­
munities to which we have belonged—their musics, cultural values, and ritual
traditions—configure our own sets of norms and expectations for listening. For
example, in many black Pentecostal worship contexts in the United States, a
preacher’s sermon is considered powerful if the speaker’s voice is resonant, loud,
and dramatic. However, within mass in the Latin American Roman Catholic
Church, the priest is expected to keep his voice unremarkable so as not to
distract from the text of his homily. In his chapter on “Music of the Middle East
and North Africa,” Richard Jankowsky discusses how the ethical implications of
listening, as an “active endeavor,” have been central to many Islamic traditions
because of the central importance of the recitation of the Qur’an (see Excursions,
Chapter 3).
Thinking of music and sound together is critical for thinking about music as
communication. To call something music is not just to elevate it, it is to impute a
cultural assumption upon it and, in the process, begin to define what the nature
of this sound’s communication is. Our ears, no matter how capable they are of
hearing, do not instinctively distinguish music from sound. It is our brains, upon
perceiving sound, that process the signals according to the cultural knowledge
that we have acquired. That knowledge orders and organizes the loud and quiet,

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dangerous and soothing, resonant and dry, repetitive and intermittent sounds
around us. A key takeaway from the textbook that this Reader accompanies is
how music and sound are understood and valued differently around the world.
On the way, as you read about difference and across difference, I encourage
you to articulate the ideas about hearing and understanding sound you hold
implicitly.

Technology
In the twenty-first century, the idea of technology conjures up innovation and
certain kinds of objects. Music technologies like noise-cancelling headphones,
a surround-sound home entertainment center, and sonically immersive virtual
reality gaming environments come to mind. These are all digital audio interfaces
(often with moving images) made possible through relatively recent engineer­
ing breakthroughs, cherished because of their possibility. That is to say that in
everyday use, there is a common equivalence of technology and technologi­
cal progress that emphasizes the power of technology—maybe even over us.
Technology, here, is misconstrued as a thing outside of culture that has effects
upon people and the environments in which we live, but has a life of its own.
Skeptics of technology, more often than not, also operate on the terms and
conditions of this reifying definition, as they express their worries about what
effects new technologies will have on social life—and musical culture. When,
in 1877, Thomas Edison developed an instrument to record sound onto wax
cylinders for playback (an invention that is often counted as the “beginning” of
sound recording), critics were anxious that sound recording would ultimately
supplant live musical performance, threatening elite concert series and amateur
music making alike. This concern that recorded sound is not as good, full,
or authentic as “live” performance has been repeated and varied over the last
century and a half, often to make claims that a certain kind of music is lesser or
that a particular performer is less musical. The tradition of karaoke that Joshua
Pilzer discusses in his chapter on Korea has many Western critics who frame
the creatively vibrant and socially intimate practice of singing oneself into the
sounds of cherished popular music as a problem (see Excursions, Chapter 5).
These detractors scoff that karaoke musicians are dependent on technology—
karaoke machines—to make bad copies of other people’s music rather than
forming their own bands and writing their own songs. This critique categorically
dismisses technological reproduction as artificial, with the larger repercussion of
reinforcing a Western hegemony that privileges authors (over performers) as the
most creative artists. Other examples of the prestige and uniqueness accorded
live music, under the presumption it is less mediated and therefore more authen­
tic, abound. When a mainstream pop star is “caught” lip synching at a stadium
concert, they are frequently scorned for depending on technology to complete
their act. When the Metropolitan Opera of New York started simulcasting its
Saturday afternoon matinees to movie theaters around the world—certainly a

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gesture that increased access to that elite art form—the video productions were
scrutinized for ways they diverged from stage productions that, for example,
depend on the acoustics of the hall for amplification instead of the live mixing
efforts of sound recordists.
There is no denying that technology influences our lives. As a part of culture,
it is implicated in power relations. Many global music traditions use notation
to represent sounds visually. Lead sheets give jazz musicians access to chord
progressions for songs they are performing, so they don’t have to memorize a
whole set and so they can teach and share their compositions. At the same time,
notation can be a gatekeeper that prevents access—in this case for musicians
without jazz literacy—to repertories. Digital devices, like hearing aids, and tech­
nological possibilities, like closed captioning, provide deaf communities access
to music and sound. They require constant maintenance, some of which can
only be done by technicians. The undersea cables that wire information—like
phone calls and digital video—across oceans help music circulate globally, col­
lapsing distances with their high-speed connectivity. As listeners, we think we
can hear music from anywhere because we have an internet connection. (Plenty
of music is not online.) Of course, one must have an internet connection in
order to stream or download: the access that technology provides almost always
also highlights economic inequalities that follow the geography of colonial­
ism and are exacerbated by the power of corporations. When we study music
technology, we must also analyze commerce: how money shapes which artists
get promoted on mass media such as radio, television, and streaming services,
for instance.
Another way of defining technology, drawn from its etymology, directs our
attention to the materials out of which music is made (including the human
larynx, itself a technology). The word is derived from the Greek, techné, which
referred to an art or craft—something that gets your hands dirty instead of the
abstracted thinking of philosophy or politics. Since the nineteenth century, tech­
nology has referred to the practical application of science—fields such as chemis­
try, acoustics, electrical engineering, and computing have had strong influences
on music’s technologies. One important contribution of this way of thinking
about technology is that it emphasizes the fact that musical instruments are some
of the most ubiquitous—certainly over the course of global history—musical
technologies. As you engage with Excursions, notice how frequently studying a
musical tradition begins with understanding how musical instruments are played,
how they sound, and how they constitute social groups. Some instruments are
more complicated than others, some have changed over time—as they migrated
to new climates or to differently constituted musical ensembles; as different raw
materials were extracted and processed into rubber, plastic, and more; or as
advances in engineering opened up new creative potentials.
This is not to say that technological possibility determines what music is made,
or that a more complex technology produces better music. Think about the dif­
ference between an electric guitar, a ukulele, an acoustic guitar, and a banjo. They

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have sound worlds so divergent, to say one is better than another seems absurd.
This despite the similarities in the skill sets performers bring to performances on
all four (strumming, picking out melodies, and providing an accompanying tex­
ture). One, the banjo, has its origins in the Atlantic slave trade. One, the electric
guitar, is a towering representation of rock’n’roll’s masculine power. One, the
ukulele, was promoted by a monarch, Kalaˉkaua of the Kingdom of Hawaii, as a
symbol of his culture. And, finally, the acoustic guitar can be found on the stages
of the dingiest country music dive bar and the most ornate concert hall dedicated
to performances of classical music; in both places musicians are likely to show
their virtuosic command of the instrument as they sing an ornate verse about new
(or lost) love. While the specific possibilities of an instrument—or any sounding
technology—influence how people interact with it, we cannot reduce music to its
technologies nor explain everything about music through its technologies.

Media
Music happens in time—our experience of that time is an always-dynamic
undertaking. Put differently, we might say that music creates a sense of time. A
three-minute chart-topping hit is boring when we listen to it for the eighth time
on a six-hour road trip. When it comes back on the radio while we are waiting
for a coffee to brew on the way to work, we linger on every second. In this
example, music mediates time. It literally fills up 180 seconds. It makes those
180 seconds feel slow when we’re bored; when we’re nostalgic (or stressed) it
makes them feel long. It transmits a beat into our body: we can count the beats
that shape its flow. When we remember other times we have heard the song, it
references time past. Maybe we sing the song’s melody later: we cling to time,
reshaping it on our own terms. When we listen together with someone else, we
share time. This special relationship to time is what media scholars highlight
when they distinguish how sound mediates—sound as media—from, for exam­
ple, print or other visual representations. This is a more abstract definition of
the concept of media than the one that I will focus on here—which concerns
the materials that mediate music—but it is important to consider it, not least
because it calls back to the practice of questioning our listening with which I
opened. What kinds of experiences of time does listening introduce into your
life over one day?
As time-specific media, sound media, especially recordings, draw attention to
the special function of sound. A recording can capture a melody so we can hear it
again. Recording cuts off a sound from its source and original context: sound can
travel around the world as an mp3 file. We can own it, copy it, and share it. But
sound recordings are not themselves necessarily stable objects: a studio engineer
can manipulate a sound recording—stretch it to make it longer or speed it up—so
we notice different details and dance to a different beat. From the edges of a
dance floor, a DJ grabs a sample from one track, and builds a whole 40-minute
groove out of it.

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The history of sound recording is, in some ways, the history of the institu­
tional study of world music. Some would argue that the discipline of ethnomu­
sicology was made possible because of sound recording. Beginning in the late
nineteenth century, sonic vibrations could be captured on physical materials
from which they could be played back. First these grooves were encoded on
wax. Later, in the twentieth century, they were translated through changing
technologies of inscription onto shellac, vinyl, and magnetic tape. Each format
was cheaper and more portable—making it easier to move sound—share (and
sell)—it across the world. In the digital era, soundwaves are compressed into
mp3s—zeroes and ones—that we can send as email attachments or upload to
the cloud.
If there is anything we learn by questioning listening, it is that listening is
not a passive activity. Sound recording has not just expanded access to music,
its technologies have provoked new approaches to listening and have shaped
the formation of new musical subcultures. Recording begets new ways of hear­
ing music live. Marié Abe discusses an extraordinary example of this when she
introduces Japanoise in her chapter on Japan (see Excursions, Chapter 6). This
music is ear-shatteringly loud, its creators almost abrasively asking people not
to listen. These DIY artists, from the 1970s to the present, manipulate record­
ings, often those from punk and experimental bands in North America. Focused
listening prompted them to hear the music on their own terms: they distort it
beyond recognition with their own music technologies (pedals, amplifiers) to
overload their sound systems with information—a technique that generates the
scorching sounds of “feedback” that is especially debilitating in the small spaces
of underground clubs. Japanoise is part social experiment, part artistic provoca­
tion, part sensational event. Eventually, its subcultural sounds became popular in
North America, producing a kind of metaphorical feedback loop for Japanoise’s
circulation.

Summary
Does the seeming omnipresence of sound recording(s) mean we are all eth­
nomusicologists now: do we listen to more different music or to music more
differently than people 100 years ago? Do we share more listening habits if
our sound media are more similar? One myth about access to sound recording
is that the music industry dampens artistic creativity. This is a variation on the
fear of cultural homogenization in the age of what have often been called “new
media”—television, the internet. A simple rebuttal to this claim of increasing
sameness might be to trace the global examples of hip-hop across Excursions. (It’s
worth remembering here the density of mediation and technological manipula­
tion upon which hip-hop is based: the art form has its origins in the manipulation
of vinyl records to scratch beats and create grooves as well as the careful cura­
tion of mixtapes, to be circulated hand-to-hand, copied for free, and remixed
on cassettes.) Hip-hop’s global circulation is certainly a result of the cultural

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and economic power of the United States in the twentieth and twenty-first
centuries, but its local iterations do not only vary in terms of musical technique
and aesthetic value. They often—domestically, too—articulate hostility toward
imperialism, toward the systemic racism of the United States, and toward other
institutions of control and power.
However, these anxieties about ubiquity and connectivity share a premise that
we ought to take seriously. In the twenty-first century, making and listening to
sound recordings seems easier than ever before. Many of us communicate consist­
ently through smartphones—which connect us to the internet, enable us to make
a phone call, let us make music on apps, and allow us to make sound recordings.
This single device combines the possibilities of the telephone, Walkman, radio,
and television (all technologies that would be called “old media” now, even if
they were once new) in a portable fashion that sometimes gives us the illusion
that the world—including the world of music and sound—is at our fingertips.
We, as budding scholars of world music, might perceive ourselves to be in the
moment of sound technologies’ apotheosis.
Excursions in World Music, however, challenges you to think about how you
get access to this music. Recall a takeaway from the questioning listening exer­
cise with which we began. Remarking on the space and privilege music receives
in our lives, I wrote: we set aside time for it and, sometimes unconsciously,
orchestrate how it resonates. Studying communication, technology, and media,
means thinking about access in terms of what technologies and materials bring
music to life. One musical example, in the chapter by Chérie Ndaliko, reveals
how politically-charged musicians raise the challenging paradoxes inherent
in digital culture, which depends on scarce raw materials while also creating
greater access to communication (see Excursions, Chapter 8). Angélique Kidjo’s
Remain in Light protests the resource wars fought in Congo, their exploitation
of human lives in Africa to the benefit of technological progress. In song, she
criticizes tech companies who subsidize nation-states’ military intervention, as
they scramble for access to the rare ore, coltan, that is essential to the capacitors
that make your cell phone work. As Kidjo sings “Take a look at these hands,”
over and over in a scattershot rhythm, it’s unclear if she’s asking the listener to
take a look at themselves—or if she’s simply, as the lyrics suggest, calling out
the “Government Man” for predictable exploitation. Know that you are a part
of this, she implies; remember to question the power structures that configure
your life.
Our cell phones, Excursions in World Music would like to suggest, are sound
technologies that provide access and exploit at once. There is no clear evidence
of progress here, but neither simply fodder for suspicion. Music, broadly, offers
the opportunity to take a look at ourselves and how we relate to others: to
think about communication. The meanings we derive from music are political,
aesthetic, ideological, and communal. Sound recordings do not merely cast these
possibilities on a global scale. Sometimes it is those unremarkable, accidental
recordings—never commercially released, maybe from one’s youth or of a loved

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one—that we hold as intimate and share to create intimacy. When we question,

we do not only challenge our ears, we learn and yearn to understand the knowl­
edge listening transmits, the feelings sound technologies impart, and how we
can and want to share these objects—that is, the ways in which sound and music
communicate.

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 8
MUSICAL LABOR,
MUSICAL VALUE

Jim Sykes

“No, you will not major in music.”

(Our parents)

Following Sri Lanka’s devastating 2004 tsunami, I interned at the United

Nations’ Office of the Special Envoy for Tsunami Recovery, headed by former
U.S. President Bill Clinton. (For the record, I never met him, but I did deliver
his mail.) At one point, I found myself in a bureaucrat’s office, both of us in suits
and ties, talking about corporate contributions to the tsunami relief effort. He
found out that I was in the midst of coursework for a Ph.D. in ethnomusicology.
Worried that I might be considering leaving a life in music to work for a gov­
ernment agency or non-governmental organization (NGO) dedicated to social
activism, he looked silently out the window at the skyscrapers for an awkward
amount of time. “I was an artist once,” he said, miserably. Then he swiveled his
chair towards me and said not to give up on music, that I’d do more for good for
the world as a musician.
A couple years later, during the final phase of Sri Lanka’s terrible war
(1983–2009), I was in the country interviewing a musician who had performed
at several “concerts for peace.” The point of the concerts was to bring musi­
cians together from the two ethnic groups perceived to be on either side of Sri
Lanka’s war in order to promote peace between the communities. I asked her
if the concerts had worked. She shrugged and replied, “do we have peace?”
The implication was clear: if I wanted actual social change, I should work for a
government agency or NGO. Indeed, Sri Lanka’s war did end about a year after
that interview—not due to the efforts of musicians or NGOs but because of a
government bombing campaign that resulted in the deaths of the rebel leader,
most of the remaining rebel fighters, and thousands of innocent civilians.
My parents always encouraged me to follow my passion for music. From the
requisite piano lessons as a child, to an awful year honking away at clarinet in
elementary school, to my passion for drums that resulted in a drum set located
just above my parent’s bedroom during high school, they encouraged me despite
my tendency to disturb them at any hour. But this began to change after college.

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Once I started touring with bands, they became genuinely skeptical. How will
you make a living playing music? Why would you want to be on the road so
much? Is it a sustainable way to make a living? Why not be a music journalist?
Don’t all musicians do drugs? My older brother—an avid music fan and great
guitarist who happens to be an investment banker living in a large mansion in
Connecticut—provided another model.
A few years ago, at a dinner party at my brother’s house held for a special occa­
sion, I sat next to a distant relative, herself a successful businesswoman. Sitting
on the beautiful veranda outside my brother’s home, she found it appropriate to
begin our conversation by saying, “I bet you could never afford this on a music
teacher’s salary.” The truth is, I never cared to live in a mansion. I have had
the strange fate of being middle class from a rich town (my father was a high
school history teacher, my mother worked as a photo editor), doing fieldwork in
some poor locations (such as rural Sri Lanka), then going to family events at a
mansion. I had heard this kind of comment before, so I wasn’t surprised. But it
still stung, perhaps because I hadn’t seen this woman since childhood and I was
amazed she thought it appropriate to say this to a virtual stranger. It reminded
me of a number of classic drummer jokes that poke fun at how since drum­
ming is economically unfeasible—the point is never left in doubt—drummers
are societally worthless: “What do you call a drummer who breaks up with his
girlfriend? Homeless.” “How do you get a drummer off your porch? Pay him ten
bucks for the pizza.” The fact these jokes are about men probably just reflects
the unfortunate reality that there have been far fewer women drummers. “What
do you say to a drummer in a three-piece suit? Will the defendant please rise?”
“What is the difference between a drummer and a savings bond? One will mature
and make money.”
I am still not living in a mansion, but perhaps the joke’s on them. Having
ridden the wave of many bands (some miserable failures and some surprisingly
somewhat successful), I was lucky enough to achieve tenure as a professor of
music—a stability gained, I should emphasize, through my scholarship about
music rather than music performance. My brother, still paying the mortgage
on that mansion, continues to navigate the stressful, ever-fluctuating market.
My parents now tell me they are more worried about him than me, despite
the still-severe difference in our bank accounts. “Well that’s a change,” I told
them.

Music’s Relevance, Music’s Sustenance

I think the above stories capture something essential about our era, and not just
its economic inequality. Namely: we seem incapable of deciding whether music is
worthless or if it is the most important thing in the world. While some of us seem
heavily invested in defending one side of this debate or the other, many of us act
as though both are true simultaneously (somehow, a middle point between the
two poles never seems to be an option).

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Musicians are frequently caught in the middle—perhaps it is more accurate to

say they are ignored or exploited. Consider, for example, the world of musical
philanthropy. The founder of Target, Robert J. Ulrich, loves music so much that
he founded a museum of musical instruments in Phoenix, Arizona, that cost
$250 million to build. One of the founders of Microsoft, Paul Allen, founded the
Experience Music Project (now the Museum of Pop Culture) in Seattle, famous
for its annual pop music conference and programs like a battle of the bands for
musicians under the age of 21. The building was designed by the famed architect
Frank Gehry; the entire project cost about $240 million dollars. The Rock &
Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, which opened in 1995, is marketed as a major
tourist attraction for that city and cost $84 million dollars. While I appreciate
that these rich individuals and cities are valuing music, I often wonder if it would
have been better to give those millions of dollars to living, breathing musicians.
I’ve learned in my own music career that while many people make money off
musicians—wonderful people who are booking agents, record labels, public rela­
tions firms, music websites like Pitchfork, employees at Spotify, and so on—it is
ridiculously difficult for even many successful musicians to stay afloat. Back in the
late 2000s, for example, reports came out that the members of one of the most
successful indie bands of that era, Grizzly Bear, were each making about $30,000
a year—if that’s what success looks like, what about everyone else? It has been
estimated that, at current rates, it would take around 400,000 plays on Spotify
to reach something approaching minimum wage, but this money would likely
need to be divided between multiple band members, a record label, and a rights
organization like the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers
(ASCAP). For most musicians, the number of streams needed for minimum wage
is in the millions. While Business Insider and Forbes routinely report how much
musicians like Taylor Swift make in a given year, there is a lack of data on what
average (professional touring and recording) musicians make—I suspect it is well
below minimum wage. Though I have no data on this, I suspect it is probably
easier to make a living working at the ticket booth at the Rock & Roll Hall of
Fame than to be a professional touring musician with a somewhat-decent fanbase
(at least the ticket booth vendor probably has a salary and health insurance).
I don’t want to be all doom-and-gloom here: the digital age has opened up
many new and exciting avenues for sustaining oneself musically that did not exist
fifteen or even five years ago. In some ways, things are much better now than
during the period described above (late 2000s/early 2010s). As digitization has
become the new normal, musicians are finding ways to thrive in our gig economy,
while certain kinds of musical labor—such as film scoring, producing, or being a
DJ—have grown in exciting ways.
Yet I suggest the system remains rotten at its core and that the problem extends
far beyond music to other types of creative labor. A good comparison is with writ­
ers. The UK newspaper The Guardian reported in 2018 that median earnings for
professional writers had declined 42% since 2005 to just under £10,500 a year,
coming out to £5.73 per hour on a 35-hour work week. The median income

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for all published authors in the U.S. from writing-related activities was $6,080
according to a study by the Author’s Guild.

Musical Labor in and beyond Capitalism

All this raises a lot of questions. Is it fair for creative labor to be so devalued?
Why does this happen? If some creative livelihoods are more sustainable than
others, which are they? Has the digital age made creative livelihoods more or
less possible? Who is to blame for the difficulty of supporting oneself through
the arts—is it artists themselves, societal values, brute economic realities, the
internet, and/or other factors? Is it possible to make creative livelihoods more
plausible and respected?
These questions are not easily answerable, and exploring them in detail is well
beyond the bounds of this chapter. Nevertheless, I will try to make some head­
way here on a few of them pertaining to musical labor. In what follows, I argue
that our devaluing of musical labor is due in part to how art objects are defined
in our modern world as either mere entertainment—and thus seemingly of less
value to society than (say) being a doctor or lawyer—or as having social value
due to art’s ability to critique or reflect society rather than as an activity that cre­
ates and sustains society. While this understanding applied to music is intimately
entangled with the placement and spread of music in global capitalism, I show
in the next section that it emerged in large part through a specifically Western
understanding of musical labor and value. Note that my aim here is not simply
to understand this Western framing of musical labor, nor to claim it is globally
normative, but rather to pivot from it to consider diverse examples of musi­
cal labor around the world culled from Excursions in World Music—examples
that demonstrate alternative ways of being, belonging, valuing, and sustaining
oneself through music.
I suggest it is only by realizing that we benefit from musicians as everyday
workers at least as much as we do from musician celebrities that we can begin
to create more respect for musicians and thus change the perception that they
contribute little to our society at a basic level. Maybe this is naïve, but I hope that
such a change in perspective could lead to a revolution in the perceived value of
musical labor and thus force us to consider paying musicians and respecting them
more. One way to begin this project is by putting ourselves in musicians’ shoes—
Excursions in World Music provides myriad examples. Note that I am not urging
us to go back to a romanticized notion of premodern musical labor—musicians
have often been unjustly derided and put in a subordinate place in the social
hierarchy. Nevertheless, musicians have also often been tasked with important,
fundamental roles in creating and sustaining society. I suggest that looking at
different forms of musical labor around the world will demonstrate that the
failure of many capitalist societies to value and create well-paying, sustainable
jobs for musicians is more a fault of the capitalist imagination than it is the fault
of musicians themselves. Perhaps I can convince some of you to devise new ways

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to sustain musical livelihoods in a capitalist system that appears to value musical

celebrities at the expense of everyone else.

Musical Efficacy in Western Thought

The word “epiphenomenal” refers to an action or object caused by something
else that does not cause other things in turn: the Merriam-Webster dictionary
defines it as “a secondary phenomenon accompanying another and caused by it
specifically.”1 To some of you this may seem odd, but people often act as though
music is an epiphenomenon: they feel music emerges from certain causes without
thinking that music in turn causes things in society. To put this another way, for
those who hold this view, music is the result of societal actions but does not actu­
ally construct society. I believe this is one reason music often appears (generously)
as a special form of labor (a rare and unique profession) or (less generously) as
“not a real job”: music is often performed on a concert stage at night, after most
of the audience has had a full work day, and is viewed as blowing off steam.
Consider what the famous nineteenth-century theorist Karl Marx (1973
[1939]: 305) wrote about the musician’s “unproductive labor”:

Productive labour is only that which produces capital. Is it not crazy …

that the piano maker is a productive worker, but not the piano player,
although obviously the piano would be absurd without the piano player?
But this is exactly the case. The piano maker reproduces capital; the
pianist only exchanges his labour for revenue. But doesn’t the pianist
produce music and satisfy our musical ear, does he not even to a certain
extent produce the latter? He does indeed: his labour produces some­
thing; but that does not make it productive labour in the economic sense;
no more than the labour of the madman who produces delusions is
productive.

Despite Marx’s status as the premier critic of capitalism, I think his perspective is
widespread among those who live and work in capitalism. But as I have shown
above, even in the paradigmatic example of the touring musician, a whole indus­
try has grown up around music—so music is productive of capital (at the time
I’m writing this, Spotify is valued at 8 billion dollars, very little of it going to
musicians). Unlike the piano, music appears ephemeral and immaterial. But as
zeros and ones sent as mp3s or as a musician performing in public, music mate­
rializes in many different ways that are commodified—and these commodities
generate attention, capital, and related forms of labor.
Music’s epiphenomenal status was taken for granted even by many scholars of
music for about two hundred years. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries, European music critics became frustrated with what they viewed as
the social obligations of composers: even the world’s famous classical composers
such as Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven had to fulfill commissions paid for by

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wealthy donors, and they had to perform or compose for church services, state
events, and other social functions. Such professional obligations appeared to limit
the time they could spend on art for art’s sake, and it appeared to compromise
their music’s quality by forcing them to cater to an audience. Music critic E.T.A.
Hoffman famously derided these obligations, believing musicians should devote
themselves solely to their musical works. He wrote that,

The genuine artist lives only for the work, which he understands as
the composer understood it and which he now performs. He does not
make his personality count in any way. All his thoughts and actions
are directed towards bringing into being all the wonderful, enchanting
pictures and impressions the composer sealed in his work with magical
power.
(Quoted in Goehr 1992: 1)

Hoffman published a review of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in 1810 where he

claimed that instrumental music is more powerful than art that relies on language
or images. This came to be called “absolute music.” Over the course of the
nineteenth century in Europe, the Romantic movement theorized music as an
expression of the inner workings of the composer’s soul (perhaps as a channeling
of God and/or the composer’s genius).
You may feel very little attachment to nineteenth-century Europe, but it
is important to realize that these notions of music—as related to the solitary
genius, music’s perceived transcendence from society, and the notion that music
is a specialized activity that requires much training—have all shaped our current
skepticism about the social value of music. I suggest these notions lie at the
heart of music and capitalism. For example, when you log on to Spotify, you are
presented with the impression that music is always and just naturally a personal,
intimate endeavor that relates to or produces your mood. Rather than define the
“musical work” as a musician’s ability to create social ties between people, Spotify
defines music as “the soundtrack to your life” (a phrase that makes it sound like
music is auxiliary and accompanying rather than constitutive of life). Music is
defined as being about who you are rather than about how you connect with
others, and about forming or enhancing your mood while you do other, seem­
ingly more important, “actual” tasks. This hyper-personalization and obscuring
of the social is fundamental to contemporary capitalism (often referred to as
neoliberalism) and, I suggest, is a reason why many people in our society feel
lonely and depressed.

Expanding Music’s Powers

When I was writing up my Sri Lankan research, I became fascinated by that quote
from Hoffman above, which made it into my book (Sykes 2018: 55). This is
because the musicians I studied with in Sri Lanka find value in their social service

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to others—in their musical work rather than their musical work, if you get what
I mean. I studied with a caste called the Beravaˉ—a hereditary group of ritualists,
drummers, singers, dancers, mask-makers, and astrologers active in southern
and southwestern Sri Lanka (see Excursions, Chapter 2). The Beravaˉ belong to
Sri Lanka’s Sinhala ethnic majority; they identify as Theravada Buddhist (the
oldest form of Buddhism that is also prevalent in mainland Southeast Asia—
Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia). Historically, the Beravaˉ were village
doctors. You’d visit one if you had an illness and they might prescribe herbal
medicine, tell you to visit a modern hospital, or prescribe a large-scale heal­
ing ritual. Their drumming, singing, and dancing are classified as Ayurvedic
medicine, the traditional medicinal system prevalent throughout South Asia.
For the Beravaˉ, their artistic practices are not expressions of their inner self or
soul, for Buddhists do not believe in a “soul” the way (say) Christians do. Nor
do the Beravaˉ “compose” their music, for their traditions are passed down, with
some pieces composed by the gods themselves. The Beravaˉ’s artist practices are
conceptualized as gifts offered to the Buddha and deities in the hopes that the
deities will protect them from natural disasters and illnesses. Unlike so much
music in our modern world—where music is about the ego of the performer,
or a product we use to tailor our identity and sustain or produce our moods
(such as through Spotify playlists)—music for the Beravaˉ is about respecting and
helping others. But as I discovered while writing my book, even in Sri Lanka the
forces of nationalism have portrayed Beravaˉ music and dance as being about the
ethnic identity of Sri Lanka’s Sinhala Buddhist community rather than viewing
music as a kind of medicine. My own drum teacher, for example, laments that
Beravaˉ drumming and dance had been placed in schools of the arts rather than
medical schools.

Reframing Musical Labor and Value

The Beravaˉ, like hereditary musicians in many societies (e.g., India and Korea)
were traditionally placed on the bottom of the social hierarchy. Hereditary
musicians have often been exploited by the upper castes/classes—capitalism is
certainly not solely to blame for musicians’ precarity. One example is in South
India, where the outcaste Paraiyars (now called Dalits) had to (and in some cases,
still do) play at upper-caste funerals and live in their own separate ghettoes or
cheris. Sometimes such encounters between castes/classes facilitated an outright
appropriation of the cultural practices of the lower-status group. One well-known
example from South India occurred in the early twentieth century, when some
upper-caste women ostensibly wanted to help the devadasis—the temple dancers
who were wedded to a god and danced for him in a Hindu temple—by outlawing
being a devadasi (which they viewed as facilitating prostitution) but “saving”
their dance. Many scholars now believe the devadasis were unfairly maligned
and their dances appropriated and transformed by the upper-caste women, who
named the new version of the dance Bharata Natyam.

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Not all such exchanges between social classes were negative, though—much as
one might find both unsavory and exciting transformations of hip-hop as it moved
from African-American communities around the United States and the world. In
his chapter on Korea (see Excursions, Chapter 5), Joshua Pilzer notes that the
improvisational chamber music called sinawi in the late nineteenth and early twen­
tieth centuries brought together female gisaeng and male gwangdae performers
to make “shamanist music in chamber settings for rural bureaucrats, aristocrats,
and literati.” In this way, Pilzer says, they “came to influence and be influenced by
elite culture.” All this is to say that traditional musical labor functioned much like
musical labor today: people from different walks of life heard each other, encoun­
ters that sometimes facilitated harmonious engagements between people and at
other times facilitated negativity and/or acts of cultural appropriation. Music
is always transforming, as music that emerged in one context is repurposed for
another. These caveats aside, I want to provide some brief examples here of how
music traditionally played a role in economic and social life through an emphasis
on collectivity, institutions, and respect for elder teachers as well as a belief that
not all musical knowledge should be free. I suggest such examples provide a useful
contrast for how music is understood within global capitalism.

Communal Labor, Human–Nonhuman Relations, and

Personal Transformation
Joshua Pilzer notes that the Korean percussion and dance genre pungmul (“wind
objects”) began as part of rural ceremonies to bless houses, crops, villages, and
events as well as to accompany and encourage rural work, such as the planting of
rice sprouts and paddies (see Excursions, Chapter 5). It was also used to fundraise
for village projects, temples, and other institutions. Pungmul is associated with
traditional Korean farming culture. We can see from this example that music
might be associated with a break from labor (such as farming), while also being a
kind of work (fundraising).
Korean shamanism was the wellspring from which many forms of Korean tradi­
tional music emerged, and pungmul—associated also with certain shaman rituals
and masked dance dramas—is no exception. As Pilzer notes, Korean shamanism is a
type of animism, meaning it “holds that matter is imbued with a complex pantheon
of spirits.” Shamans are either possessed by spirits or act as intermediaries, and most
shamans are women; in the ecstatic tradition, where they are possessed by spirits,
they “often wear traditional men’s clothing, as they are often possessed by male
spirits.” Pilzer notes that shamans seek to heal or mediate in response to crises,
and this is not a moribund tradition of irrelevance to modern society: he lists the
Asian financial crisis of 1997, the suicide of former President Roh Moo-hyun (No
Mu-hyeon) in 2009, and the sinking of the Sewol Ferry in 2014 as contemporary
examples. A shaman performance is collective, featuring responsorial singing and
shouting (vocal interjections called chuimsae); after purifying the ritual space, a
“road” is created along which the spirits travel to the ceremony and back; and

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the shamans “invite, receive blessings and advice, entertain and send off spirits, in
descending hierarchical order; and feed and ward off evil spirits.” Shaman rituals
require music, and the hourglass drum janggo is requisite.
There are a number of things I’d like you to take from this example. First,
Pilzer notes that shaman rituals are about “transformation—of time, feeling,
content, and so on—especially emotion, or spirit.” A core aspect of the rituals
is to transform “isolation into unity, and sorrow into exhilaration and joy.” Of
course, music still does this today, but I believe we tend to be less focused on its
collective transformative qualities and more focused on its relationship to personal
identity and individual mood. The releasing of social tension and the loosening of
social rules, which Pilzer also attributes to Korean shaman rituals, can of course
be associated with modern rock, pop, and EDM concerts and festivals. But I
suggest we tend to conceptualize those as entertainment, as blowing off steam,
rather than as a fundamental way to collectively grapple with and transform crises
or trauma into rebirth and joy.

Musical Secrets and Respect for Elders

Another hallmark of our modern world is the notion that information “wants
to be free.” We tend to believe we must have easy access to everything—all
knowledge should be on Wikipedia, all films on Netflix, all music on Spotify. Such
a belief is a radical transformation of traditional knowledge systems in a way that,
to my mind, foregrounds the importance of the individual consumer rather than
the importance that certain kinds of knowledge have for a society or the people
who have devoted their lives to promoting and upholding it. It also devalues the
collective power of musical knowledge, which has historically made much musical
knowledge a heavily guarded secret.
Take, for instance, the way that musical knowledge is traditionally passed
down throughout South Asia (see Excursions, Chapter 2). In Hindustani (North
Indian) and Carnatic (South Indian) classical music alike, learning music tradi­
tionally required years of apprenticeship to a guru, who revealed certain musical
skills and ragas only after the student’s seriousness and devotion to the guru and
music were apparent. In my chapter on South Asia, I describe the legendary story
of Allauddin Khan, a foremost exponent of the sarod (lute) in early twentieth-
century North India. Khan’s story appears to be true, but it is also the kind of
story that is easily mythologized. As someone who ran away from home as a child
to pursue music, and then ran away from his wife upon being married, accord­
ing to legend, Khan waited at the entrance to the court of Rampur for months
before threatening suicide if he could not learn music from the legendary court
musician Wazir Khan. Even then, the story goes, Allauddin Khan was not allowed
to play for the guru for several years, as students were expected to soak up the
guru’s music simply from being around, while putting in hours of practice and
doing chores for the guru. Hindustani and Carnatic musicians alike are known
for broadcasting how devoted they are to music, particularly to grueling practice

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sessions. Another example from North India is of the tabla drummer Ustad
Ahmed Jan Thirakwa, who (according to ethnomusicologist Dan Neuman)
would tie his long hair up to the ceiling, so that when he fell asleep it would jerk
him awake and he could keep practicing.

Sonic Efficacy
While these examples are extreme, it is important to realize why musical knowl­
edge was so guarded. Traditionally throughout South Asia, music had (and in
many ways, still has) efficacy. One could say musical secrets are akin to a chef’s
recipe and it is in the interest of the musician for business purposes to not give
such secrets away. But as we saw with the case of the Beravaˉ above, music in South
Asia has long been associated with the traditional medicinal system Ayurveda (and
with the Muslim medicinal system called Unani) and is ascribed certain powers.
One famous story in Hindustani music is about how the legendary Mian Tansen
(1500–1586), singer in the court of the Mughal Emperor Akbar, taught his
daughter how to sing Raga Malhar (believed to cause rain) after the Emperor’s
scheming courtiers plotted to kill Tansen by forcing him to sing Raag Deepak
(believed to cause fire). Beliefs in the efficaciousness of raags—performed at spe­
cific times of day or night, and specific seasons—long characterized Hindustani
music. Ethnomusicologist Katherine Schofield has shown that Muslim writers
during India’s Mughal period believed melancholy was caused by an excess of the
humor black bile, and this could be cured by music.
One realm where traditional investments in sound-as-power persists is funerals.
(Perhaps people are willing to think of music as mere entertainment during life,
but when it comes to the dead, better to not take any chances.) In South Indian
funerals, some Paraiyars (Dalits) still play the parai drum to drive away evil spirits
as a soul leaves a body. Similarly, an old Korean ritual that Joshua Pilzer describes
as part of the rich legacy of Southwestern shamanism in Korea is the cleansing
funeral ritual (sikkim gut) of Jindo Island, which begins “in the early evening and
lasts until morning, proceeding through myriad formalized steps that facilitate
the deceased’s passage to the next world and help the living say goodbye.”
Musical efficacy continues to be more widespread in the modern world than is
typically recognized, and this continues to shape what kinds of musical knowl­
edge is shared. I found in Sri Lanka that I was not allowed to learn many drum
patterns because, if performed incorrectly, it could lead to calamity: for if the job
of the musician is to give music to the gods to protect your community from
natural disasters such as drought and pestilence, offering it incorrectly (or not at
all) could actually cause those problems. In South India, certain kinds of music
must be played when the icon of a deity is taken out of the temple and wheeled
around in a chariot. This is not simply a question of honoring the deity but that
the deity is listening and could get mad if not given the proper offerings.
It is of course easy to deride such notions as premodern superstitions. Who
would claim today that someone suffering from a medical issue should forego

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a hospital for a ritual of drumming and dance? And yet, in many ways, modern
science has confirmed what we already know—sound is physically transformative
and affects mind, body, and mood. The field of music therapy is growing. While
one can find out about any given raag these days via the internet, I suggest
that the system involving carefully guarding and slowly doling out of musical
knowledge is still the norm in South Asian musics. Ethnomusicologists have
noted similar circumstances elsewhere, such as Thailand, where ethnomusicolo­
gist Deborah Wong (2001) found that Thai classical music is considered like a
pyramid, where only students undergoing long apprenticeship to a guru—who is
worshipped in a ceremony called the wai khru—gain access to knowledge about
the most esteemed pieces. Sonic efficacy, in other words, is a core reason for the
historic tendency to guard esteemed musical knowledge.

Local Histories and Collectivities: Respecting Wedding Musicians and

Other Tales of Generosity, Gender, and Heroism
An example of a persisting, older form of musical sociality at the local level
is found in the sung poetry traditions Richard Jankowsky describes in the
Middle East and North Africa (see Excursions, Chapter 3). He notes that the
pre-Islamic Arabic qasida (an improvised vocal piece based on classical Arabic
poetic form of the same name) is still highly valued, and that female poet-singers
are hired for weddings to sing such “songs of passion, fertility, and collec­
tive history.” Jankowsky points out that epic singers may “create hours-long
performances by reworking verses from an enormous corpus of memorized
verses.”
Another example he provides is the sung poetry of the Bedouins, the nomadic,
desert-dwelling peoples found in North Africa. The singers traditionally nar­
rated history, conveyed news of recent events, and carried interpersonal messages,
while promoting individual sentiments like love and broader cultural ideals like
generosity, honor, and heroism. One epic poem, the Sıˉrat Banıˉ Hila ˉl, recounts
the Bedouins’ migration from Arabia westwards into Tunisia. Unfortunately,
such epic singers today are sometimes viewed derogatorily as beggar-poets, a
reputation they try to evade through their rebab, the bowed instrument that sig­
nifies heroism and the warriors described in their epic. Finally, Jankowsky notes
the famous ethnography of female Berber singers by the anthropologist Lila
Abu-Lughod (2016 [1986]), who found that Berber women used sung poetry
for expressing “veiled sentiments” about love, marriage, family relationships,
and society. Women professional singers traditionally sang in groups at Berber
weddings, a genre called ‘aita,
. which recalls the deeds of heroes and extols the
virtues of rural Berber society, while taking license with traditional gender codes
by “sanctioning erotic images, the verbal abuse of unfit suiters, and social critique
sometimes directed at government policy.”
This notion of the musician as epic bard continues to be played out today—one
could probably find ways to think of Kanye West, Kendrick Lamar, or Beyoncé

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in much the same terms. I believe the difference is that the individuals described
above are locals, singing about issues affecting a local community (even if their
themes resonate broadly by being about fundamental human emotions), in public
forums where people of all ages from the community gather (such as weddings). I
might also add that at many weddings today, DJs are a bit of an afterthought; but
in many societies around the world, musicians sustained themselves economically
and gained much respect from playing at weddings.

Musical Collectivity and Joy within Capitalism

Reading the above you could think there is a sharp dichotomy between pre­
modern and capitalist forms of music-making, with the former associated with
community/collectivity and the latter with the individual/isolation. But we all
know that community-building through music occurs in capitalism. Here I wish
to emphasize that such community-building may happen in ways that fall outside
the typical music festivals and concert venues we associate with music in capital­
ism. One example from Excursions is the Japanese genre chindon-ya, described
by Marié Abe (see Excursions, Chapter 6). Starting in the late nineteenth cen­
tury, chindon-ya groups were hired by local businesses to “circulate through
the neighborhood streets and attract attention by playing popular tunes to draw
listeners into social interactions.” The genre began, then, as an early form of
advertising, in the days before radio, television, and internet. But chindon-ya
groups don’t play jingles. Rather, as Abe notes, they make a “sales pitch” through
conversations with passersby who are drawn out onto the streets by chindon-ya’s
instrumental music. Abe points out that even as radio and television proliferated
in Japan in the 1950s and 1960s, chindon-ya was still “ubiquitous in the everyday
soundscape,” though the music was often “sounds to be overheard from afar”
rather than listened to up close or with close attention. Chindon-ya, a transna­
tional hybrid practice that combines Japanese and Western musics, was influenced
in part by the tradition of Western military brass bands. Nowadays, hearing the
genre may cause pangs of nostalgia. Perhaps surprisingly, some of the groups have
achieved financial success, and some rock, jazz, and experimental groups in Japan
have taken up the “chindon-ya aesthetic.”
Abe’s book (2018) on chindon-ya emphasizes that the genre’s focus on
physical (rather than virtual) sociality seems at odds with the individualism and
isolationism inherent in today’s internet age. She says that chindon-ya harbors a
“philosophy of sociality” (5) that runs counter to the modern world’s tendency
to produce “alienation as a collective social condition” (xx). As one chindon-ya
musician, Hayashi Ko ˉ jiro
ˉ , told her, “It’s rare to find happy healthy people …
you have to play so that the depressed want to come out” (xx). Whether you
agree with this overarching understanding of the modern world as a collective of
isolated and alienated individuals, we can all surely agree that we could use a little
of chindon-ya’s philosophy of sociality in our lives.

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Conclusion
The above examples represent only a few of the forms of musical labor that differ
from today’s normative understanding of music (i.e., stars on Instagram, the next
new thing on Soundcloud, giant tours and festivals, hit songs, and the like). I
urge you not only to look for more examples of alternative forms of musical labor
in Excursions, but also to think more often about how the sounds you encounter
in your daily lives are produced by musicians who fall under the radar—including
a broader sphere of music-related labor that includes recording engineers, film
composers, music supervisors, booking agents, and so on.
As I stressed above, my aim here was not to over-romanticize older forms
of musical labor nor to say that capitalism has only had a negative impact on
musicians. I noted above that traditional social hierarchies often placed musicians
at the bottom; and capitalism has allowed musicians to travel widely and gain
followings that were unthinkable just a few hundred years ago. Nevertheless, I
argued here that it could be useful to resurrect—or at least to better respect—
certain aspects of musical labor and value from past generations. Examples I gave
included the valuing of musical knowledge as something to be safeguarded and
obtained through respecting elders; slowing down the transmission of musical
knowledge; acknowledging the power of musical sound as transforming not just
your mood but the world around you; emphasizing collective music-making
and experiences over individual listening; reinvesting in musical labor in small-
scale functional activities and celebrations, like weddings; and turning collective
music-making towards the narration of local histories. Not only do such values
still exist in some quarters, but I also showed in my last example that it is possible
to promote some of them within capitalism. I suggest that reinvesting in such
values could play some role towards a reevaluation of musical labor, generating
better sustainability for performing musicians. The goal, in other words, is not to
turn back the clock but rather to combine today’s social mobility for musicians
with a revaluation of collective and transformative music-making that, ideally,
would generate more sustainable careers for musicians in the modern world.

Note
1 www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/epiphenomenon.

References
Abe, Marié. 2018. Resonances of Chindon-ya: Sounding Space and Sociality in Contemporary
Japan. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press.
Abu-Lughod, Lila. 2016 [1986]. Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society.
Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.
Goehr, Lydia. 1992. The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy of
Music. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Marx, Karl. 1973 [1939] Grundrisse. London: Penguin Classics.

Sykes, Jim. 2018. The Musical Gift: Sonic Generosity in Post-War Sri Lanka. New York:
Oxford University Press.
Wong, Deborah. 2001. Sounding the Center: History and Aesthetics in Thai Buddhist
Performance. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

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MUSIC AND MEMORY

Lei Ouyang

Making music necessarily involves certain aspects of memory. What we learn as

musicians is recalled and remembered in order to produce a note, read a musical
score, or recall a piece from memory. Musicians of all levels develop such skills
in highly specialized ways. For some, it may be entirely applied through practice
and never intentionally or explicitly discussed. For others, these skills may be
scrutinized and discussed as evidence of explicit intention and design. Similarly,
listening to music also necessarily involves certain aspects of memory. As amateur
and everyday listeners, our memory is activated through the music we encounter;
be it a commercial jingle, children’s song, song of worship, or pop song. As
hearing individuals, we often recall and recognize music that we learned directly
or indirectly in a previous context.
Listening to music can also activate a range of senses—often these are evoca­
tions of some type of memory. These memories can be individual and personal,
or shared and collective. Take for example, that one song from that one time, a
memory that is particular to you and only you—a memory of a specific place and
time that is triggered or activated through music. Then take for example, that one
song from that one time, a memory that is shared by the club you were a member
of in high school; or that nearly an entire generation attributes to a particular
social, political, or cultural moment.
How can an individual’s memory be evoked through music? What about a
collective memory that is shared by a group of people? What is happening in
these moments of memory? I turn to four pairs of ideas as a way of starting to
understand the range of possibilities concerning music and memory: performer
and listener; individual and collective; content and process; and finally, past and
present. I present these not as binaries but as broad areas within which to explore
the full range and spectrum of possibilities for understanding the complexity of
relationships and processes involved.

Performer and Listener

When we make music, we are calling upon some earlier memory. Take for example,
a song that accompanies a children’s hand-clapping game. The words, the tune,

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and the hand movements were all learned at an earlier time. For a hand-clapping
game, this could be part of one’s informal enculturation (how we learn about
the culture to which we belong) such as overhearing older siblings or relatives
playing the games long before actually joining in. The process of recollecting,
or remembering, is most likely not thought about in much detail, or with much
attention—rather, the mind and body remember, and make the music. (These
are complex processes, stated simply here, but closely researched by scholars in
fields such as music cognition and neuroscience.) Now consider another example:
a high school student singing as the featured soloist in the school musical. Once
again, the production of lyrics and melody (the entire performance), is the result
of learning and practice that took place before the performance. Even as the song
unfolds, the musician is recalling the many hours of practice and rehearsal that
preceded this performance: perhaps there were lessons with a vocal coach; maybe
this singer listened diligently to recordings of other performances of this song;
there might have been sessions sitting at a piano to learn the melody; and, of
course, participation in the hours of rehearsal required to coordinate the accom­
paniment and stage directions. This musical moment would not be possible
without memory—without memorization. But, when we say that this soloist
memorized the song, it means much more than merely knowing the melody or
the lyrics “by heart.” It also means that the musician remembers having learned
this material (remembers the mental and physical endeavor of “practice,” that is),
and recalls how it feels to “hit that note just right” (and that feeling is recalled
from embodied memory).
Now consider the listener. A parent or older relative listening to the children
singing and playing hand-clapping games may suddenly recall (remember) all
the words from their own childhood despite the time that has since passed. Or
perhaps they recall a memory of playing the games with friends during their own
youth. Or, in the example of the high school musical, perhaps a student sitting in
the audience has been listening to the soundtrack for the musical for the past two
years and, though not a performer themselves, has developed deep associations
connected with the music. Hearing the live performance may transport them to
another time and place or conjure a particular emotion or a memory of a previous
encounter with the music. The point here is that memory is significant for both
the performer and the listener, yet in different ways. Further distinctions appear
when we consider how memory works for an individual versus a group.

Individual and Collective

Throughout Excursions in World Music we have been exploring music as sound
and music as culture; pushing beyond the notes themselves to also attend to
the many meanings that are woven into and embedded within music. Music
can evoke or occasion memories and emotions that are tied to these meanings.
These meanings can be connected to an individual or shared by a broader group
of people, such as members of a shared cultural group. In order to think a bit

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more about how this works for an individual, let’s go back to the high school
student sitting in the audience at the high school musical performance. What if
that student experienced their first break-up later that night after attending the
musical with their sweetheart and, as a result, for the rest of their life, whenever
they hear that particular solo, the feelings of heartbreak surface even though the
song has nothing to do with love or heartbreak? In this instance, the emotions
from a particular moment that are embedded within the individual’s memory are
triggered by the music. Now, imagine the musical was a popular event shared by
the graduating senior class that year. Fast forward to the 25-year reunion and,
upon playing the soundtrack to the musical, the former classmates are excited
to reminisce about memories from their senior year. Once again, the lyrics or
content of the musical may be completely irrelevant in this moment of remem­
bering, but for this collective group, the musical represents a shared moment in
time, a shared history, that is once again, triggered by the music. These are but
two examples of how music can facilitate the act, or process, of remembering in
remarkably powerful ways.

Content and Process

Hearing individuals typically have some experience with the way that music can
help facilitate the memorization of words or movements. For example, consider
the way the alphabet song helps children learn the letters of the English alphabet;
or how singing helps one remember religious scripture; or, in something such
as hand-clapping games, how the accompanying songs actually help facilitate
memorizing the associated hand movements. Music, then, can function as a
mnemonic device. Once set to music, a set of words, phrases, or movements, is
often significantly easier to remember.
But there is also the way that music helps evoke or becomes a catalyst for
memory—the way that music can be a part of the process involved in remember­
ing. The emotions and memories evoked upon hearing music, at times com­
pletely disconnected from the content, words, or melodies, of the music itself,
are nevertheless driven by the sounds we are hearing and the associations they
have for us. In these moments, memory is about the process of remembering,
rather than about remembering particular content. Put another way, music can
play an important role in triggering a memory precisely because of the ways we
invest music with meaning and significance. How exactly these memories are
triggered through music is of great interest to many scholars of music cognition,
to psychologists, and to therapists working with dementia patients, to name just
a few. Ethnomusicologists are also interested in the process of remembering
through music, recognizing that the meanings of music are understood through
context. Ethnomusicologists explore the contexts within which individuals or
communities create, practice, perform, and listen to music, both in the past and
in the present, studying processes such as those involved with music and memory
in order to gain insights into communities, societies, cultures, and history.

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Past in the Present

On the surface, memories, and the process of remembering, may seem to be about
the past. And yet, when we remember the past, it is always from our position in the
present. That is, the process of remembering is not exclusively about the past, but
rather, a process of reflection about the past from the present. As a result, how we
remember the past is not exclusively or objectively about the past, but is, instead,
always filtered through the lens of the present. As such, processes of remember­
ing will always be influenced by our present moment. For example, how does
the present moment compare to the past? What are we choosing to remember?
And more significantly, what are we choosing to forget, leave out, or skip over?
Remembering our past is always a partial and selective process; a reconstructed
idea of a time, a person, or a moment. What’s happening in that process of recon­
struction can tell us a lot about how one’s present compares to one’s past. Hearing
a song from your childhood as a 25-year-old may bring about certain memories
and emotions; but imagine that you, now 85 years old, hear the same song from
your childhood and the memories and emotions that may be triggered through
the music. Would you “hear” and “remember” the same thing? Although certain
aspects of the memories may remain intact, the perspective that an 85-year-old,
having lived long decades of life since childhood, brings to this exercise is differ­
ent from that of their younger self. In a profound way, your 85-year-old self will
“hear” your childhood from a very different vantage point than your younger
selves would have been able to enjoy. Living with the accumulated experiences of
a lifetime is certain to create a different relationship to childhood and thus lead to
new or different emotions upon hearing that same song from childhood.
Moreover, music has a particularly productive way of enabling what my stu­
dents often refer to as “time travel”—a process that brings you back to another
time, place, emotion, and moment in life. And when one’s present is drastically
different from the past, music can act as an important connection to that distant,
and perhaps otherwise irretrievable, past. One striking example can be found in
moments of rupture. After moments of violence or trauma, perhaps war or geno­
cide, people can be in need of reconciling themselves to a painful past in order
to live fully in the present. Music can play an important role in such processes of
remembering, helping to facilitate an otherwise impossible, or painful reconnec­
tion to earlier life experiences after such moments of rupture. In my own research
on music from the Chinese Cultural Revolution, I have found that the period is
a politically sensitive topic and indexes an emotionally (and at times physically)
traumatic period for many who lived through those years. Talking about this time
period can thus be a difficult conversation to get started, but I have observed that
music can be an engaging way to facilitate such a discussion—once we start talk­
ing about music and the person begins to travel back in time, the conversation
often opens up in new dimensions.
I turn now to three examples that help illustrate some of the complexities
of music and memory I briefly introduced above. I begin with the story of

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erhu virtuoso Chen Jiebing’s encounter with a piece of music from the Cultural
Revolution that she had not heard in decades. Two further case studies explore
the ways that music and memory work in folk music from Okinawa and in the
practice of joiking among the Sámi.

“Shaoshan” (China and Taiwan)

Chen Jiebing’s experiences with “Shaoshan,” a piece for solo erhu and orchestra,
not only provide insight into the period of the Cultural Revolution in China, but
also shed light on a number of important processes involved in the relationship
between music and memory (see Excursions, Chapter 4). First, Chen Jiebing was
surprised to discover, upon hearing a recording in 2019, that she actually remem­
bered most of a composition that she had not played or heard since the 1970s.
Despite a gap of several decades the piece was still “in her fingers,” as some musi­
cians say. That is, there is a memory that is activated in performing music that is
the result of careful training and practice, coupled with artistry and experience.
What is significant to me is that Chen Jiebing may not have realized that she still
had the ability to perform the piece after so many years—until she heard it again.
The audio recording reactivated a memorized piece—that is, something that she
had committed to memory. This phenomenon can also be explained in detail by
psychologists and scholars working on music cognition. For our discussion here,
I wonder what comes to your mind in terms of memory? Perhaps it is the one
piece you learned early on in life on the piano, guitar, or another instrument? Or
the lyrics to “that one song” that you played or listened to over and over again in
your childhood or teenage years? Have you ever been surprised to find that you
remember all the words to a song you have not heard in a while?
What exactly does Chen Jiebing remember when listening to a recording of
“Shaoshan” after all these years, and why? Beyond the mechanical skill of being
able to play the notes and phrases of the composition, there is also a layer of
the emotions and memories linked to what it meant to perform the composi­
tion at that time in her life. Originally composed for the specific political and
historical moment of the Cultural Revolution, “Shaoshan” was a composition
meant to express commitment to the Chinese Communist Party and devotion
to Chairman Mao Zedong. After all, the piece very intentionally participates in
political propaganda—that is, the music is composed and disseminated with the
specific function of supporting a political campaign and movement.
And yet, what does Chen Jiebing remember when listening to the recording
today? Is it Mao? Is it socialist ideology? Certainly, that is a part of it that cannot
be overlooked. But that is not the only dimension she remembers, for hear­
ing this composition also creates a bridge—an aural connection to her youth.
Hearing “Shaoshan” triggers memories of a formative time in her personal and
musical development that are, because of the socio-political intensity of the
Cultural Revolution and post-Cultural Revolution, disconnected from most of
her adulthood and current everyday life. It is a way for her to revisit her youth

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through a physical recording, that offers her audible evidence of her own musical
performance. And, as she shared with me, hearing this recording also grounds
her memory and recollection in new ways. Whereas she previously had to imagine
what she sounded like as a young performer, she can now hear herself on an
actual audio recording. Chen Jiebing’s memory is thus very much tied to her
own individual experience and the meaning and emotion that she attaches to
“Shaoshan.”

“Hiyami Kachi Bushi” (Japan)

The song, “Hiyami Kachi Bushi,” by contrast, illustrates a shared, or collective,
memory that is evoked through music (see Excursions, Chapter 6). As Marié
Abe writes: “Memories of the past are highly contested, with their repercussions
continuing to inform the everyday lives of Okinawan people. Music is one of the
cultural platforms where a distinct sense of Okinawan identity is expressed, ques­
tioned, and transformed.” One can imagine a number of memories and emotions
that might be evoked through the folk song. Starting with the sanshin, the three-
string lute that commonly accompanies vocalists in songs such as “Hiyami Kachi
Bushi,” the instrument is distinctly and proudly uchinanchu, that is, Okinawan.
Yet the history of the instrument is tied to musical and cultural exchange between
the Ryukyu Kingdom and China; a fraught political relationship that played out
across multiple historical eras. Similarly, the emotions and conviction of Taira
Shinsuke and Yamanouchi Seihin’s lyrics and melody signal complex memories
of Okinawa. That is, memories of a homeland simultaneously full of beauty and
tragedy. How can one song contain such contrasting images and emotions? What
songs come to your mind that evoke memories of both joy and hardship?
“Hiyami Kachi Bushi” begins with the lines “Famed Okinawa/It’s an island
of treasure/gather your hearts into one and stand up,” followed by “Let’s rise
up! Let’s go for it!,” and closes with “Falling seven times/but get up with
determination/let our Okinawa be known to the world.” The memories evoked
through the lyrics alone signal a commemoration of the beauty of Okinawa and
its people, in spite of the tragedy and hardships endured through the legacies of
colonization, war, and other acts of violence. Such remembrance can be powerful
for Okinawans both inside and outside of Okinawa. The lyrics, coupled, with
music, provide a “cultural platform,” as Abe writes, to make audible the history
of Okinawa in beauty and suffering, but ultimately as a means of celebrating its
potential. Here, a commemoration of the magnificence of an Okinawan past, can
help facilitate a sense of empowerment and pride to negotiate the present, across
the difficult terrain that lies between the past and the present.

“Eanan” (Music of Indigenous Peoples)

“Eanan,” a song included on A Tribe Called Red’s album We Are the Haluci
Nation, features the Sámi tradition of joiks, or joiking. As Byron Dueck explains,

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the Sámi tradition of joiking evokes an animal, person, or aspect of nature in

sung form (see Excursions, Chapter 12). Joiking a person, for example, is actually
not limited to, or exclusively, a commemoration or memory of that person. It is,
instead, an evocation of the spirit of that person in its broadest conception. The
practice of joiking is simultaneously a performance of memory as content and
memory as process; with the subject of the joik as the content of memory and the
act of joiking as a process of memory.
Joiks and the process of joiking thus offer a compelling glimpse into the com­
plex relationships between music and memory. They help us see that the process
of remembering is not exclusively about the past but, as I discussed earlier, the
process of remembering the past requires a present; a contemporary moment
from which one is making a connection to some past. Learning about joiks and
joiking provides the opportunity to sit in these moments and within these acts
and processes of memory. How can we understand what is happening in these
moments of remembering and commemoration? How can we understand the
process of remembering that is happening in and through music? And how does
the focus on such acts of remembering, and the processes of remembering, chal­
lenge our idea of what a memory is?
“Eanan” is a poignant example of how we can deepen our understanding of
music and memory, content and process, and performative acts of remembering.
The track is from an intertribal collaboration featuring Indigenous and non-
Indigenous artists. The album as a whole represents an intentional commitment
to incorporating various musical styles and traditions from Native American, First
Nation, and Indigenous peoples around the world together with electronic dance
music. Sámi artist Maxida Märak’s joiking in “Eanan” could be understood as a
call for Sámi community rights, or as a reference to an Indigenous tradition, or
as a signal to non-Indigenous peoples to learn more about the Sámi and other
Indigenous communities, or perhaps as a means of calling for all of the above.
What is important to remember is that what is evoked, why, and how, will be
different for every listener.

Music and Memory/Memory and Music

“Shaoshan,” “Hiyami Kachi Bushi,” and “Eanan” are just three examples to
begin considering the complex relationships between music and memory. Who
is remembering what and why? Is it a particular content commemorated in the
music or lyrics? Or is there a memory attached to the music that is divorced from
the content or design of the music itself but speaks to an earlier experience with
the music? Are these memories particular to an individual or shared by a cultural
group, cohort, or other group of individuals with shared experiences? What is it
about music that facilitates an activation of senses? An activation that allows one
to time travel, to resurrect a dormant set of words, or recall a specific memory, or
re-experience a particular emotion? How does one’s present shape our memory
of the past?

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Broadly speaking, ethnomusicologists seek to study music in context—within a

cultural, and often, a historical context. Critical to this context are the people who
are making and consuming this music. As we focus on this connection between
people and music, then, we need to understand music’s meaning and significance
to individuals, and to communities; in a particular historical moment; and in the
contemporary moment. When we consider memory, then we understand that
such meaning and significance will shift depending on who is remembering what,
when, and why. History is not fixed but dynamic, and this is because it is always
a re-collection—a re-telling—from a new vantage point and with new stakes and
concerns. Memories connected in, to, and through music will thus be activated
in distinctly different ways depending on the context of the present. The very
moment from which one remembers the past will inevitably shade and shape that
memory and its meaning.
In conclusion, what might this discussion of music and memory mean to you?
Take a look at the five most played tracks on your phone, or whatever device you
use to listen to music. What memories come to mind when listening to these
tracks? Are these memories specific to you and only you? Or are they shared with
a group of friends or a larger community of which you are a member? Does the
music help you remember a particular content, such as lyrics or a historic event?
Or does the music help you time travel to another place or another moment
in time through the process of remembering? How might your memories shift
10, 20, or 30 years from now when you hear this song again? Finally, consider
opening up some conversations with elders in your family or community by
accompanying them as they travel in time through music. How is this shared
process of remembering unique to music? What more do you learn about their
present through taking this journey with them to the past? Ultimately, as you
ponder these various questions, how do you understand the connections between
music, people, and culture in new or more nuanced ways?

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 INDEX

Abe, Marié 82 Canada, national anthem 25

absolute music 76 candomblé 35–6
Abu-Lughod, Lila 81 capitalism 31–3, 42, 75, 76
access to music 8, 61–3, 68–70; Caribana, Toronto 59
communication 64–5; media 67–8; Caribbean 44–5; diaspora, New York
technologies 63, 65–7 57–8; multiple origins 54; music
Africa: colonization 43; diaspora 53; traditions 55
sub-Saharan 15, 21, 29, 35 champeta 37
Afro-Caribbean identities 55 children’s games 85–6
Afrofuturism 36–7 chindon-ya 82
Algeria 12–13; national anthem 24–5 Chinese Cultural Revolution 88–9
Anderson, Benedict 24 Chinese migrants, Malaysia 57
Anglophone popular music 3 classical music: composers 75–6; rituals 26
apprenticeships 79, 81 collectivity 78–9, 82
Arab world 25 coloniality 2, 8, 29–30, 38, 38–9n1;
area studies 1–3 capitalism 31–3, 42; control of
Area Studies Centres 2 knowledge 33–4; gender/sexuality
Argentina, tango 44 14–15, impact of music 35–8; legacies
Armenian diaspora 53 5; music categorization 3–4, racial
art for art’s sake 76 concerns 30–1
art musics 3–4 Columbia 32, 37
arts, value 74 commodification 75
Ayerveda 80 communication 8, 64–5
communitas 20
Babylon 53–4 communities 9
Bahamas 44; rake ’n’ scrape 56 community-building 82
banjos 67 content/process, memory 87, 91
Bayreuth, Germany 26 context, listening 61–2
Beravã 77 creative livelihoods 73, 74
Blacking, John 20 Cree communities 48
Bohlman, Andrea F. 26 creole musics 55–6
Bollywood film music 14 critical themes 4–7
Bosavi people, Papua New Guinea 48 crooners 14
Brazil, candomblé 35–6 Cuba, salsa 44–5
Burkina Faso 37–8 cultural appropriation 35
Byrne, David 4 cultural aspects, coloniality 32, 34, 38, 42

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cultural contexts/meanings 10, 62, 63 heavy metal 13

cultural/social interactions 40–1 hereditary musicians 77 see also traditional
culture, learning 86 musics
cumbia ensembles 32 hip-hop 68–9
Hoffmann, E. T. A. 76
dance music, electronic 26–7 homosexuality, Korea 16
de Beauvoir, Simone 12 Hong Kong 49–50
decoloniality 35, 36, 38, 56 hypermasculinity 15
definitions, World Music
desire, presentations in music 13–14 immigrant communities 41
diasporas 8, 41, 43–5, 52–6; African 15; immigration policies 52
alternative meanings 56–8; migrations India 14; classical music 79–80
59–60 indigenous peoples 32, 91; North
dimorphism, sexual 11, 12 American 47–8
double consciousness 55 Indonesia 23
industry, music 75
economic aspects, coloniality 32, 34 instruments, musical 66–7
ecstasy, musical 25 internet access 66
efficacy, musical 80–1
electronic dance music 26–7 Jamaica, Rastafarians 53–4
environmental sounds 46 Jankowsky, Richard 81
epic bards 81–2 Japan 42; aural sensibility 45; chindon-ya
ethical perspectives 5–6 82; colonization by 33; Gagaku 24;
Ethiopia (Zion) 54; songs of 53 Okinawan people 89; Western influences
ethnography 5 33
ethnomusicology, fieldwork 5 Japanoise 48–9, 68
European empires 30–1 Java, gamelan orchestras 23–4
Jewish diaspora 53
Feld, Stephen 48 Jiebin, Chen 89–90
female voices 14 joiking 90–1
fieldwork 5
freedom of movement 52 Katz, Cindi 42
funerals 80 Khan, Allauddin 79
Kidjo, Angélique 69
gagaku 24 knowledge, control 33–5
gamelan orchestras 23–4 knowledge, musical 79–80, 83
gender vs. sex 11 Korea: funerals 80; homosexuality 16;
genders, third/fourth 11 pungmul 78; shamanism 22, 36, 78–9;
gender/sexuality 5–6, 8, 10–11; story-singing 15; Western influences 33
alternatives 15–17; musical constructions
12–14; power 14–15; voice 14 labor, musical see musicians
geographical perspectives 29, 42 labor, productive 75
Germany 26 Labor Day Parade, New York 57–8, 59
gig economy 73 Latinx community, New York 58, 60
Giltroy, Paul 55 LGBTQ+ scenes 15
Greenwich gay scene (1960’s) 15 life events 19
guitars 67 listeners: memory 86; musical
communication 64; performer
Harlem Renaissance (1920’s) 15 relationships 25
healing rituals 20 listening context 20, 61–2
health role, music 77 London, Notting Hill Carnival 59
hearing aids 66 love songs 10, 11

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Malaysia, Chinese migrants 57 online music 66

male privilege 6 orientalist imagination 14–15
male voices 14 othering 41, 43
Mali 37
marketing 1 Palenquero 37
Marx, Karl 75 pansori (Korean story-singing) 15
mass movements 53 Papua New Guinea, Bosavi people 48
Massey, Doreen 48 patriarchal societies 11
media 8, 67–8 performances 6–7; gender roles 12;
mediation 62, 63 gender/sexuality 10; importance to
medical benefits, music 80 relationships 48; learning and practice
memory 1, 7, 8–9, 85, 91–2; content/ 86
process 87; individual/collective 86–7; performer/listener relationships 25
musical examples 89–91; past/present phallocentricity 17
88–9; performer/listener 85–6 phenomenological space 45
microphone technology 14 pilgrimages, musical 26
Middle East, sung poetry 81 Pilzer, Joshua 78, 79, 80
migrations 43–5, 59–60; involuntary 56 place vs. space 45
mixed race populations 31 plasticity, performance 10–11
mnemonics 87 popular musics 3–4
mobility 52 postcolonial world 35, 36, 38, 56
modern rituals 19 power relationships 6, 29–30; coloniality
mood enhancement 1 43; gender/sexuality 14–15
movement 1 powwows 48
Museum of Pop Culture 73 propaganda 1
music cognition 87, 89 protest music 1
musical instruments 66–7 public rituals 23–5
musicians 8, 71–2, 83; earnings 72–4; public spectacles 20
health role 76–7; importance 74–5; Puerto Rico, salsa 44–5
knowledge 79–80; role in Western
society 75–6; social hierarchy 77–9 qasida 81
Myanmar 16–17 Quijano, Aníbal 38n1

national anthems 24–5, 41 race, global power structures 30–1

national differences 41 racial hierarchies 30–1, 35
nationalism 41–2 raï (Algerian popular music) 12–14
natural sounds 46 rake ’n’ scrape, Bahamas 56
neighborhood differences 41 Rastafarians 53–4
neoliberalism 76 rave culture 26
New York 57–8; gay culture, 1990’s reciprocity 6, 7
15; Labor Day Parade 57–8, 59; salsa recordings, sound 67–8, 70
44–5 regional approach 2
noise complaints 47 regional differences 41
non-normative sexualities 14, 15 religious communication 64
North American indigenous people 47–8 remembering through music 87
notation, musical 66 representations, politics 6
Notting Hill Carnival, London 59 researchers, impact 7
Nuu-chan-nulth 48 resistance movements 38
rituals 1, 8, 19–20; healing and trance
obligations, musicians 75–6 20–2; listening 25–7; state and public
Ojibwe communities 48 spectacle 23–5
Okinawan people 89 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 73

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Romantic movement 76 sung poetry, Middle East and North Africa

Rouget, Gilbert 20–1 81
Sykes, Jim 57
Said, Edward 43 Syria, refugees in Europe 60
salsa 44–5, 49; diaspora and migration
59–60; New York 57, 58 Taiwan, soundmarks 46
Sámi people 90–1 tango 44
sarod (lute) 79 tarab 25
Schade-Poulsen, Marc 13 Taungbyone Festival 16–17
Schafer, R. Murray 46–7 technologies 8, 63, 65–7
Schofield, Katherine 80 Thailand, classical music 81
science, sound 63 time travel 88
selfhood 10 Toronto, Caribana 59
Senegal 37–8 traditional musics 3–4, 15
sex vs. gender 11; see also gender/sexuality traditional rituals 19
sexual dimorphism 11, 12 trance 36; healing rituals 19–20; musics
sexual identities 13–14 20–2
shamanism 16, 21, 22, 78–9 transcendence 20, 27
shared memory 87 transformational aspects 78–9; rituals 20
slaves, religion 55 transgendering 13
smartphones 69 trauma 88
Smith, Neil 42 Tunisia, stambeli rituals 21–2, 22
social constructions, gender 12, 13 Turner, Victor 20
social hierarchies 77–8, 83 two spirited genders 11
social value, music 76
social/cultural interactions 40–1 ubiquity 1, 68–9
sociality 81, 82 ukuleles 67
solidarities 1 Unani 80
soundmarks 46, 47 understanding sound 65
sounds vs. music 62, 64 unisonance 24
soundscapes 46–7 United States 69; cold war policy 2;
South Africa 20 colonization by 33; national anthem 24
space vs. place 45 universal truth 33–4
spatial thinking 8, 40–1, 49–50; migration urban migrations 32
and diaspora 43–5; nationalism and
coloniality 41–2; racial stereotypes van Gennep, Arnold 20
42–3; relationships 47–9; soundscapes violence 13, 15, 88
45–7 voices 14
spirit possession rituals 20, 21, 22
spirit wives, Myanmar 16 weddings 81–2
Spllier, Henry 23 West Indies see Caribbean
Spotify 75, 76, 79 Western Classical music 3
Sri Lanka 71, 80; Beravã 77 Western cultural superiority 33
stambeli rituals 21–2, 22 Western science 34
state rituals 20, 23–5 Wong, Deborah 81
Straits Chinese 57, 59 World Music, definitions 3–4
streaming 73
sub-Saharan Africa 15, 21, 29, 35 Zion 54; songs of 53

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